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sixeyesonathiel · 2 days ago

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you should’ve read the damn contract.

but you were desperate. truly desperate. broke to your bones, barely scraping by on instant noodles and tap water. you had holes in your socks, a phone with a shattered screen, and a wallet so empty it echoed. the idea of splurging on a sex toy? laughable. you couldn’t even afford a second-hand toothbrush. so when the sign-up form for "assistant tester" promised fast money with zero qualifications, you didn’t hesitate. clicked agree. no reading. no questions.

and now?

you’re strapped to a glossy, too-clean chair in a sterile lab with your legs spread wide, bound in place. and between them, humming softly with unholy precision, is a goddamn vibrator from the future.

silver, contoured, sleek—latched in place by soft restraints, the head of it resting firm and perfectly angled against your clit. it’s warm from its internal thermal sync, fitted with pressure-reactive gel pads and frequency mapping. you hadn’t even known vibrators could do this. it’s more machine than toy. and you are its first test subject.

“no offense,” satoru drawls, voice impossibly casual as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “but you’re twitching like a virgin in a wind tunnel. and this is literally the lowest setting.”

he grins around the end of a candy stick he’s been chewing for the last ten minutes, bright blue eyes tracking the shivers running down your body. his lab coat hangs off one shoulder like he forgot it halfway through putting it on, and his black compression shirt clings tight to his lean frame beneath it. his pants ride low on his hips where he’s slouched, thighs spread, casual in posture but intent in gaze. the goggles meant for "serious" testing sit uselessly on his forehead, pushing back his mess of white hair, strands sticking out in static waves.

his eyes flicker with amusement, mouth quirking as he watches your body react, fascinated. “don’t tell me,” he says, spinning slightly in his chair with a nudge of his heel. “you’ve never used a toy before.”

you jerk when the vibrator pulses, and your breath shudders. your thighs tremble as you try to close your legs on instinct—only to be kept wide open by the straps. your brows knit, lips parting in a soundless gasp, skin flushed from your cheeks to your collarbones. “i... haven’t,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

satoru blinks. then brightens. “what? oh my god. you’re serious?”

his grin widens—vicious and delighted.

“holy shit, this is even better than i thought. you signed up for high-grade prototype testing and your poor little pussy’s never even met a toothbrush’s vibration mode?”

“satoru!” you cry, humiliated, squirming against the relentless buzz between your legs. your hips twitch with every pass, toes curling in their restraints, spine arching slightly as the pleasure sneaks up your nerves.

he laughs like this is the best thing that’s happened all week. “nah, this is so good. write that down,” he mock-mumbles, pretending to scribble on his tablet. “subject is hopelessly inexperienced. results? extremely promising.”

he rolls his stool closer, the wheels creaking as he leans in. his breath fans across your thigh. he moves with lazy confidence