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hoseoksluna · 11 months ago

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CENTURY | myg

pairing: boyfriend!idol!yoongi x f. reader

genre: smut

word count: 3.6k

summary: when yoongi needs inspiration for the song he's been working on, you're not hesitant to help him.

taglist: join | cp: wattpad, ao3

warnings: idol yoongi working in his studio being all stressed out is a warning on its own, he's also immensely hot and calls himself oppa (god help me i am a weak girl), mentions of a nasty punishment, yoongi is kinda mean, and a little bit horny, clit spanking *heart eyes*, oral sex (f. receiving), praise kink—usage of stickers, raw sex.

note: my god, this was a drag at first but because i feel sm better today, i finally finished this and i feel myself returning to the hoseoksluna that i was before i got sick. :( this was fun to write today omg. yoongi is absolutely delicious in this and i can't wait to start writing smoke 3 after this. my babies, enjoy this smutty one shot. i love you. spam my inbox, i miss you! give me a warm welcome, please. MWAH.

Habitually, singing for him was your escapism. You’d close yourself up in a bubble, withdrawing from the surrounding gray world, and you’d slink away to a realm brimming with vivid colors. In his songs, you could be anyone. A figment of his imagination that had more life in its veins than you ever had the taste of. You’d forget, for hours upon hours, about the anguish of your daily life and mental issues that would trouble you and, taking his hand, he would take you to Neverland, watch over you, then take you home.

This time, however, he didn’t take you to that fantasy land.

He took you somewhere darker.

The energy in his lab was potent with something that tickled you ever so gently when you stepped inside. A dusky room with an even heftier, crepuscular layer of vexation. You could feel it thumping beneath your skin after it grazed you with its fingertips, weaseling its way in, settling, stilling. Your boyfriend didn’t turn around when he heard you shut the door, nor when your tights-clad feet paddled on the floor, as absorbed as he was in his work. No shoes inside the Genius Lab—that was the first rule, one you were disciplined enough from him to remember, even if someone woke you up in the middle of the night.

You paid a great price, once upon a time.

You had walked in with your Nike’s when he called you over, wet and smeared with the snow from the winter’s artwork outside. Despite the fact you rubbed the soles on the mat in the building of his workplace long before you strutted all the way to his studio, there were still little snowflakes that clung to your sneakers. It was your first time there and Yoongi seemed to have forgotten to let you in on the rules. And once he saw the mess you made, he told you off.

Kissed you quite roughly.

Made you promise to never do that again, playfully.

Sank you to your knees and bent you over those melting snowflakes. Spanked you so hard that he engraved the first rule of the Genius Lab into your system.

No shoes inside.

Then, he patted your head.

Gave you a silver star sticker, resembling the snowflake, for being such a good girl that learns well.

You had stuck it on the table right beside his laptop, an etched memory that you recollected every time he’d invite you over.

It’s what he’s mindlessly rubbing with his fingertip as you walk over to him, another winter later, embedding your digits into the ebony night of his hair, the long strands so satiny and sleek. Yoongi gazes up at you from his computer, pale violet flecks adorning the skin beneath his weary, yet ever so trenchant eyes, and you pout at the sight of him. There must be something wrong with the process of his album-making and he’s determined to fix it.

Yoongi takes off his headphones, wraps an arm around your waist. You’re wearing a little black dress for him with a low neckline that uncovers everything private as he leads you to sit down on his lap, greeting you with a raspy hello and a kiss that tells you he needs you more than his own countenance lets on.

You linger in the close proximity, peppering his mouth with tiny kisses that make him visibly relax—his shoulders slump against his chair and he lifts your knees, placing them in the snug crook between his side and his arm, his hand spreading forest fire down your calf, stopping at your ankle, swathing it with those flames.

You cease your kisses, overcome with his body heat, and butterflies zap you in your tummy when he continues to kiss your mouth with those sweet little pecks.

Prolonging the last kiss, he peers down at you with the world’s most affectionate adoration and you blush. You’ve tasted the dulciness of all the seasons with him, and yet it feels as though you’ve just started dating. His love has long made its home within you, but you can still sense its freshness in your bones.

It will never get old.

“I love these, baby,” he husks, his eyes growing more lidded in the heated, cozy atmosphere guarded by the fire of his body, and he drags a hand up and down your leg, spreading his admiration on the nylon of your tights that he speaks of. “You came just at the right time.”

He nuzzles his face in your neck while he paws at your feet and you soften, brushing your fingers through his hair. You think he needs to get out of this place and breathe in some fresh air for his brain to recuperate and be filled with the flimsy, ivory sparks of inspiration.

It’s snowing outside.

It always seems to be when he invites you to his secret spot during the winter months.

“What’s wrong, hm?” you ask, requiring the specifics in order to help him as much as you can. “What is it this time?”

Yoongi grumbles nonsense in your neck, the sound muffled and indecipherable, and you laugh, softly, lifting his head.

“I literally didn’t catch a word you said,” you whine, squishing his cheeks, and Yoongi feignedly sobs, scrunching his eyes shut. You laugh, wiggling his head, encouraging him to tell you what made him darken the energy of his studio so devastatingly.

He inhales a deep breath in and takes his hand to your bum, fondling it. “I miss your pussy.”

You burst out into obscene laughter, wiping a hand down his face. “Be fucking serious.”

Yoongi chuckles, but then breaks into false little sobs all over again. “The melodies aren’t working together, I can’t transform the ideas in my head into this song and I just miss your pussy so bad. I wanna eat it.”

So that’s the source of that dark energy in the lab.

He’s horny.

He wails into your bosom, deepening your laughter that melts into an endearing coo. One that lifts his head and makes a grin blossom on his pale face, a dab of color rushing to the surface.

A pretty lotus flower, opening for you.

You poke a finger into his cheek, your heart constricting at the cute way your nail makes a round dent in that flourishing flesh. “I thought you called me over because you wanted my vocals.”

Yoongi squeezes your bum, sucking in a breath. “I did. I wanted to finish the melodies so I could record your voice, but shit fucking happens. I thought we could write the lyrics together.”

You bite your lip, finding the idea mesmerizing, and your chest clenches, a certain longing for it forming inside. A light flickers in Yoongi’s abysmal eyes at your reaction—and you wish you could fix this situation for him, remove the block and replace it with a creativity of your own.

An idea pops into your mind, abruptly.

You widen your eyes, your smile growing, little by little. Yoongi straightens, his features mirroring yours, and the picture hope paints upon his countenance only drives your idea forward.

“What?”

“Oh my god, Yoongi.” You clasp a hand over your mouth. “What if we write the lyrics first and just hum random melodies, see what fits best?”

He thinks about it, tilting his head. And then destroys the realm that your little idea created.

“I’m sorry, baby, but that never works with me. I know artists that do that, but whenever I tried, I just reached a dead end,” he mutters and you pout, furrowing your brows. He lets you soak in it for a little while before he shakes his head. “I have a better idea.”

Yoongi pushes his laptop to the side and lifts you up into his arms as if you weigh nothing, setting you down in place of it. He moves his chair forward. Spreads your legs. Kisses the inner of your thigh and you fall back, your palms landing on the ivory keys of his keyboard and creating a soft music that raises his brows.

“Do that again.”

You smile and lift your hand, dropping it on the same notes that you did by accident. He looks over to see which ones you played and he kisses the front of your thigh before he reaches over for his notepad and pen, writing it down.

“You’re my little angel, I swear,” he says without taking his eyes off of his writing, then he extends an arm behind you and finishes the melody with a certain ease that causes him to relax even more—and your smile to deepen in your face.

You blush, feeling like that winged creature—assigned to his side to help him.

“I brainstormed some lyrics the other day,” Yoongi mumbles and begins to stare you down with an intention that coils in your gut, your heart quickening its rhythm. “How about you bounce off of it, make up some lyrics while I eat you out? I can play the melody for you that we just made.”

Your mouth parts, your throat drying. Warmth pools in your core, the idea of Yoongi playing on the keyboard while he does something so intimate to you bringing you down to an abyss of madness. He hands you his notepad after he flips to the page with the lyrics he mentioned. Your eyes skim over his neat, black handwriting, the random words that could string together a sentence if there was a little work put in it.

But how are you supposed to focus in those circumstances? It’s not just his dick that makes you braindead—it’s his tongue that does it in the first place.

“What do you say, baby?” he persists, dipping down and scattering kisses along that sensitive part of your thigh, his breath wafting over your core as he switches to the other one, spoiling it with those same wet kisses.

You catch a glance of his shining tongue and that does it for you.

Your heart thumps, violently—and your pussy drools.

“Fuck, Yoongi.”

That does it for him, too.

He goes to rip your tights right in the middle, but you yelp, stopping him.

“No, don’t rip them. They were expensive and they’re my only pair for the winter.”

Yoongi gives you a look, cocks his brow. “Why didn’t you say? I could buy you some.”

You clamp your mouth shut. You don’t like to use his money to buy yourself personal stuff because you have a job of your own and you’re able to take care of yourself, but lately, with prices rising and the rent growing more expensive, there’s little from your paycheck that you could spend on things like these. And you still need to save up for way tougher times.

“I could never ask you to do that, are you kidding?”

Yoongi’s gaze darkens. “Who said you couldn’t?”

You open your mouth to argue with him, but only a yelp comes through when he swiftly tugs the waistband of your tights over your bum and up your legs, lifting them in the process and folding you in half.

You’re sure he’s ripped them.

You’re fucked.

You lean back, landing once again on his keys and at this point he laughs, darkly, telling you which notes to write down and with a shaky hand—you do.

“You’re getting so many fucking stickers today.”

Your heart stops its feral beats and you gaze down at him with a tormented look, your brows furrowed, eyes lidded and cheeks flushed. Yoongi bites his lip and gets his sheet of silver little stars.

He peels one out. “This one's for you coming at the right time.” He sticks it to that one side of your inner thigh that he left unkissed, the sticky part latching to your skin without a hint of a problem. “And this one’s for your smart little brain.”

He sticks it to the bone right across your cunt, smoothing it out with his thumb that then begins to travel and crosses the distance to the soaked center of your panties. Yoongi sucks in a breath as he peers down at the outline of your flesh, parting your thighs a little to gaze up at you through his lashes. “You have two tasks,” he rasps, brushing his lips across your clothed, dampened flesh.

You grip the table beneath you, letting out a whiny sigh, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Pay attention.”

A simple, low order and you pop them open, breathing out in staccatos. He runs that thumb over your clit, puts a little pressure over it. You bite your lip, straining your ears, but the faint pleasure makes it a little bit difficult for you.

“I’m gonna rub this clit and you don’t get my tongue unless you tell me the name of the store, where you’re getting new pairs of tights from today.” He focuses on your nub, circling it with soft grazes that he knows they get you riled up nice and fast, needy and drenched. It’s what he does when you’re watching a movie together and wind up not knowing how it ends. “And once you come for me, you get another sticker for being such a good girl. Is that clear?”

Your lungs heave and your mind spins, your brain cells shrinking with your arousal. You lick your lips. Wetness stains your panties even more. “And the other task?”

He slaps the side of your thigh, making you jump. “I asked you a question, did I not?”

Such abrupt meanness. Other times, it would get you going, but today it’s not something that you’re really feeling. Maybe it’s due to the fact that you’re ovulating and you need the gentleness that he’s more than capable of giving you.

You drift a hand down his face, stopping with your thumb at his lips, tracing the upper line. So soft, so puffy. “Be nice to me, Yoongi.”

His eyes round and a glint perches itself on the top of his chocolate irises. Yoongi sets your feet on both of his armrests. Leans his head against your thigh, looking up at you with a tender half smile.

“Is that an order?” he asks, flattening his fingers across your clit and strumming it, the pleasure heightening and you sink your teeth into the bottom pillow of your mouth, your body following the wave of the delight he provides you, rolling.

“Yes. Be nice or no pussy.”

He gasps, lowly, his smile transforming into that smirk of his that has the tendency to weaken you through and through. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

Your heart throbs and you love it. “Yes, I would.”

You go to close your legs and sit up, but he stops you. “Okay, fair enough.”

Oh, that solid calmness of his, perfumed with his horniness. You grin, pleased. “Will you be nice?”

Yoongi licks over the bare skin of your thigh, rubbing his face in it. “I’ll be an angel like you if you do the tasks.”

You roll your eyes. A quid pro quo. Fair enough.

“Okay, be an angel to me then and come here,” you purr, aware of the fact that he got you into this mirrored maze of his horniness and you love it, delight in it, which is the sole, unabashed reason why you tug the back of his head down to your cunt, holding him to you.

Yoongi opens his mouth just at the right time, licking over your clothed clit and moaning. But then he fights against your hold and spanks your pussy, smiling playfully up at you while biting his lip.

You jump, whimpering.

“I didn’t hear you say the name of the store,” he retorts, rubbing, properly, your bedewed nub with slow, agonizing circles.

Fuck.

Your breathing quickens and you scramble your blank brain to remember any store that has the least expensive tights. You say the name of the first one that pops up.

Yoongi doesn’t like your answer, though.

He spanks your clit, gently.

“Think again. I’m not buying you anything that will last you for a day. Don’t play me.”

You can’t help the heavy smile rising on your face, your cheeks heating up so much that they ache. And it helps you, his bull-headedness on buying you high-quality garments that are worth the money, to fight—like he did against your hold—your deeply imprinted independence and utter, shyly, with little hiccups, the name of the store that will keep your legs warm throughout the unforgiving Korean wintertime.

“That’s it, baby. Good girl. Let Oppa take these off now.”

Your stomach flips at the title. You’ve always been obsessed with it—as it, without fail, provoked your independence and slowly transformed you into the mindset of a little girl, taken care of by someone stronger, smarter and older than her. All while keeping it intact.

Yoongi knows you can do everything on your own. And he supports it. But it doesn’t mean he’s not willing to give you a hand.

The same hand he now uses to bring your panties to the waistband of your thighs near the back of your knees, dragging it down that skin. He spreads your cunt with both of his hands, gasping lowly at the sheen that greets him and magnetically pulls him in.

He kitten licks your clit and your elbows tremble, giving out on you—another melodies wafting through the air that make him chuckle into your pussy, engraving vibrations that encourage you to lean back all the way and take what he gives you.

“Write that down, can you do that?” he asks, and when he hears you clicking his pen, he tells you which notes those were. You scribble it down, messily, your hand quivering and painting an obscure picture in his notepad as he begins to suck on your clit in intense waves. You shudder, terribly, the lines of his own pen dark, long and disordered like you.

You give in, moaning so loud that he intones with you.

And what you never expected—the tones of your noises provide him with an inspiration he cannot miss. Withdrawing with a wet chin and stealing his pen from you, he jots it down, propping the notepad on your thighs, smiling at the picture you painted.

Writes something else down, too, while you quiver for him, waiting for his tongue.

He kisses your thigh, ravagedly. “Sing these lyrics.”

Taking it from him, the words blur on the paper because he sinks a finger inside your heat, curling it to that spot that he favors, fucking you with a fast motion that unables you, completely, to let out a sound colored by his geniality.

��Come on, baby. Sing for Oppa.”

You cry out, clenching your muscles—scream as he latches his mouth to your clit, flicking it with the tip of his equally genius tongue.

The lab spins, not just your mind.

“I can’t—I can’t. Oh my God, Yoongi, fuck,” you drag out the curse word, the notepad falling out of your hand and plopping onto the ground.

Yoongi hums, delighted, sucking on your nub so vivaciously that your orgasm nears. As if sensing it, he adds another finger in. Validates the incoming of your splendid explosion by making quick, little, deep sounds that lead you to that peak.

You grasp his hair, tightly, humping his mouth. From your own spill screams that fade into soft moans, resplendent of the notes he liked so much and he fucks your hole faster. Pulls out his mouth just a little, flicking your clit from side to side—and you realize he did it so he can watch you come for him.

Come for your Oppa.

And you do. With a squeak, one that fades to a legato, tender moan of his title. With an eye contact that freezes time for a century. And, suddenly, just like that—it’s just you, him and the winter.

Snowflakes that ache to seep into yours and his cheeks.

Yoongi growls. His male pheromones spill out of him like liquid that washes over you and you get a sticker.

Right in the center of your mound.

And he fucks you into wintry oblivion, a snowstorm that swaddles you closer and closer to him. The table rattles, key notes sound out, the slapping of skin conjures ideas in the magnificence of his brain. And then he comes.

With a final stroke and a rope of his cum all over the sticker near your pleasured cunt, he resumes the time.

But both you and him are newly constituted by that winter-kissed century, chiseled by it and irrevocably changed by it.

Yoongi cleans you up and dresses you. You find out he didn’t rip your tights and you give him such a soft, endeared look for it that he coos, chuckling, and pats your disheveled hair, smoothing it down. He kisses you once he fixes you up and, grabbing his keys, phone and wallet, he drives you to the mall, to that exact store you mentioned, to buy you a myriad of tights to last you for a half of a century, grazed and fondled by winter.

And he leads you back to the studio, besprinkled with the snow’s affection, where you watch him create a song out of your pleasured voice, sampling one of your favorite oldie’s tunes that you end up yanking him up to his feet to dance with him to it. The raspy voice of Ray Charles envelops Yoongi’s hands as he guides your hips and he kisses you until the late night hours.

And in those late night hours, he watches you, like the angel you are, as you sing the poetry he wrote with your help.

Neverland doesn’t exist anymore. Not for you at least.

The darker place he took you to is one breathing with the gesture of helping your lover. Warm, moody and timbered. The licks of flames and the earnestness of a love that depends, without fear, on the other person.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ divider by kthice ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404.

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aealzx · 7 months ago

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Prologue | AO3

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The rest of lunch was filled with more casual chatter, and after somewhat helping Alfred clean up the dishes the group headed for the Batcave. Bruce was quick to wordlessly lift Danny onto his arm again once they got close to the stairs, setting him down carefully close to the main computer as Damian fetched a rolling stool and Tim started to set up the computer for what they needed.

“Don’t feel like you need to rush. If you need a break we can come back to this later,” Bruce assured quietly as Danny gratefully took a seat on the stool.

“Here’s the pen,” Tim was quick to come over as well, holding out what looked like a tablet stylus with a few buttons for Danny to take. “Hold the front button to free draw. And if you want to do straight lines between points just tap the button higher up to switch modes, tap the front button for each point of the lines, and double tap to end the connection on the current line,” he explained, manipulating Danny’s hand to follow the instructions as well as demonstrate the functions.

Danny was surprised to see faintly glowing hologram lines appear wherever the pen tip was when the buttons were pushed, huffing a small giggle in pleasant surprise. “Woah…. So cool,” he commented, impressed by the advanced technology. “Uhm…. So, I guess… the entrance was like this…,” he rambled brokenly, figuring he should just get going and get up to start drawing what he could remember in the open space.

It took him a second to get the hang of the device, and with Tim following him around to be able to make any adjustments Danny requested he ended up getting caught up in the explanations and feeling less scrutinized. His movements were a bit slow as he tried to conserve his energy, and sometimes he had to float to reach where he needed to, but it was a lot more effective than trying to describe what no one else could see.

“The frame is mounted on the wall, and there’s two metal doors embedded in the wall that we can use to somewhat close the portal. It doesn’t block anything that can go intangible, but it keeps humans out and masks the gateway from being easy to find while in the Infinite Realms. There’s a simple alarm light on top that alerts us of any anomalies. And a filtration system on the right side. Which is actually one of the more important parts. Like I said earlier, the portal extends into the wall about… this far. It’s masked by the ectoplasmic energy now that the portal is on, but I looked into it more closely a few months ago. There’s some sort of structure within the tunnel walls that directs the flow of ectoplasm once it’s pulled from the Infinite Realm. It loops on itself, in a spiral, passing through the ecto filter first. The raw ectoplasm from the realm is corrupted, and we use the filter to strip out the impurities. Kind of like separating the different elements of human blood. Then it gets bounced around within the tunnel, hitting eight hot spots here, here, hm,” he hummed for the rest of the points, as he drew circles to mark them, “all before getting pulled back to the middle again, which creates the visual spiral we can see in the portal from the outside. There’s a minor amount of electricity maintaining certain functions, but for the most part it’s self sustained by the ectoplasm.”

At that point Danny had moved around enough his legs were starting to hurt and feel weak, so he plopped back on the stool from before. It seemed to be a good time to take a break anyway, for Wally and Raven were starting to walk around the crude designs.

“...This is a fibonacci spiral…Or at least it’s extremely close,” Wally spoke up first after coming to a stop in front of the diagram again, gesturing to the energy current lines. “And you said the measurements weren’t exact?”

“Yeah. I measured the opening once, and it was very slightly over two meters in diameter. With the tunnel going back about three meters, but also slightly more. I just thought it was because my parents weren’t being careful with the measurements,” Danny confirmed with a tired nod, absently rubbing his leg.

“Or it needed a different measurement system…,” Wally mused, a few thoughts starting to click in his head. “Tim, make the diameter 2.094 meters, and the depth 3.141 meters. Then space out the concentration points to match a fibonacci spiral.”

As Tim tapped on a wireless keyboard to adjust the diagram according to Wally’s direction he squinted slightly. “Two point… Wait, that’s the conversion for four and six Egyptian Cubits respectively. That’s one of the oldest measurement systems.”

“From one of the oldest civilizations known for being rather involved when it came to matters of the dead,” Wally added as a way to confirm Tim had come to the same realization as him.

“Egyptian cubits?” Danielle repeated, scrunching her nose in confusion. “What would that have to do with anything? And why four and six?”

“They’re numbers that different cultures associate with the dead. Four, six, and also eight like the concentration points,” Wally explained, pointing to the different aspects. “Combined with the fibonacci spiral, one of the most common shapes that has often been associated with representing life, and it’s starting to look like this portal is a ritual for life and death.”

“It does,” Raven confirmed with a nod, stepping forward. “The method is old, it’s not really used anymore in modern techniques because of how simplistic it is. It leaves too much up to the one performing the ritual, which means there’s a much larger chance for error. Was this all they had? This was enough for them to get it to work?”

It was a little alarming to hear Raven and Wally imply that the Fenton couple had most likely unintentionally performed a rather old and risky mystic ritual or something instead of just messing with science. But what caused Danny to pause the most was Raven’s question if it had worked. He wasn’t sure he wanted to answer that. He knew he should probably tell them the truth, but he didn’t exactly like talking about that event.

Unfortunately Sam didn’t seem to share his reluctance. “It didn’t work,” she admitted a little too bluntly, causing Danny to flinch. “From what I heard nothing at all happened when they turned it on. It wasn’t until Danny was looking around inside it that it actually activated.”

That revelation caused a few reactions of surprise from the others who didn’t already know, and Danny couldn’t help squeezing his left hand as a faint memory caused it to burn with phantom pain, crawling up his arm.

“Wait- You were inside the portal when it activated?!” Wally burst, gaping at Danny in extreme concern.

It was hard to figure out how to answer without having to fall too far back into the memory of that event, which caused Danny to remain quiet for a stretch of time, pressing his thumb into his palm tightly as his gaze couldn’t focus on anything for the moment. Eventually he forced himself to meet Wally’s gaze, drawing a slightly shuddering breath before answering. “...What?... Did you think I got this way by drinking ectoplasm or something?” he tried to joke, but the tremor in his voice made it fail.

No one seemed to know how to respond to that, realizing that Danny had ended up half dead because of an accident with an unstable lab experiment. Something that Wally was no stranger to himself, but it still something he wasn’t pleased to hear.

With the awkward silence, Jason gave a small huff and strode forward to semi roughly cup his hand on the back of Danny’s head and ruffle his hair a little. “Guess that’s one way to do it,” he muttered, just to break the silence and try to provide some sort of comfort.

With his comment, Raven took that as a chance to voice her own questions. “...Were either of your parents present when it happened?” she asked, confusion prompting her.

“...No, they weren’t even home,” Danny confirmed, feeling defensive in case Raven was going to say something to blame them or something.

She didn’t have anything to say about Jack and Maddie’s actions though, instead falling into an even more confused, thoughtful silence. “...That doesn’t make any sense…,” she muttered absently.

“What’s the anomaly?” Damian asked, prompting her to speak more.

“There was no offer of intent,” Raven responded, looking up and accepting the unspoken direction to explain. “This arrangement is the bare minimum material construction for an inter realm gateway. But because of that there are parts of the ritual that are missing, that still have to be fulfilled for it to work. Mainly payment, and instruction of intent. These days the intent is usually inscribed into the array to facilitate clarity and stability, and the payment is usually in the form of something being added to the array with the intent to sacrifice it.”

“Wait- So all those stereotypes of people being sacrificed to summoning rituals and stuff isn’t baseless?” Tucker sputtered, immediately associating Raven’s choice of words for meaning human sacrifices.

“Living people are one of the highest forms of payment, so unfortunately it can be common to use them,” Raven confirmed. “But even so, there has to be someone else there to express the desire to use them as payment, and determine what for. Which, from what you’ve all explained, there wasn’t anyone there to do so. I can’t imagine any of you wanting to kill Danny, and I doubt he was trying to offer himself since none of you even knew that was a requirement.”

“Hold up- Are you saying the portal only opened because it took Danny as a sacrifice?!” Danielle blurted, subconsciously stepping in front of Danny defensively.

“Excuse me!?” Jazz gasped, also moving forward.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense for what you’re telling me to have worked,” Raven insisted defensively, withdrawing slightly. “If it was a temporary portal I can understand if there was somehow an annulment of payment since the cost is much smaller. But considering the portal has remained open all this time that must mean a standing contract of sorts was established. Especially when we consider Danny’s state as a perfect liminal being. It seems like the Liminal Realm adopted Danny as one of its own in return for allowing a permanent connection to be established. An equal exchange, a link between two realms with a being who represents that connection.”

“That’s impossible,” Danny snapped, rising to his feet again. “I don’t know what realms you’ve worked with, but the Infinite Realms don’t function like that. Getting into them is probably a lot harder than I thought, sure. But there had to be someone there. The realm wouldn’t just…kill me on its own.”

“The realm of Hell is well known for taking the lives of people any chance it can. Especially those who mess around with rituals unknowingly. If you can’t imagine anyone who was there having a clear intent to sacrifice you, then it would have had to have been the realm itself choosing to take you,” Raven explained, forcing herself to remain calm and not trying to be antagonistic.

“Well I don’t know anything about Hell, but out of the two of us I’m pretty sure I know the most about the Infinite Realms,” Danny snapped back, memories of other people not being willing to listen to him about important matters causing him to get quickly irritated from anxiousness. “So when I tell you that it doesn’t operate that way, then believe me. There might not be much in the way of laws inside the Infinite Realms, but that’s because the highest law that the Realm has is that everyone always has a choice.”

“How do you know that for certain?” Bruce asked, his voice much calmer than the others as he was only trying to add data to back up that apparent fact. He was also trying to help the two children break off their argument by giving them another person to address, but it didn’t quite work.

“Because I’m not the Ghost King!” Danny exclaimed, having the brief thought that he should probably settle down and destress as he was rapidly starting to feel dizzy, but being too invested in the conversation to listen to his own mind. He couldn’t allow another misunderstanding about the Infinite Realms to persist. Not again. “Clockwork said we always have a choice, and it listened when I said no- It accepted me saying no, even though that meant there’d be no king. It wouldn’t-...” he broke off as the dizziness suddenly increased, causing him to sway and be unable to keep himself standing as he put his hands to his head. His face felt hot despite the rest of him starting to feel frigid.

Luckily Wally was quick to zip over to him and catch him, pulling Danny close and crouching carefully to help him partially lay down without being on the floor.

“Danny!”

There were several people who called his name out of varying levels of concern, but there wasn’t much they could do without crowding as Dick made it to their side first.

“...His fever spiked,” Dick informed after resting the back of his hand on Danny’s cheek and forehead. Danny didn’t respond, his head was still spinning, but he wasn’t surprised. Stupid him and pushing himself too far. Again.

“S… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stress him out,” Raven apologized readily, her hands gripping each other in front of her.

“We know you didn’t. The conversation simply got out of hand,” Damian consoled as Tim brought the discarded blanket from before over to the others to get Danny bundled up again.

“Yeah well… telling someone they were murdered instead of dying accidentally is kind of a big deal,” Jason pointed out, feeling a bit snippy from his own unsettled emotions.

“Regardless, I think we’ve learned enough to know we should try something else,” Wally spoke up before anyone could react to that comment. “We can problem solve other issues later if needed, but it’s probably best to conclude for the rest of the day.” And to enforce that statement more he scooped Danny up to prepare to take him back up to bed. “Bruce, let’s bypass the Infinite Realms. Do you think they’d be up for having a realm frequency scan at the Watchtower? Maybe this weekend? It’ll probably be better to just try to connect directly to their realm instead of dropping them off in the connecting one.”

It was a good idea from what they had just learned, even if they had originally explored this possibility to try to use something the kids were familiar with. Bruce nodded in agreement. “I’ll make arrangements. Thank you for your time today.”

Nodding back to Bruce, Wally turned to head back up stairs with Dick following to bring the IV pole along. “Alright kiddo, let’s go back to taking a break,” he commented to Danny, who just let out a grumbled noise of annoyance as well as discomfort while shrinking into the blanket. It earned a chuckle from Wally, who could understand the frustration the boy had even if he couldn’t personally relate. “At least you had an actual meal today. I hear you’ve been stuck to bread and broth for now, which totally suuuucks.”

It was idle chatter as they took the stairs, but it did help Danny feel a little less like a weakling. As they left Tim saved the progress they made on the computer, then turned to look at Danielle since she was the easiest to get answers from. “What did he mean by Ghost King? I wasn’t aware that the Liminal or Infinite Realm or whatever had a monarchy.”

“Eh, we didn’t know for a long time either. But since everyone is allowed to make their own choices, a long time ago some ghost named Pariah Dark made himself king because no one could beat him and he was greedy. But a couple years ago Danny kicked his butt, and some people wanted him to be the new Ghost King because of that. He said no though, so now there’s currently an anarchy,” Danielle explained easily, shrugging.

“He said no to being a king?” Jason asked, both confused and mildly impressed.

“Ruling a realm is a lot to ask of a fourteen year old. Especially a realm full of chaotic ghosts who are apparently only there because they were too stubborn to fully die,” Danielle answered, folding her arms with a mild chuckle.

“That, and Danny didn’t think it counted because he was using a suit that enhanced his abilities a hundred fold,” Sam added.

“Over time he’ll probably get to the same level anyway. But the suit disappeared, so it wasn’t like keeping the title from anyone that challenged him would be easy either,” Tucker added on top of the others.

“He had enough to deal with trying to balance school, hiding from our parents, and dealing with the other ghosts causing trouble. He didn’t need to add ruling a realm on top of that,” Jazz enforced, having always agreed with Danny’s decision.

“Smart,” Jason acknowledged, though he wasn’t sure if he would make the same choice. Ditching the rest of highschool to become a king for a realm with very few people actually didn't sound all that bad.

“My turn for a question,” Danielle spoke up, raising her hand unnecessarily and earning some snickers.

“Sure, what’s up?” Stephanie accepted, feeling it was only fair the visitors got to ask their own questions.

“It’s actually more for Raven,” Danielle clarified, pointing to the girl. “Earlier, when we were doing the whole ritual thingy to get ectoplasm, you mentioned that Danny and I are favored by other realms. And just now you said that the ectoplasm was a gift to me from the Infinite Realm, and talked about how the Realm was the one that took Danny. But I thought realms weren’t sentient…… Are they?”

It was a question that mildly surprised Raven, but she was happy to clarify and elaborate further. “No, they’re not actually sentient in the sense that the realm itself has a mind of its own. Realms have often been mentioned to act, or favor someone, or behave in some manner akin to sentience because it’s easier for people to understand in some regards. But really it’s just the result of the cumulative thoughts and emotions of the beings who belong to that realm. The reason you and Danny are favored by the Liminal Realm is more because the people of the realm seem to like you.”

“Wha- really?” Danielle blinked, openly confused despite that explanation also having made some sense. “I always thought most of the people there didn’t like us.”

“Most of the other ghosts do seem to like picking fights with you two when they show up,” Sam agreed, finding it amusing that the Infinite Realm’s people apparently had favorites.

“Well… like is probably not the correct word,” Raven admitted. “They ‘favor’ you in some manner.”

“I thought being a favorite was just a more intense form of liking something,” Tucker countered, that clarification having not mitigated his confusion at all.

“People always have favorites. But they’re not always nice to their favorites. A favorite punching bag, for example,” Raven tried again, this time earning understanding nods and being able to move on. “Now if you’re wondering why you were given a gift from the realm, when someone is a Realm's favorite they're usually bestowed with special privileges and abilities. Like how Superman seems to be pretty indestructible. Batman has some unusually lucky situations. Things like that. Those boons are normally spread between all who are favorites of the realm. But it is possible when there's only one, distinct favorite they could become more akin to that of a god. I’ve noticed that you and Danny have a rather distinct connection to the Liminal Realm that makes me think you’re quite favored in varying regards.”

“Wait, hold on,” Tucker sputtered, realizing something from Raven’s suggestions. “Are you implying that Danny might be getting, I dunno, new powers or something, because the other ghosts really like using him as a punching bag?”

The connection being said aloud earned a barked laugh from Jason and Stephanie, but Raven only gave a slight smile. “Perhaps,” she half agreed. “It’s a potential that could happen based on what I’ve read and heard.”

“HA! Poor kids,” Stephanie snorted, “At least you’re given stuff to fight back with.”

“Yeaaaah being the favorite child is starting to not seem like a good thing,” Danielle chuckled along with her in good nature.

“So…,” Tim started, pulling them back to a connected issue, “Back to the more uncomfortable part of this. Danny being used as a sacrifice to open that portal was essentially because… enough people in the Liminal Realm were aware of him, aware of the event, and willing to use him?”

“That’s… an accurate way to put it,” Raven admitted, though she wasn’t completely sure herself either. “Based on what I’ve heard, and using simple logic, that would make sense. But I don’t know how true it is, since I don’t know what the Realm was like at the time the portal was opened. There could have been a specific person there, it could have been a collective desire… I don’t know. But I’m fairly certain Danny is the reason the portal is open.”

It was a somber thought, but Tucker couldn’t help shuddering as another thought came to mind. “Makes you wonder how Vlad got his portal to work.”

“You say that like you actually believe the man hasn’t already killed someone before,” Sam retorted dryly, unimpressed.

“...Fair point,” Tucker agreed.

“.... Aaaaand Vlad is?” Tim prodded, starting to think this was someone they should know about after that exchange.

“The guy that created me, and almost killed me,” Danielle responded bluntly, expression going decidedly neutral.

“A sick freak that wants to kill Danny’s dad so he can marry his mom and adopt him as his own child,” Sam added, folding her arms.

“...Ooookay. Write that down Tim. We do not make friends with this Vlad guy, and definitely keep him away from these guys,” Stephanie prodded, poking at Tim since he still had the keyboard for the computer, earning a few snickers from the others.

_________________

Iiiii couldn't manage to focus on anything else to work on today, so I ended up catching up on what I had written |D Lot's of headcanon in this one.

___________

Tag list: @galaxy-sharks-and-bottled-ships, @starscreamlover, @nerdynonnativenarnian, @dragongoblet, @megacharizardx99

@bellathecatastrophe, @cj-ghostemoji-destielpie, @asexual-insomniac, @wolfeyedwitch, @tkiesai,

@fanaroff, @raven1508, @nebulainajar, @serasvictoria02, @oliocelottafanfics,

@honeysuckletook, @omniithe-deer, @wolf-under-the-stars, @gingernutcalo, @that-random-fangirl,

@op-sys-chaos, @kirasigncomics, @ehobep, @paranoid-ira

#my art #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #phantom rogues #writing #long post #really long post #headcanon

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innorogers · 9 months ago

Text

Awakening

Steve Rogers x Reader (You / OFC)

Summary: Steve was panting. He couldn’t feel anything else but pain. He clenched his jaw, trying to fight back all the emotions tearing him apart. But it was nothing compared to the agony that tore him apart inside.

Warning: Angst / Hydra Past / Sad Steve / Angry Steve / Protective Steve / Past Revelations / This one is very emotional /He is very sad very angry / Hurt & Comfort

Characters: OC, Tony Stark, Maria Hill, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, Sam Wilson

Also: Thanks in advance for repost or any feedback ❤️ Let me know if you want to be included in the taglist (DM, comment, repost and tag, whatever works)❤️ You don't need to read the previous chapters but it will definitely enhance the experience if you do.

1: Insomnia | 2: Lucid | 3: Reverie | 4: Nightmare

Hydra’s brainwashing mechanism operates like a code embedded in a computer system. Implanted deep within the nervous system of each asset, it’s triggered by a command—a specific sequence of words, like a complex password. It only takes effect once the entire sequence is spoken. However, each word acts as a layer, tightening control over the asset with every syllable. It gradually overrides the brain's natural functions, until complete control is achieved over both mind and body.

You knew this. You also knew that fighting it only made the effect stronger, accelerating the process. Resisting was like trying to stop venom already spreading through your veins—inevitable and deadly. So, your only option was to buy time.

Time against whatever you were about to become.

“Мечта.”

Four triggered the first word unexpectedly, and you saw it in his eyes—he was going to finish the sequence fast.

But you were faster.

Your fist slammed against the wall, hitting the hidden button you’d been shielding.

"NO!!" Steve’s roar echoed through the room as a thick, crystallized wall dropped from the ceiling, sealing him and Maria on the other side. He pounded against it with all his strength, his fists useless against the reinforced barrier. "Open this!" he was desperate: “Open this fucking thing!!”

But it was useless. This was The Crib, the place where you, Tony, and Bruce pushed the limits of crazy ideas. Naturally, it was equipped with a “Hulk Containment” feature, just in case one of those experiments went too far.

“Jarvis, override!” Maria commanded immediately, pressing her comms. “Stark, 116, 116, in The Crib! Now!” She stepped back and shot the wall, only to leave soft marks but unable to break it at all.

Four smiled, pleased.

“Шкаф”

A sharp pain crossed your mind, like a thunderstruck that cut you as a knife. For some seconds you think you lost control. You stumbled forward, losing completely balance. And stretched an arm for a glass somewhere over a desk nearby knocking everything off. The glass went flying and smashed to pieces on the floor. You tried to reach it blindly, you were loosing your sight, with trembles and the last thread of senses you handled to grab it, so you squeezed with all your remaining strength.

The glass pierced your skin and palm, leaving a long trail of blood down your arm. You could hear Steve's frantic pounding echoing through the walls, his voice a raw, anguished, shouting your name, but pain is dominating your senses.

But this is good, pain is good. Pain meant you were still here.

"Тетрадь." Four stepped back. He was enjoying this. All this show was worth it, even though he failed and had to face the rage of all the Avengers together later.

Nononono. You pressed harder your fists, the glass embedded left out more blood. Feel the pain, feel the senses. You're good. You're good. You are not this. You are not Hydra. You did not survive up to this day to be used again as something disposable.

On your knees, you pressed your other hand into the shattered glass, hoping the sharpness would anchor you.

"Open this!" Steve was almost unrecognizable in his panic when Tony and Bruce entered the room. “Get this thing open!” His voice was a mix of rage and fear.

“Shit…” Bruce rushed to the nearest console, typing furiously. “The code’s simple but old—it’s uncrackable. We’ve got 15 seconds before it overrides.”

“What?!” Steve was outraged: “You’ve got to open it! Open it! Tony! Get my girl the fuck out of there!”

“Oh shit, this is good.” Four’s laughter filled the room. This was a feast for him.

“Радуга.“

“No…” You whispered, holding onto the pain as if it were your lifeline.

You are not this.

You are good.

You are…

You are an oak tree, hidden deep in the forest. Sitting around the fire with your siblings, their faces bathed in a golden glow. The words that hung in the peaceful silence on that night.

Starlight on the Siberian peaks, a full moon overhead. Natasha’s hand pulling you out, the scent of her leather jacket against your frozen skin.

The first time you saw the ocean. The sensation of sand beneath your feet, waves tickling your toes.

Christmas lights twinkling on a giant tree, champagne in the compound and Dr. Lin’s drunk laugh.

The first time Tony led you into the abandoned lab, that door opened to what you thought was perfection. The bad jokes you shared with him and Bruce here in The Crib. The coffee you made for Sam and Nat at your lab.

And Steve. The first time he smiled at you. The way he laughed at your childish bedtime story. The first time he kissed you. His lashes brushing your cheek. The sound of his heartbeat at night, the strength in his embrace.

No. You were not this monster they were trying to turn you into.

You were the life your brothers and sisters never got to have.

The sunlight, the breeze, the snowflakes, the spring rain in your garden, and the summer air in you hair they never felt. You were living the memories they couldn’t.

You weren’t this. A puppet someone could easily manipulate over some ridiculous words.

“No…” You felt your tears crashing in your hand full of shattered glasses. “I’m not…that.”

You are not Hydra’s Frankestein.

You are the faith you still hold for humanity—the goodness, the kindness you’ve seen. You are the broken fairy tales One and Two told you and your siblings to soothe your sorrowful nights

You are this precious jewel Steve treasured every time he hugged you, kissed you, or looked at you.

“Конфета,” Four sneered, delivering the next word.

But you fought back.

“No.”

Your eyes locked with his, burning with defiance.

“You wanna play, huh?” Frazer chuckled.

“стена.”

Another shock hit your mind, but this time it didn’t knock you down. You stumbled but stayed standing, hearing Tony override the code. The wall would be down soon. You had to act before anyone else got hurt because of you.

Four stared in disbelief. He couldn’t understand how you were even resisting.

So he rushed into it.

“Облако.”

You felt your body betray you, limbs refusing to respond.

C’mon, focus. Stay focused. Everyone you love is on the other side of the wall, you couldn’t let them get hurt.

You lunged at the desk and ripped open the top drawer. God, what's all that noise? Stop the drums, stop that noise… please… You couldn't stay awake much longer. Damn it, where is it…Your hands desperately looking for something.

‘Зеленый.'

Four said again. And that command felt like a hammer that struck your head. You collapsed to your knees, your bloody hands finally finding it. An injection. Fuck, your vision was blurred; you couldn’t see the dosage.

'лес '.

Nononono you couldn't wait, it was almost at the last word. So you didn't measure it, and you plunged the injection into your neck. God…! That hurts. You pressed all the content in you.

Ok now…now we should be good. You were panting and sweating as you dropped the injection and came over your knees. Shit that was closed. Too closed.

Four looked stunned. He didn’t know what you’d done, but before he could react, Steve burst through the room like a storm and crashed his face with all the strength Captain America would have in a battlefield. You even heard the crack sound of their bones crashing.

“Stop!” Maria shouted before Steve in all his fury, outraged and unstoppable, would kill the guy with his bare hands. “We need to track that retina layer! Stop!” She lunged and seized his arm, preventing him from striking further.

Your mind recovered some senses as the words stopped, now all you felt was pain, but you managed to let out what you’d been holding in all day.

“Steve…”

That worked as a Hydra’s password to him, Steve felt he was woken up from a dream, and before you knew it, you were pressed into his embrace, his arms holding you tight yet gentle and with care, as if you were fragile as the most precious thing in the world.

“I’m sorry…” You whispered, trembling as you tried to hold onto him. “I wanted to tell you…I…” God, his skin is so warm. You missed that the entire day.

Steve froze. The ache on his chest made him paralyzed, he could barely speak. You were worried about him? Now?

“It's ok…” He was feeling a lump form in his throat, his hand weaving through your hair, pressing you against him and kissing you on the forehead.

“I’m here baby, it’s ok, you are ok…” He barely could put himself together. You were a mess—bloody, battered— and he was scared, so scared he can’t remember when was the last time he was falling apart like this.

You were panting as your consciousness was losing it, giving in finally to the injection you put into yourself to paralyze you and prevent you from doing something you can’t manage.

“Did you…get hurt?” You raised a hand and touched his face. You were fading, the injection taking its toll, dragging you into unconsciousness.

“Shit baby…” Steve pressed his forehead against yours, barely holding himself together. He couldn’t believe what you were saying: “That’s the last of my concerns.”

But you were already slipping away.

Steve’s heart froze in his chest when he looked down and saw your eyes closed, your body limp against his. A cold wave of terror surged through him, threatening to pull him under. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, it was like the world had stopped spinning. He couldn't hear anything, not Tony, not Bruce, not even his own heartbeat.

His entire focus narrowed to the sight of you—still, lifeless—like all the color had drained from you. His hand hovered over your face, trembling, afraid to touch you, afraid you wouldn’t respond.

“Hey…” His voice cracked, hoarse and broken. “Babe...?”

Panic gripped him in a way he hadn’t felt since the war, since waking up alone in a world that had moved on without him. But this was worse, infinitely worse. His fingers found the pulse at your neck, but his heart refused to calm. What if it was fading? What if you were slipping away, and he couldn’t do anything to stop it?

"What...What's happening?" He could hear his own voice, vulnerable as ever.

“What the f…?” Tony knelt next to Steve, grabbing the discarded syringe.

Relief washed over him as he read the label.

“Oh, for god’s fucking sake…!” He passed it to Bruce, sinking to the floor. “It’s just a tranquilizer. She’s asleep. Damn, that was close.” He rubbed his face, still shaken. “That was the scariest thing ever. Shit.”

"Holy shit." Bruce and Maria leaned back too, releasing the breath they had been holding.

"Okay..." Commander Hill, always the first to pull herself together, stood up and exhaled in relief as she began to make sense of the chaos.

"Let’s get her to the med bay. Now." Her voice was determined, but her movements were gentle. She patted a still-in-shock Steve softly on the shoulder. "Come on, Cap. We need to get her out of here. And there’s work to do." She tilted her head toward the unconscious Four on the floor.

Steve didn’t respond. He was panting, his body covered in cold sweat as Tony’s words sank in. It was...tranquilizer? You were ok? He was still holding you close, feeling the warmth of your skin, the quiet and steady rhythm of your breathing. And he could hear your heartbeat.

He never really believed in God, but in that moment, he wanted to thank every deity in this world or beyond that you were still in his arms. Alive. Safe.

And, God…he swore right then, he would never let this happen again. Whatever the hell had gone down tonight, he was so fucking sure that was never, EVER, happening again.

"Steve." Tony placed a hand on his shoulder as Sam and Natasha entered the room with the elite team to deal with Four.

"Come on, buddy, let’s go. Look at her hands—she’s a mess. We’ve got to get her wounds treated." And make sure that brainwash thing is gone, Tony thought, but he didn’t say it aloud. With Steve still so on edge, he didn't want to end like Four on the floor.

Steve closed his eyes for a long moment, then tightened his grip around you, pulling you closer. He lifted you carefully, pressing a kiss to your forehead and inhaling your scent. You smelled like blood, and he felt a deep, crushing guilt.

"Alright, let’s go." He finally spoke, his voice steady, though full of pain. "But I’m staying close." There was no way he was letting you out of his sight.

You inhaled sharply, and your eyes flew open, heart pounding in your chest.

The room was bright, sterile, and the soft hum of Stark technology filled the air.

Disoriented, you stared at the blinking machines and glowing monitors around you. Tubes and wires were connected to your arms, and a soft beep from the heart monitor echoed in the quiet space.

Flashbacks hit you hard. Four. The keywords. You injected yourself to prevent anyone from getting hurt. And you succeeded, didn’t you? Did anyone get hurt?

You remembered Steve being the first to approach you. Four was beaten down, wasn’t he? Is Steve okay? Is everyone ok?

“What the hell is this…” You muttered, frowning as you glanced at the data on the monitors. Then quickly decided you didn’t need any of it. You reached for the tubes, yanking them out one by one. The pain was sharp, but adrenaline dulled it. You didn’t care. You hated anything related to medical clinics, anything that reminded you of being in a lab, a subject of experimentation.

You pulled off the monitors, ignoring the rapid beeping as alarms blared. Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you stood shakily, your legs weak, your vision blurry.

“Damn…” you muttered, walking in a dizzy haze, trying to balance. You must have injected quite a dose of tranquilizer. How long had you been out? There were no windows, and the room’s enclosed space only heightened your panic.

Barefoot, you rushed out and collided with Steve, who was rushing in, pale and shaken.

“What...What are you doing?!” His voice was agitated. Pulling out the tubes must’ve triggered an alarm. He immediately scooped you off the cold floor. “Are you okay?” He set you back on the bed and inspected your bruised and bleeding arms. “You’re freezing. You ok? You’re hurt? Do you want me to call the docs?”

“I…I…” You didn’t know what to say, so you just stretched out your arms and pulled him close, holding yourself to him and hugged him as tight as your weak strength allowed.

“I missed you.”

You said in a low voice, closing your eyes, inhaling his skin, arms around his neck and feeling him. “I woke up and I wanted to see you…I was scared…”

You felt a strange wave of vulnerability, the kind that made you feel like a child seeking comfort.

Steve stood rigid, his heart and soul settling back into place now that you were awake and in his arms. But he was also…furious. You had no idea how angry he had been, how the team had barely managed to contain his rage. He wanted to stay quiet, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“You were scared…now? You didn’t seem scared when you used yourself as bait and stood up against this guy alone…!”

He wanted to shout it out, his voice was thick with frustration, fear, and anger, but he stopped.

His arms remained gentle, holding you tightly.

“What were you thinking? I was…You scared the shit out of me…I thought…”

He cut himself off, tightening his grip around you, pulling you impossibly closer. His lips brushed against your hair as if he couldn’t bear to let go. He clenched his arms, flashing back to that moment when he was breathless, but now you were there.

Thank God you are here.

Your arms around his neck, body against his, his arms holding onto your waist, He could smell your hair, could feel your warmth against his lips, and he didn’t want this moment to end.

“I’m sorry… I wanted to tell you… And I knew you were looking for me, but I couldn’t look back. It would’ve given me away.” You looked up, cupping his face with a soft smile.

Steve exhaled, his heart twisting in his chest. He clenched his jaw, his voice thick with emotion, still fighting to keep composure, he pulled you impossibly closer, holding you against him, his voice a shaky whisper.

“Just promise me…promise me you won’t do such reckless…dangerous things again…ever.”

Your fingers softly moved around his face, and gently kissed him, you pressed your forehead to his, calming and soothing his pain.

You could hear his breath becoming softer and lower with your touch, you stood still, hugging and feeling him as you were comforted too.

“Were you hurt?” you asked suddenly, remembering Steve knocking out Agent Frazer, unsure of how the events had played out. Breaking the hug, you looked him over. “You’re hurt!” You exclaimed, noticing his swollen, bleeding knuckles. “Steve, let me see. Is this bad? Are you in pain?”

“This?” He opened and closed his fist, showing you it was fine. “This is nothing… it hurt less than hitting a punching bag.”

“The Hulk container IS NOT a punching bag.” You carefully caressed his injured hand, your eyes welling up with tears. “Can you get it checked later? Does it hurt?”

Steve didn’t know what to say. He tightened his other arm around your waist, swallowing the lump in his throat.

You hadn’t cried when you found out about your brother being alive, or later when you learned he was a fake. You hadn’t cried when you clenched your fist around glass to fight back the brainwashing. You hadn’t even hesitated when you injected yourself to save everyone.

But now, you were tearing up because of his bruised knuckles.

“I’m ok.” He said after a long pause. And it felt so clumsy. But he didn’t know how to describe the feeling he had right now. He couldn’t find the words. He wished there were some way to predict the future, to shield you from every upcoming danger, every pain, for the rest of your life.

“When can we go home?” You rubbed your eyes, you were exhausted, but you didn’t want to sleep here.

Steve smiled at your mention of “home”, and thought about your secluded, private, little lab, full of sunshine and plants. Your home. Our home. That’s such a wonderful word. His voice softened as he helped you lie down.

“Soon, baby. Just rest, ok? You’ve been through too much today.” He adjusted the pillows and pulled a blanket over you. “Are you okay? Are you cold?”

“Yes.” You frowned and looked up at him. “I’m cold. I want you to hold me.” You moved aside, making room in the bed. “Now.”

You had never used that childish tone before, and it made Steve chuckle. Shaking his head, he climbed into bed beside you, holding you in his arms, your head resting on his chest. “Spoiled little brat.” He teased with a smile, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “My spoiled little brat.”

You inhaled deeply, resting your head against his chest, your favorite spot in the world where you could hear his heartbeat—the sound that made everything in the universe make sense. And when he thought you were asleep, you spoke, your voice clear.

“Do you want to hear a bedtime story?”

Your voice carried a sense of determination, and Steve sighed. He had it coming. Just not this soon.

But then, he thought back to everything, and realized you were one of the bravest people he'd ever met. It didn’t surprise him that you were ready to talk.

“Only if you're sure.”

“Yes.” You smiled, propping yourself up on your elbow to meet his eyes. “I should’ve told you from the beginning.” You exhaled deeply. “I was just scared of becoming a disappointment.”

“What?” He turned to you, incredulous. “No… don’t say that. You could never be a disappointment. Ever.” His gaze was steady and unyielding. “Don’t ever think that.”

You kissed his fingers, pausing for a long moment before beginning.

“Once upon a time…” You stopped as he chuckled. “I’m kidding. Bedtime stories are supposed to be soothing. This one would give nightmares.”

Steve held your hand as he looked at you: “I’m here. And…no nightmare could ever keep me away from you.”

You smiled but stayed quiet for a long while, gathering your thoughts. Steve remained silent, wrapping his arm around you, gently twisting a strand of your hair between his fingers, waiting patiently for you to begin.

“We were twelve, as you might have guessed. I'm the last one.” Your voice was distant, soft, like whispering a dream from another lifetime.

“It started with One and Two. They were perfect, like gods—healthy, strong, fast, fierce. They had rapid healing, heightened reflexes, tolerance to extreme temperatures, and incredible immune systems. Like you. Or Apollo and Artemis. And of course, they weren’t enough. Hydra wanted more. They’ve always wanted more.”

You made a pause, those memories felt like thousands years ago.

“By the time they made Three, Four, and Five… One and Two had begun to… fail. They developed flaws.”

The fingers twirling your hair froze. Steve held his breath. He had thought about this ever since Natasha handed him your file, asking, ‘What do you think happened to the other eleven?’ He hadn’t answered, a terrible feeling gnawing at him that the others’ fates might have been far worse than yours.

“What kind of flaws?” You could hear his heartbeat quicken.

“Just…they weren’t flaws for me. But they stopped being perfect. Their immune system presented infections, something never happened before. Their recovery speed was not as fast as before, or they weren’t healing 100%. Or…speed decrease, lack of strength. And of course their minds started to … be uncontrollable or not manageable at all.” You sighed.

Steve’s hand tightened slightly, a ripple of horror passing through him.

“Three, Four and Five presented earlier symptoms. Three was fast, but he lacked strength. Four was strong, but he wasn’t able to heal as fast as the rest. And Five was super smart but she was…weak. Well, not weak, normal.”

You paused, and smiled: “It was true, you know? The story Agent Frazer told. I was a great tree climber, and we used to have fun in that oak tree. But…”

You felt Steve’s hand holding you tighter, and you hugged him back, your tone turned low.

“Four did that tricky thing of putting a rock on a pile of leaves. Seven hit against it so hard, and that’s right… he won’t stop bleeding, we headed to the base, and of course, got grounded as hell.” You inhaled: “Four died because of that. They sacrificed him, they were planning on doing so anyway, but it was used as a warning. They’ve put everything that ‘worked’ in Four, to ‘fix’ Seven.”

“What?”

Steve felt every fiber on his body tensed, his chest growing tighter and tighter as you spoke, horrified at the realization of what Hydra had done.

“And of course, Seven didn’t last long either. He died about a year later. I think… he just couldn’t live with what was left of Four.”

Your smile was thin, sad. “I saw the autopsy report. There was nothing physically wrong with him. He just…shriveled, or…died from a broken heart.”

You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself for the next revelation.

“And today…I didn’t stop Frazer right away because… I was curious.”

You buried your face in Steve’s chest, as you were ashamed of this little wish.

“I wanted to know…I’ve always wanted to know, how my brothers and sisters would be like…if they’d grown up. I knew Frazer was a fraud, but I couldn’t help it. He was identical to Four…and Four…he was just a kid, a bright, playful, funny kid.”

Steve clenched his arms and held you tightly as you were shivering uncontrollably. He was shaking too, his teeth chattering, it was beyond anger, he felt his heart filled with sadness and despair.

He tried to speak several times before his voice finally steadied.

“You were a kid too.”

“I was not a kid.” You responded, surprisingly quiet. “I was the kid. I was…the final version.” You looked at his horrified eyes as his expression shifted.

You lowered your eyes at his sight, and calmly continued the story: “One and Two passed away when I was young, very young, I still don’t know what happened to them. But Hydra…just continued experimenting, Seven was good, but then he … turned off when Four died, Eight died as a toddler I think. So they just kept going, taking things out of this one, adding to the other… until they got it to the right perfect model… or at least… to one that wasn’t deteriorating with time and maintained a regularity.”

You curved your lip as you looked at Steve.

“The last number of the great Hydra’s Dynasty. Frankenstein number Twelve.”

“I’m alive. Because my brothers and sisters died.”

Steve was in horror.

This pang in his chest, he didn’t know if he wanted to destroy something, vomit, or just…take the time stone, go back in time, and burn all Hydra’s bases he’d known down to the ground until they were ashes and dust. Until the very last of them were fucking burning and screaming in hell.

“They died so Hydra could have a perfect soldier?” His voice was barely more than a growl. “They were…torn apart so you could exist?”

“Well, it’s not like I have Eight’s eyes or Ten’s arms.” You looked at your hands. “It’s like…their DNA, their…existence, were transmitted to me. A prototype that succeeded, but the original versions…just didn’t make it.”

Your voice was like a faint ghost as you observed yourself.

“You know my powers, right? I can see…the components or layers of solid things when I want to. Not all the time, but it gives me a great advantage with stuff like machinery, weapons, gear, construction…I think I have Five’s intelligence too, and some of Three’s speed, or even a shadow of One and Two’s strength. And Eleven’s sense of humor—I’ve always thought we were twins…but this power…It’s only in me.”

“And it used to work on humans too, if I wanted it to.” You sighed in sadness and sorrow. “There’s something I haven’t told anyone, no one knows…not even Tony.”

You intertwined your fingers with Steve’s, confessing in a calm voice.

“There’s something…in every living being, within their layers and layers of components, something impossible to explain—something divine, and impossible to replicate. And that’s like a golden thread.”

You traced a line in the air as Steve held his breath.

“I see it as a line of golden glitter. Some shine more than others, like yours…yours is like a strong ray of sunshine, like all the stars in the sky unified within your being. That’s life. Or…the divine power of life.”

Steve held his breath in awe. There was something incredibly beautiful within the horrors you had to endure. He suddenly remembered all the plants in your lab and home, the leaves cascading from the ceiling, growing strong everywhere. He could picture it—the stunning view you’d have, all those waterfalls and cascades of golden strings, of living life.

He hesitated before speaking, his voice as gentle as he could make it: “And…you don’t use your powers on humans anymore?”

“No. I shut it down. Or it shut itself down…” You shook your head. “Hydra used my powers to make their experiments more…efficient. But my brain, or my powers, were too important. They didn’t dare experiment on me with something that might go wrong. I only had one brain procedure—the one that implanted all these keywords.”

You pressed your lips together and closed your eyes.

“They didn’t brainwash me…So I remember everything. I was forced to participate in the experiments on my siblings. I didn’t know…I thought I was helping them heal, but they lied. I was part of it…!”

Your breath quickened as the memories flooded back.

“I could see them. I could see how their life threads faded, losing their shine little by little. Strong, sparkling golden glitter slowly fading, disappearing. Like a spark extinguished…absorbed by nothingness. And after my last sister, Nine, passed away, I just…this power of seeing layers on human, it went off. I can only see threads in living beings now, nothing else.”

A terrible silence fell across the room. Only the soft beeps of the medical machines echoed through.

Steve sat up straight. He didn’t want to let go of your hand, your touch, but his body just reacted. It was too much, even for him. Your words were calm and serene, but the horrors and the cruelty behind them cut through him like a knife, piercing his soul and breaking him down.

He didn’t know what to say because…what was left to say? There was no comfort, no kindness, nothing that could soothe what you’d been through.

The fact that you remembered everything, that you saw brainwashing as a gift because you had witnessed every death, with genuine hope and devotion that you were helping, only to find out the goal was for you to be the perfect prototype. The guilt you must’ve felt, the despair of watching those threads try to hold on to life before they faded…

The image of you standing alone in this world after your last sibling was gone, facing all that darkness by yourself…he couldn’t imagine it.

“And then, everything is history.” Your eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

“The project ended when Dr. Erskine actually succeeded in creating something…combined. I went into a cryostasis pod that eventually shut down. I don’t know for how long. Then one day, I just woke up in an empty facility, in the dark, and escaped. Natasha found me in the mountains. I think the lab sent out some kind of signal Tony detected, and she was sent to scan the place.”

You were relieved that your story had finally ended, or at least, the nightmare part.

But Steve was stiff.

He felt…waves of guilt crashing over him.

What year was that? When did all of that happen to you? Where was he? Could he have changed anything? If he had tried harder…if he had discovered Hydra's remnants in SHIELD earlier…could he have saved you?

“And I was…where?” He murmured to himself, trying to remember. “Wakanda…and then…it was the Blip…and I…I never knew…that you were here…until the night we met.”

“Steve…” You frowned, sitting up and placing a hand on his back. “I’ve told you already, what happened to me is not a weight for you to carry. I’m here now. And I’m with you. I’m safe.”

“Safe?” He could hardly bear the guilt and pain he felt. “Safe how? Look at you…you’re…” He took your hand, bandaged and scarred from all the glass and needles you’d endured. “How can you say you are safe…with me?”

He exhaled, his voice low as he suddenly tightened, his stomach twisting in pain. He didn’t know where to begin expressing the emotions, the guilt, the responsibility he felt for all of this.

“I should’ve been there. I should’ve stopped this. If I had tried harder, been faster, I should have protected you, saved you…if I’d just been there…”

“You did.” You put a hand on his shoulder, turning him around to face you. You could see all the emotions swirling inside him. “You did.” You spoke softly but firmly.

“You ended Hydra, twice. I wasn’t used during the War, or after. And when you ended them for good, I was free. You set me free.”

Steve was panting. He couldn’t feel anything else but pain. There was a huge lump in his chest and throat that intensified when you said that. The word you used—“used”—how could anyone in the world apply that verb to you? His heart ached so deeply that it took all his willpower not to break something.

You could see him suffering, so you caressed his cheek.

“And…” You cupped his face, your voice gentle.

“And I had this new identity. I met Natasha, Tony…all these new friends, all this good in the world. I don’t need to hide anymore. I can live under the sunshine, see the sunrise, feel the wind, touch the grass. I even saw the sea for the first time, I had ice cream… And…”

You inhaled, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I got to meet the love of my life.”

“God…!”

The word escaped Steve like a desperate prayer.

Steve pulled you in, holding you so tightly that it felt like he wanted you to melt into his body.

He clenched his jaw, trying to fight back all the emotions tearing him apart. But it was nothing compared to the agony that tore him apart inside.

You had suffered so much—more than he could bear to imagine—and yet you were here: Kind. Good. Pure. Selfless. All those beautiful words Natasha and Tony used to describe you and yet he thought they weren’t enough.

He pressed his face into your hair, his breath ragged, trying to fight back the tears that stung his eyes. Why hadn’t he been there? Why hadn’t he saved you sooner? He could have spared you so much pain, so much suffering, if only he had known, if only he had been there before the scars ever formed.

He clutched you tighter, as if holding you close enough might erase the past, might undo all the hurt. But he knew it wouldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t take it away. And all he could do was hold you, trying desperately to protect you from any more harm, even as the weight of his guilt bore down on him, suffocating and relentless.

You held him back. You could feel his heart trembling and his soul aching. So you pressed a deep kiss to his cheek.

“It’s in the past,” you said softly. “I’m here now… hey, hey, look at me.”

You cupped his face, and your vision blurred as tears fell.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t want to upset you, but I’m here now, and I’m just… so grateful, so happy… I’ve never felt this way until I met you, so… fearless, like… like the universe has rewarded me with this… rebirth, with meeting you, and loving you, and…”

“Stop.” It was more than Steve could take.

His voice was broken.

“Stop. I…” He inhaled deeply and gently wiped away your tears. He needed to say something before your selfless, pure words continued to break his heart.

“I love you.” He breathed.

The words came out like a sacred vow, a promise sealed with every heartbeat. He’d been holding them back for too long—since this morning, no, since the first day, since the moment he held his breath when he saw you for the first time.

He spoke it like a promise written in the stars, one he would carry until the end of all things. Until his blood thickens into frozen ice, his bones crumble to ashes, and his soul dissolves into starlight, fading into cosmic dust at the very edge of time and the farthest reaches of eternity—he will love you.

You gazed into his eyes, a smile breaking through the tears. “I love you too.”

You wiped away the tear that traced down his cheek.

“And we’ll have new memories. We’ll make a new life. And we’ll be together. And we’ll be happy.”

“Yes.” He smiled through the pain and heartbreak, swearing as a sacred vow, his voice a little choked as he clung to you just as tightly.

“Yes. We will. I promise. We’re gonna be so damn happy…”

Steve waited until you had fallen asleep.

After everything—the confessions, the heart-wrenching words—you had been exhausted. He’d made sure you rested, gently insisting until your breathing slowed into sleep.

In the silence of the night, he walked quietly to the command room. It was empty now, the weight of the day still hanging in the air. He pulled up the files—yours, and your eleven siblings’—onto the big screen.

A deep sigh slipped from his lips.

There you were. Blurred, black-and-white images of childhoods interrupted, dreams shattered, lives stolen far too soon.

“Jarvis.” His voice broke the stillness, steady yet heavy. “Do I have overwrite authorization to change the ID names?”

“Yes, Captain.” Jarvis replied, his tone as polite as ever. “Would you like to change the names of these files and subjects?”

“Yes.” Steve’s gaze lingered on your face, captured in that haunting picture. “Change them all. M and the ID number.” He said with resolve, his words carrying the weight of a decision long made.

“In an instant, Captain.” came Jarvis’s response. The screen flickers briefly as the files change, HE00X to M00X, twelve names, twelve identities, rewritten in seconds.

Steve stared at the screen, his expression grave, but something deeper stirred inside him.

This was it—the meaning he wanted to give your siblings, like an unspoken monument on their unseen graves.

Something none of you knew, because the world hadn’t been kind, or good, or fair enough to tell you. But he had known it right away, the moment you spoke about that beautiful golden thread that was within every living being.

You weren’t experiments.

You were this new name, and he couldn’t thank the universe enough for that.

The twelve of you were this name.

For Miracle.

The End

Continue to:

6: Dusk |

7: Hypnagogia |

8: Lull |

9: Vigil |

10: Eclipse |

Divider Credits: to the wonderful @cafekitsune

Woohoo...OMG I cried so much writing this ;_; thank you for reading thus far, hope you enjoyed the...intensity and the angst? xD

So I've been struggling with the name of the series, I was going to call it something like 'the golden thread', but then this image of Steve changing their ID names with this conviction and seriousness appeared in my mind as I was wrapping up Chapter 5, and it was something that's...so him, that's definitenly something he would do. So the name just popped up itself, I think I'll call it 'Miracle Nr. 12'. What do you think?

Ok so Chapters 6 & 7 are wrapped up already, I'll see you next Friday! Let me know if you want to be part of the taglist ;)

Taglist: @steviebbboi / @jamneuromain / @heletsmelovehim

Love.,

Moon.

#captain america x reader #captain america x you #steve rogers x ofc #steve rogers x reader #chris evans fanfiction #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers fanfic #marvel cinematic universe #miracle nr 12 #captain america fanfic

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0bticeo · 1 year ago

Text

jonathan sims | get some rest (tomorrow is already here)

summary:

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk. but jonathan sims is a stubborn man, so he must be coaxed into doing so.

“a massage.”

"a what?"

wc: 2.5k

tw: massage, making out, reader being a horny mess, jon being exhausted and a cranky bastard, hinted at elias' voyeuristic tendencies, usual tma ominous feelings, fluff (shocking, i know)

the analog clock reads 3:27, stark red embedded upon your retina. you sigh, fingers rubbing at the back of your neck as you step into the archives, weary bones aching.

it’s not your fault if you fell asleep in a secluded corner of the archives departement, squeezed between two shelves and piles upon piles of unlabeled statements. scratch that: they’re labeled. chronologically.

they do not make sense, however, because jonathan sims’ predecessor - whose name you curse with every breath and sleepless night you spend organizing her damn mess - left the whole department in such a state of disarray you might spend the rest of your life making sense of it. damn her. and damn your boss for being so uptight about it all.

you feel the weight of the institute, a looming force of knowledge pressed at the back of your neck, sweet pinprick of pain. you’re watched. oh, orwell, how right you were.

you make your way towards your desk, stepping over sasha’s pink slippers and picking up an empty mug. grab your keys, get out, and walk home. you’re not too far away from the institute. no trouble.

as you lean forward, palm pressed flat against a manila file, something catches your eye.

light.

thin rays of it crawl, seep out from under the wooden door of the head archivist’s office, stark golden in dull gray penumbra.

he’s there, jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute. holed up in his office, recording a statement, voice poised and measured and controlled in every way he isn’t upon being confronted with his poor sleeping schedule.

you should leave.

you hear the soft click of a tape recorder being stopped. a long, deep-suffering sigh. a drawer opening, more muttering, some shuffling, rustling papers - oh no he won’t.

in three decisive steps, you’re before his door, your sharp knocking rinnging like gunfire in the quiet of the office.

“who-who’s there?”

unease. suspicion.

you’re quick to answer with a long suffering sigh of your own, forehead pressed against the door.

“it’s me, jon.”

a pause. an exasperated sigh.

“what do you want?"

you take it as your cue to step inside his office, dimly lit by a lone desk lamp, dust particles turning midas-gold under its rays. your foot catches on a discarded paper - another statement, this one regarding a gambling fool of a soldier.

(he who tries to cheat death gets the fruit of his labor and weeps upon tasting it.)

you pick it up, and let your gaze roam about the place.

a cork board takes up the majority of a wall, red strings twisting and turning in a web of confusion.

bookshelves align themselves in neat rows, cramped against one another, overflowing with statements, indigestions of facts made up and real.

a cluttered desk - a switched off tape recorder, manila folders, an open computer casting its blue glow upon the sharp edge of jon’s face.

he’s glaring at you.

“have you grown deaf since the last time i saw you?”

you let out an amused breath and make a move to put the statement on his desk. finding an uncluttered space is harder than it proves to be.

jon all but snatches the damn paper from your grip. if looks could kill, you’d be in bad shape. you lean back, arms crossed over your chest, hip pressed against the edge of his desk.

“no, merely mute with shock upon your wretched appearance.” you smile, teasing edges fading into concern. “seriously, when was the last time you slept?”

“that does not concern you-”

“it does, actually. you’re my boss. i can’t let you waste away, who would pay me otherwise?”

“elias pays all of us-”

“and he probably would have me promoted as a glorified secretary if you were to overwork yourself to death. i hate accountance, jon.”

he pinches his nose with long, deft fingers, glasses riding up ever so slightly. they reveal the deep circles under his eyes, embedded in his olive skin. you can practically see the tension oozing from him, the knots in his shoulders.

“if you’re determined to waste my time-”

“i came to help, actually.”

he raises a quizzical eyebrow, the living embodiment of judgment.

you feel his gaze rake your form, the own dark circles under your eyes, the crumpled shirt, the dust that clings to your skirt, what he’s sure is the imprint of the shelf you fell asleep against on your cheek.

you raise your hands in mock surrender. (you miss the way his gaze softens a little.)

“you’re exhausted. hell, i can feel your nervous energy from here.”

he opens his mouth, frowning, protest ready on his tongue. you cut him, merciless.

“when was the last time you’ve gotten more than three hours of sleep?”

that shuts him up. his frown deepens. you want to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead.

“that - look, if you have nothing better to do than pester me-”

“it’s three in the morning and we’re the only living souls in this institute.”

maybe. you don’t really want to know what lies in the tunnels. or in the artifact storage. or what’s watching you.

“you’re not going to sleep at all at this rate - no, i know you’re not, because i know you. kinda.”

he sighs, exhaustion crawling out of his very marrow, and leans back in his chair. you take in the wrinkles in his shirt, now exposed because lo and behold, jonathan sims’ jacket is not sewn to his body and -

and he’s loosening his tie, two fingers digging in his windsor knot, smooth silk gliding away under skilled fingers. you wonder what they might feel like slipping under your shirt.

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk and into bed. but jonathan sims is the living embodiment of stubborness, so he must be coaxed into doing so.

“a massage.”

“a- a what?”

you laugh a little.

“don’t pretend your neck isn’t stiffer than the stick up your ass.”

“i do not have-”

“jon, please let me help.”

silence. again, he pinches the bridge of his nose. at least, he’s considering it.

you eye the piles of statements on his desk, half-discarded, half-classified. there’s a pattern in the way jon operates, even if he’s not conscious of it.

he only ever calls for your help when he’s sure the statements at hand are lelgitimate. this means he rules out those he deems written by lunatics and madmen. this means he does most of the work. this means-

“all right. but under one condition."

you tilt your head to the side, curious.

“one last statement.”

“only if i massage you while you record it.”

a glare.

“we’re wasting time, jon.”

“fine. get over here.”

you smile, palms smoothing out the pleats of your skirt as you make your way behind his desk.

he pays you no mind, long fingers selecting a manila file from a pile, opening it with care. there’s a certain stiff grace with which he carries himself, you muse as you step behind him.

you watch the ripples of tension in the back of his neck, the fine strands of auburn hair tainted penumbra-dark brushing against his nape, and gently run your knuckle against his skin. he’s warm.

“whenever you’re ready,” you breathe, fingers resting on the back of his chair.

he coughs a little. composes himself. hits record.

“continued statement of trevor herbert regarding their latter years as a vampire hunter. original statement given july 10th 2010, audio recording by jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute.”

you watch with fascination as the calm, composed, formal voice slips into something… else. something between jonathan sims and trevor herbert, and it’s fascinating, because for a brief second, split second instant of Knowing, you can See him, the tramp and his collapsing lungs, writing away his youth and hunts on bland institute paper.

you blink and it’s gone.

there’s only you, the “lofi charm” of the tape recorder, and jon. his nape is bare. intimate knowledge settles in your mind, the fragility of mortality. bury a sharp needle there and his body collapses.

you frown. push it back. roll up your sleeves and rub your hands together, warming them up because they’re always cold, and the least you can do is give him a modicum of comfort.

slowly, carefully, you put your hands over his shoulders. he tenses at that, briefly, until you start rubbing away the years of tension gnawing at him.

slowly, surely, you knead poor, exhausted muscles. slowly, surely, he relaxes under your touch, head leaning back ever so slightly.

from this close, you can smell him, you realize. cold coffee, dusty paper, cedarwood aftershave and something like a hint of sweat.

“good?” you whisper, almost silent, voice lost in the quiet static of the tape recorder, in the dust-soft penumbra.

he nods, cheek brushing your wrist. your heart hammers in your chest. a strand of hair brushes the back of your hand - they’re graying a little. you wonder why he exhausts himself so. why he spends nights buried in his office, burrowing himself in piles and piles of files.

hypocrite.

the only reason as to why you’re here, massaging your fucking boss and growing desperately wet at his deep sighs of content, is because you, too, spend much more time than reasonable trying to make sense of it all.

the only reason as to why you’re here, taking in the gentle mess that is jonathan sims, is because you both leave at ungodly hours. because he can keep his eyes on you and so he knows that you cannot be responsible for gertrude’s murder.

you think he might trust you.

his hand settles over yours, and you startle.

he’s warm, palm large enough to cover the entirety of your hand, from wrist to fingertips. you don’t know what to do with this knowledge.

you don’t want to think of what you might do in the quiet death of the night, your hand slipping under your covers, down the apex of your thigh-

he slides your hand lower. oh. oh.

you lean forward, until your cheek brushes his, skin on skin, and unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt. you think he might be leaning into your touch. you think you might cut yourself on the edge of his jaw, on the sharpness of his words.

your hands meet his bare skin and you feel like you’ve caught fire, breath stolen away as you feel him in a way the cotton of his shirt didn’t allow. there is a sharpness to him. you can feel his jutting clavicles under your fingertips, sharp angel wings of bone, and your heart tightens.

he works too much.

it’s quiet, for a while.

you don’t know what sets it off. one moment, you’re massaging him, relishing in the feeling of his skin under your hands. the next, your fingers catch a particularly tight spot in his shoulders and he groans , and fuck, you should not feel familiar heat curling in your lower belly but you do.

you should stop. bid him good night and leave him with his precious recording.

you don’t.

instead, you rub at that spot, tentatively, and watch as he bites his lip mid-sentence, voice catching on a word. he’s a little breathless.

you are, too, heart hammering in your ribcage, hummingbird trying to flee its bones.

his hand wraps around your wrist and tugs you forward, free hand settling on your lower back, guiding you until you’re in his lap, looking up at him.

you think you might be dying of a heart attack with the way he looks at you, with eyes so dark you can barely make out the beautiful green of them.

“just what do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

you feel like you're on fire with how close you are. how his hand still encases your wrist in an iron hold. how you can feel warmth of him. how you can see the fluttering pulse of his throat, adam apple bobbing up and down as he swallows and fuck you want to take a bite.

your mouth feels dry.

“i- i don’t-”

his grip tightens on your wrist.

“answer me.”

somehow you’re closer. close enough to feel his breath on your lips, to find yourself staring up at him through hooded eyes, to find him staring back with parted lips.

whatever’s left of your resolve dissolves into a puddle of desire.

“jon, please, let me kiss you.”

a pause. the faintest glint of disbelief in his eyes.

then his lips crash on yours.

you startle, hand shooting forward to grasp the nearest thing for purchase and find only him, him and the crisp cotton of his shirt, all exhaustion and boiling frustration.

he puts his mouth to you like one would to a lover’s and kisses you slowly, deeply, unraveling you like a beloved mystery.

your body sings for him, and it’s so right you dismiss the ever-present pinprick pressure at the back of your neck.

his palm cups it, your nape, warmth consuming that pinprick pain, until the only thing you can do is sigh in his mouth and press yourself closer.

his lips part from yours, briefly, a breath away, and it’s too damn far, so you tug at his cravat and pull him down. your fingers dig in his shirt, his hair, and he groans at the way your nails rake his scalp.

your lips part for him in a soft, whisper-quiet moan of his name, and he swallows it down almost greedily. you feel his tongue brush against yours and let out a low, needy sound, molten desire coursing through your veins.

his hand slips under your shirt, reaches for the soft skin of your side and presses up, up, up until it meets your breast and his thumb presses against your nipple in tight circles and you’re almost sobbing against his lips.

you’re not aware that your hips are grinding against the hardness of him until his hand settles on your hip, slowing you down to a stop, and you part from him, breathless, and so, so needy.

there’s a thread of saliva between you, thin little spider-web intertwining your fates.

he looks at you, disheveled, glasses slightly askew, their lenses foggy, shirt half-opened for your gaze to meet tantalizing skin. a feast for the sore eyes.

“you might want to make me breakfast instead.”

“not like this,” he mumbles, thumb swiping against your bottom lip. “not- at least, let me treat you to dinner first.”

he chuckles at that, a little breathless, a little exasperated, definitely fond.

“cheeky.”

you peck his lip, sweetly. his hand tightens over your hip.

“look at the time, jon.”

he rides up his sleeve ever so slightly to reveal his watch and with it, the tantalizing softness of his pulse, beating wildly against the tender skin of his inner wrist. almost four in the morning. you press your lips there, feel the yearning of his beating heart.

he doesn’t think he’s seen you this beautiful. you, disheveled, on his lap, almost chest to chest with him, bringing his palm to your cheek and pressing fluttering kisses to his fingers. you, smiling up at him, exhausted, worn to the bone, but happy, and -

“oh.”

“what is it?”

your gaze lands on the tape recorder. oh.

“still recording. i should -”

“go home, get some sleep and finish what you started - me included - later.”

he sighs. there’s still a smile on his lips, exhaustion melting down to affection.

"fine. end recording.”

#obticeo writes #the magnus archives x reader #tma x reader #jonathan sims x reader #jon sims x reader #jonathan sims x you #jonathan sims x y/n #tma x y/n

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writing-my-time · 3 months ago

Text

Smoke Break (PART THREE)

Previous part // Part one // Full Masterlist

Pairing: Steve Murphy X F!Reader Word Count: 1.2k Warnings: 18+, Swearing, smoking, mentions of cheating, mentions of sex work, is this canon compliant anymore? Not really. Summary: Nine days after what conspired in your apartment, Steve finds himself talking to Javier about you.

It’s been days.

Close to two weeks, in fact, since Steve skulked out of your apartment, hand slicked and face still glistening. Despite your desks being mere feet from one another, neither of you have said a word. Steve sits at his desk, the sleeves of his shirt pushed to his elbows. Sweat beads off his forehead, which he wipes away with equally sweaty palms. His hair is unkempt, the strands standing wildly from his long fingers constantly running through them. It’s only on the ninth day, when the phones stop ringing, and papers stop coming, does Steve risk looking at you. Blue eyes cast above his newspaper, scanning the newly bustling office. Agents are spread. Javier has one of the other office admins leaning over his desk. No doubt showing off her nails. “Best way to catch cleavage,” Javi said. What a sex pest. Though, is he much better? One week without his wife and he dares look at forbidden fruit? Connie had come back. Like a lighthouse in an unwavering storm, she had come when he called. Every time he closes his eyes, he tries to think about the way he held her. After watching what Carrillo had done in that helicopter, he needed her. Yet, the same hands that held her tight had been tarnished. Your sweet flesh is still embedded in his skin. Your taste still on his tongue. When Steve closes his eyes, it’s you he’s thinking about. It’s never felt like this with whorehouse women. Lingering guilt had never reared its ugly head. Never chewed in his gut when he closed the velvet curtain. It certainly never plagued him when Connie guided his hands under the covers. Yet here it is. Guilt. Burning in his fingertips. Acid on his tongue. A pit in his stomach. His large hands drag down his face again; an illusion of exhaustion while his mind is consumed by everything you.

“You ever heard of the phrase ‘don’t shit where you eat’?” Javier’s voice cuts through his mind like a knife. He leans against Steve's desk, arms crossed over his chest with a cocked brow planted on his face. “Our office isn’t shit enough, you had to go and make it a toilet?”

Steve drags two palms down his face, feeling the cool band sting against his warm face. Even as he swallows the growl he desperately wants to make, he snarls. No one else has heard, thankfully. Javier can be hush hush when he wants.

“I didn’t do shit.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then explain that.”

With a gentle nod towards your desk, Javier forces Steve to look at you. His eyes land on forbidden fruit once more. There you are. Sunken face, lip between your teeth. All of your focus is being poured into the typewriter. You weren’t designated a computer yet. Steve remembers how you’d sat on his desk, cradling a mug of coffee as you complained. ‘A secretary job wasn’t worth such new technology’. The mockery of Messina’s words had him hacking back a laugh. But now, as he sits watching your deft fingers tapping away at the keys, Steve can’t help tense. Maybe it was good he didn’t let you touch him. Your taste was bad enough, seared into his tongue like scripture. God knows what your touch can do. He chews on his thumbnail, finally dragging his eyes back to Javier’s.

“Isn’t that the secretary that you take home?”

“Yep.” He answers, tight lipped and jaw clenched.

“And you two haven’t spoken in, what, seven days?”

“Nine.”

“Oh, you’re counting?”

“Jav.”

It’s a warning they’re more than familiar with. The office is too busy. Too loud. Sure, there are bigger problems afoot, but they both know that no one is immune to workplace gossip. Steve’s hand hovers by his jacket, Javier’s lingers in his pocket.

“Smoke?”

Both men lean up against the brick. Javier lit up when Steve first started explaining, cherry a soft orange against the burnt sky. Not a cloud in it. A pure view of the sun beginning its descent back behind the earth. Steve lets the smoke pour out of his lips, not bothering to force an exhale. He can feel Javier’s beady eyes narrowing in on his face, to which he simply keeps his eyes forward. Having just spent the last ten minutes describing what had happened nine days prior, he can’t say he feels like digging the hole deeper.

“Well, shit.” Javier lets out a low whistle, shaking his head before taking another drag. “You told Connie?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“Yes! No. I–” Steve cuts himself off, pinching at the bridge of his nose before frustration can boil over. “I don’t know. She’s going back to live with her sister, anyway.”

The two men stand in silence again. Javier flicks ash into the garden, while Steve keeps his eyes on his shoes. His thumb glides up and down the cigarette, rolling it in between his fingers. By now, his mind is running rampant, critique after critique of his own actions swarming in his mind until he can’t take it.

“I don’t know what Connie wants. When she first left she said it was over. Now it's–” He waves his hands around as the words fail to come, smoke trailing close behind. “Complicated.”

“Complicated because of Connie or the secretary?” Javier speaks up after inhaling a drag, brows raised with the burn.

“Who do you think?”

“I think you’re the one making it complicated.”

Steve shoots the other man an unimpressed look, though, Javier’s right. The only person he has to blame is himself. Rolling his head back, the cool brick meets the crown of Steve’s head, supporting him as he slumps back. He drags a palm over his moustache.

“You didn’t have this problem with any of the prostitutes.” Javier reminds him, leaning back into the wall to mirror Steve. “Why is the secretary giving you trouble?”

“I don’t work with prostitutes. I don’t have to see them again, either.”

“You saw the redhead three times.”

“Not the point, Jav.”

“Just admit that you like the girl.”

More silence. Both men stand, watching the sun begin to clip the embassy building. As the cherry of Steve’s cigarette begins to meet the filter, he flicks it into the garden. There’s no urgency to get back inside. All they’d do is get the rest of their things and go home, anyway. They lock eyes, Steve’s tired and unsure, Javier’s sympathetic but unserious. He offers Steve a shrug.

“All I’m saying is that this didn’t start before Connie left. It’s just evolved.” Javier’s words of wisdom smell like tobacco and a shot of tequila, and much to Steve’s frustration, they’re true. “You both thought your marriage was over. Hell, maybe it still is.”

“Christ, you think we’re that far gone already?”

“Eh,” Javier shrugs as he checks his watch. “I think it might have been the prostitutes. Or getting kidnapped. Take your pick.”

Steve nods his head, dragging his tongue over his teeth before finally pushing off the wall. With both hands now firm in his pockets, he looks towards the embassy doors. The pit in his stomach returns. Bile. A burning in his chest that he can’t tell if it's from the smoke or the guilt. Either way, it’s trickling up his throat until words fail to form.

“Talk to the secretary, Steve.” Javier speaks up with impeccable timing, freeing Steve from a barrage of internal insults. “What harm could it do?”

“Yeah.” It’s hoarse, and restrained, but Steve relents. “Yeah, I’ll talk to her.”

// Oop, we love a rebrand. Sorry this took so long! I am far from done with this story, but alas, I love my kids more than I love writing (partially true, I would just rather play with them than look at a screen <3) Hope y'all enjoy! //

#boyd holbrook #steve murphy #steve murphy x you #steve murphy x reader #narcos #javier peña #goose writing #smoke break

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commodorez · 5 months ago

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My entire life I've seen year over year performance increases from computers at about the same power draw, and it makes me wonder - would these developments also enable something with roughly the same computation power of a windows 98 or 2000 machine but with a lower overall power draw, such that you might be able to cram the computing power of a turn of the century workstation into the form factor and power draw of a pocket calculator, perhaps even solar powered?

Idk, maybe.

If you've seen the very small embedded hardware grade x86 processors, similar to what LGR demonstrated on this past week's episode on the Pixel x86, you'll see that these machines still take up a bit of power, certainly small enough to be at cellphone scale. The machines he demonstrated are attempting to replicate the power and functionality of 30 year old hardware, and aren't hyper-optimized for low power consumption. So you could probably make something relatively portable, you just wouldn't be at "pocket calculator" scale.

If you're willing to go outside of ~2000-era x86 computing, the answer is probably "pretty close" with a Raspberry Pi or one of the other modern ARM microcontroller. You could totally make some tiny little machines based on that, but it ain't gonna run Windows without an emulation layer.

I can't claim expertise on the subject of miniaturization, so take what I say with a grain of salt.

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bliiot · 2 years ago

Text

EdgeCOM BL304 Embedded ARM Computer is built around NXP i.MX8M based on Arm Cortex-A53 and Cortex-M4 cores, running speed up to 1.8GHz, 2G DDR4 RAM, 8GB eMMC Flash. The embedded ARM based controller supports Linux, Android, FreeRTOS and other systems. The Embedded controller comes with 4 serial ports, 1 CAN port, 2 Ethernet ports, 2 Digital inputs, 2 Digital outputs, 2 SIM card slots, 1 Mini PCIe expansion slot for 4G/WiFi module. This tiny embedded computer is widely applicable to a variety of industrial solutions.

The ARM based embedded controller suppotrs Ubuntu, Debian; Node-Red, QT, Python, C++; MySQL, InfluxDB, SQLite, Docker, Ignition for secondary development.

The Embedded controller comes with 4 serial ports, 1 CAN port, 2 Ethernet ports(1 100M Ethernet port, 1 Gigabit Ethernet port), 2 Digital inputs, 2 Digital outputs, 2 SIM card slots, 1 Mini PCIe expansion slot for 4G/WiFi module.

#industrial computer #bliiot #ARM computer #embedded #embedded computer #EdgeCOM

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loudlittleecho · 1 year ago

Text

Too Late to Save Them: Frozen in Time

Part 4

Nathan was ecstatic. Somehow his dad had found this once in a million asteroid on the farm. It was ice, unmelting ice, and his dad was clueless on how to use it.

Nathan knew how to use it.

Quickly, he chipped down. It always grew back to its original size, so why not see how far it went?

. . . That. That was why.

Nathan put in parameters. Only so many inches to be chipped. GO NO FURTHER.

He didn’t want his workers, his investors, ANYONE to see what was in the center of the ice.

A child.

Probably a meta.

A black haired, pale blue, (hopefully) dead child whose body continuously created unmeltable ice.

Ignore it. Create the company. Make millions.

. . .

Tim Drake-Wayne was dealing with a broken arm. Again. Bernard had been very sweet though, and asked him to check up on this company, saying that the company was “hiding something.”

Tim figured it was Bernard's way to distract him, but. . . Bernard was right. Things weren’t adding up.

Forever Ice. Started as an insulated cup company, but quickly went to pharmaceuticals. And jacked up their prices, citing its difficulty to produce and its limited quality per batch.

Did Tim like this? Well, if Forever Ice did what it said it did, yes. But Tim believed in the saying: “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is.”

Tim did what he did best. Researched.

Forever Ice didn’t have a patent for their material. Well. They ‘did’, but Tim’s cursory glance recognized the bullshit inside the patent.

He easily bought one of the cups, broke it (it specifically had a warning on it. To dispose if seal is broken) and checked the innards.

Broken bits of the icy insulant were embedded in the double insulation, and was cool to the touch- COLD to the touch, even through his gloves.

Tim carefully pulled a piece out and tested it.

Whatever Forever Ice was, it wasn’t originally from earth.

It’s cellular structure was. . . well, it wasn’t quite there. Even the bat computer couldn’t pick it up.

Tim stretched in the computer chair. He may have been benched from crime-fighting, but no one said anything about good old detective work.

- - -

Mrs. Freeze- Nora grimaced at the name. She needed to think of a better moniker. She was FREE. no more sick little Ballerina. No more frozen sickly wife. No more.

Victor. . . she had loved him. They were happy. But when she got her diagnosis, Victor had started looking for a cure. Nora wanted to live the rest of her days happy.

She had told him NO.

She thought he had let it go. . .

But their last dinner together, before she woke up as. . . this. . .

He had drugged her meal. She had been aware enough to watch him gently hold her face and promise her. He would find a cure.

He brought her to that horrible machine.

Victor had found a cure. It made her like HIM. Requiring a sub-zero temperature suit to live.

And after he cured her, he wanted them to retire! He had LIVED. She had been suspended. Frozen in time. Before, he’d been two years older than her. But now decades of life had passed her by in that cursed cryo chamber.

Victor had lived, and changed, and aged.

Nora hadn’t.

And apparently during her frozen slumber, Victor had gotten an idealized version of her in his head.

The Real Nora and the idyllic Nora had some similarities: Ballerina. Wife. Illness. Loving Victor. But they were different. Nora was a ballerina, yes. But that wasn’t her only interest. She was a wife, but she was also a daughter. A friend. An enjoyer of pasta. She had been sick. But she had a life! She had been given a timeline, and she had made a list of things she had wanted to do. She wanted to LIVE with the time given to her. And she had loved Victor. But the two of them weren’t perfect. They had their good days, and their not so good days. They worked through their communication and she had hoped to grow old with him. Before the diagnosis they had thought of. . .

The past was the past.

She had woken up, and she had been angry. Confused. The man in front of her didn’t look like Victor, but sounded like him. He was blue. She would be too. They needed money.

He gave her a weapon and taught her how to fire. How to fight.

This wasn’t the Victor she remembered.

She followed him along, and as they went on their “crime spree”, she began to feel ALIVE again.

And then Victor said they didn’t need to do this anymore, that it was time to retire. Time to find a sweet little place to enjoy the rest of their lives together.

She argued back.

He told her she wasn’t thinking straight. It must be something with the formula. But not to worry, he would fix her.

NO.

Nora didn’t think it was the formula. She was angry, and she had a RIGHT TO BE!

Victor hadn’t understood. He wanted to make her pliant. submissive. Into the Idyllic Nora.

She shook herself out of her memories. It was over.

She wasn’t proud of herself, but she had harmed Victor. To her, it was the only way.

He had proven himself in the past that he would take away her autonomy.

It was the only way to be free.

. . .

Nora wasn’t a scientist, but she wasn’t stupid. The suit Victor had made for her wasn’t self-sustaining and she wasn’t going back to his workshop.

Not while that. . . Batman was around.

But while she was in hiding, she had heard of this Forever Ice.

Perhaps she’d stolen someone’s thermos. Tested it out.

She would be able to replace the bits of her suit with this Ice and then finally, be truly, honestly, free.

Able to make her own decisions. Be freed of Victor. Self-Reliant.

She just needed more.

Part 5

#dpxdc #dcxdp #danny phanton fanfiction #phanfic #too late to save them #Option A: Frozen in time #Enter the DC universe characters!#tim drake wayne #Nora Fries #Red Robin #Mrs. Freeze #References the storyline in Detective Comics Year of the Villain: 1012-1016.

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hiskillingjar · 2 years ago

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ugh your kinktober fics ruled so hard!!! Also, if you were up for taking requests, could I request some fox streaming mc with humiliation/general nastiness. I really loved the parts that touched on that for day 29

thank youuuuu and i gotcha ✌

1000+ words, fox/mc, third person. is it humiliation if you're too dumb to be embarrassed? the world may never know. cw for coerced consent :P

"You know what happens, folks! If we get to three hundred tokens in the next hour, I'll turn up the Sybian another notch!"

Fox grinned widely as he watched the subject writhe helplessly on top of the heavy-duty toy, their thick, parted thighs trembling wildly as their hips bucked against the vibrating rubber, desperate and hungry for more.

Thick chains and shackles around their wrists kept their arms held high above their head, and a metal ring between their teeth reduced any pleas or beggings for mercy into mindless mumbles and spittle down their chin and their heaving chest, ample breasts bouncing and moving in time with each of their erratic thrusts.

His own private porno, that he was being so gracious and sharing with hundreds, if not thousands of happily paying viewers.

Seeing such a mindless display of desperation would have been humiliating for anyone, especially when it was played back in real-time in front of their wide, waiting eyes on three full-size computer screens, each screen fixated on a different angle of their naked, shaking body, not an inch of skin left behind or not scrutinised over.

But not for this subject,

Their dead, thoughtless eyes were fixed on a fourth, smaller screen on Fox's computer desk, which was playing their favourite loop of endless VHS static, keeping them in a blissful haze of conditioned thoughtlessness and ignorance, no longer a mind but a body, a body built for service and submission, a vessel for pleasure and delicious pain.

Speaking of which…

"Ah, there we are, three hundred tokens already." Fox mused to himself, turning his attention onto the computer screen with a hidden grin, smiling even wider when the number of tokens kept ticking upwards, showing him just how eager his audience were. "My, my, we're an eager bunch today, aren't we? Of course, I had no doubt we'd get there with plenty of time to spare. I have total faith in my lovely audience!"

Fox let out a playful huff through his nose as he approached the subject, tilting his head as an involuntary spasm shot through their body, making it still and shiver mindlessly on top of the buzzing toy.

"Well, you know what comes next, darling," He crooned, pushing a hand through the subject's hair (for the sake of the camera more than anything else, since they were past the point of feeling any sensation other than the toy between their legs) as he crouched down at their side and turned up the notch on the toy. "Up we go!"

The subject squealed helplessly as their writhing body thrashed on top of the toy, the rumbling vibrations getting louder and louder as they were gradually inched up, vibrating against and stimulating their sopping wet cunt even more.

"God, I hope you can all see that," Fox mumbled hungrily (mostly to himself), hurrying to stand to his feet and take a smaller camera from its tripod, bringing the lens down to his level at the subject's side and zooming in on the wet mound of their slit. The wet sheen of pre-cum totally covered the short fuzz of pubic hair over their mound, their thighs, and the rubber top of the Sybian. "Just look at that, would you?" He said, indulgently running his tongue over his jaws under his metal mask, getting all the more hungry himself. "And not a single thought behind those eyes but getting their cunt wet. Fuck."

He idly palmed himself under his trousers, squeezing as his cock grew harder and harder at the sight of the subject as the camera panned up to their sweaty face.

Their eyes (empty, expressionless, like glass eyes embedded in porcelain or plastic, a doll's eyes) were still glued ahead and fixed on the static, dazed and totally thoughtless, giving away not even an inch of interest towards their audience (or towards Fox) as they huffed desperate little whimpers and whines against the metal ring gag, still drooling thick strings of spittle down their chest.

It was utterly pornographic, but Fox didn't mind that at all. In fact, he'd found that he enjoyed the nature of these streams, even a little more than his last ones.

At least, the clientele wasn't as pushy.

"They don't even have the good grace to be embarrassed about what they're doing," Fox then rasped as he set the camera down on the ground (what would one fucked up angle do, really?) and reached forward to hungrily grope the subject's chest, indulging in their luxuriously smooth skin and the heavy weight of their breast in his palm. "Too dumb, too stupid to even be humiliated. God…" He dragged a claw over the blooming bud of their freshly pierced nipple, giving it a little squeeze. "Can you even imagine how good it would feel sinking your cock into a dumb, little doll like this, that doesn't even have the brain to fight back?"

"Upmff-NNF!"

The subject whined loudly again as another vicious spasm overtook their body, the muscles in their soft thighs tensing up and their thoughtless eyes squeezing shut suddenly, as a sudden gush of liquid shot from their cunt and covered the rubber surface of the Sybian, marking another orgasm earned from their endless torture.

"HA!"

Fox brought his head up with a bark-like laugh, looking over his shoulder to see an explosion of excitement and emojis in the chat, message after message coming in, barely seconds after each other.

"Oh, wow! How impressive! Tell me, was that the third time they came or am I miscounting?" He asked them, ever the attentive showman for his audience, standing back up to his feet and approaching the computer, where the chat was confirming a third orgasm from the subject (and their obvious enjoyment of the display). "Well, well. How sweet, they can't even hold back for a second, can they?" He let out an airy titter as he started to palm his cock again.

"So, you all certainly know what comes next, don't you? If we get to FIVE hundred tokens in the next hour, I'll turn up the Sybian another notch!~"

#fox tpof #fox x mc #fox x reader #ren hana #ren x mc #ren x reader #this post was not sponsored by sybian. but g-d i wish it was #drabbles #qs

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aggro-my-beloved · 10 months ago

Text

Trash Polka (AsherxBabe)

note: this hasn’t been fully looked over/edited so if you notice my mistakes just pretend you don’t. k thx.

summary: *doodles that a person draws on themselves will appear on their soulmate’s skin* [babe is tired of wearing hoodies in summer, and leggings in the spring. but their soulmate seems too caught up in his career to mind leaving little notes and drawings on their skin, rather than revealing himself. babe DOESN’T take matters into their own hands, but they soon won’t be covered by a mod-podge of their soulmate’s scribbles. one can hope, at least.]

pairing(s): AsherxBabe (romantic), AsherxDavid (platonic)

warning(s): none

word count: 1.4k

estimated reading time: 7 mins

taglist: @ther3alsweetheart @darlin-collins @professionallyyappinabtangst @elles-roses @ashertickler mwah

“GLOVES AGAIN? IT’S A HUNDRED degrees outside.” Katherine quips from her desk. As usual, Babe’s morning is all swearing and stumbles through the office building as they don a more than modest collection of clothing.

“I think it’s a hundred and one, actually.” Vinny chortles from his cubicle. Since turning down his invitation to be his plus one at the office holiday party the year prior, he’s been more prone to poke fun at them. Babe illustrates the smirk tugging at his lips and fantasizes ripping it clean off his visage while preparing for another busy morning. Bag strap on the back of their chair. The largest iced coffee Starbucks could provide them on the ceramic coaster gifted by Katherine, which reads some motivational slogan Babe would be caught dead uttering in any unironic fashion.

“I still don’t know how you manage to work like that.” Their colleague’s tone is the perfect balance of judgment and concern; a siren song can draw the most taboo answers from anyone she crosses paths with. Babe is aware of this, and yet they still respond. Katherine is approachable, but isn’t as prone to flapping her lips compared to others who lurk in the office.

“I told you before, Kat, I get cold easily. Low iron, and stuff.” Babe clears their throat and wiggles their chair closer to the computer before them. A few minutes pass, and they flicker their eyes between the two cubicles on either side of them, harboring a yapping Vinny on his phone, and Katherine engrossed in her bookkeeping tasks. Babe’s movement is subtle as they sink lower in their chair, and stretch their arms beneath their desktop to flick on the fan to its highest setting. Another glance back and forth. More nonsense gabs from Vinny. Even more sounds of filing papers from Katherine. They are sandwiched in a personal hell, but the heavy dress pants and turtleneck strangling their figure may be to blame for that.

Relieving wool gloves from their hands has grown to be an orgasmic experience for Babe. One of the few things they miss about working remotely is the pleasure of joining video meetings half-naked, and feel content with the fact that their colleagues are none the wiser about what their lower half is lacking. In this office full of prying eyes and passive-aggressive chatter, though, the simple act of baring their hands fills them with equal amounts of pleasure and shame of a lambasted stripper.

Babe’s eyes cascade over the swoops and strikes of black ink on skin, written in their spoken language but still holding no significant meaning—the lines embedded in their palm act as lines on ruled paper.

Sm Tourn @ Davey’s Fri 8

Buy milk, almost out

DO NOT DRINK MILK IN FRIDGE!

For whatever reason, the person who left these notes for themself also found it apropos to doodle a smiley face below the crease of their thumb. Babe stiffens at the tickling sensation on their opposite hand and draws their attention toward the writing slowly appearing on it. It’s messier than chicken scratch with some typos, like every other message this person leaves for them to discover, but Babe’s witnessed these messages long enough to decode them, or at the very least, try to.

The first time their parents discovered the writing on their skin, it couldn’t have come at a worse time. They were freshly tween, overflowing with naivety and curiosity, and they assumed their anonymous messenger was too. Babe’s father clocked them at the dinner table and demanded they show him their hand, where a “naughty” word written in bold lettering was spelled out on four out of five of their knuckles. Any excuse Babe mustered in that moment would have been a lie because they were still clueless as to how random notes appeared on their skin, or who the person writing them was.

They chalked it off as a word they heard from their classmates, but it didn’t satisfy their parents in the slightest. Babe missed a whole week's worth of Pokémon and Spongebob on the family television and held that grudge for as long as they could remember. But with no face or name to target their anger towards, they learned that stewing was pointless. Soapy water was the obvious solution in Babe’s mind. Just scrub hard enough and there would be no proof, right? Wrong. Whatever mystical power is embedded in this ink, or Babe’s skin, allows it to last twenty-four hours when fighting against soap, stain sticks, or even concealer. From that point on, Babe wrestled themselves into floor-length bottoms and long-sleeves up until high school graduation.

They’ve struggled falling asleep at night, trying to view this anomaly as a “gift”. Nobody else they’ve come across has poorly drawn Star Trek characters or names of midwest emo bands littering their epidermis like a composition notebook. Not to mention the person distributing these excerpts of their life–who are they? Do they know they’re capable of something like this? Do they even know Babe exists, and ponders the consequences of this condition in their life, and cries at the reminder that they can never purchase that crop top on sale or be stared at walking down the beach with a sweatshirt on?

Babe is broken out of their spiraling thoughts by Madelyn’s request to fetch the mail from the lobby. They didn’t catch the particular reason, but their ears perked up at the words “big check we need to run.” Babe feels invisible strings urging their eyes to roll and fights them, seizing the pair of gloves and bustling towards the nearest elevator. Once upon a time, Babe would take any excuse to waltz down the seventeen flights of stairs to dilly dally. But that was before their thoughts became consumed with dying of heat stroke between concrete walls and cotton layers.

Babe finds solace in the empty elevator, and decides to savor the feeling of bare hands in every way imaginable by cracking their knuckles, reaching them up to the fluorescent lights of the lift and drenching their skin in the gleam. In seconds, they become clenched fists, clammy and unresponsive at the sound of quickly approaching steps and voice growing in volume.

“Look, I know I left the stove on. I’m sorry, buddy. It was just a little flare up...” In a panic, Babe reaches forward to jab the button to close the doors, and halts at the sight of their hand, covered in more scribbles than before. They reduce themself into the corner, hastily cloaking their hands with the gloves. Amidst putting on the second one, the voice introduces its body in the picture as it squeezes through the elevator doors right before they shut. His phone is situated between his ear and shoulder, as he shuffles through the large stack of paperwork between his hands.

His hands…

Look just like…

“Bye buddy, love you!” His blonde hair swishes against his forehead as he cranes his neck down to end the call. “He’s really trying to turn me into that guy who’s being super loud on their phone in the elevator.” While pocketing his phone, Babe’s eyes follow his hands, scribbled in black. He retrieves a pen from behind his ear, uncaps it with his mouth and lets the ballpoint make contact with his skin before he begins writing. Babe feels the familiar tickle, but is too in shock to respond. Halfway through his latest entry, he shakes the pen violently with a grunt. “Damn, this thing’s getting low on ink.”

Through his peripheral vision, the blonde peeks over at the second set of hands in the elevator, and notices some writing peeking out from the half-worn glove overtaking Babe’s left hand. “Another avid notetaker, I see. My friends can’t stand it when I write on my skin. They say it's a one way trip to ink poisoning. But it’s saving the trees, right?” Again, the nervous chuckle floats through the space, and then awkward silence. Babe’s lips remain parted in awe, too caught up in the current revelation to grab hold of anything as the elevator’s motor stutters and comes to a sudden halt. Before they could tumble to the floor, his coated hands caught them amidst their teetering. Blue eyes pooling with an intimidating level of concern, stare them down.

“Aw man, I think the elevator got stuck. Hey, are you alright?” The eyes flicker down, and the man appears to harbor the same revelation as Babe when he further inspects the writing on their hand. At least, they thought…

“No way! You like Star Trek too?”

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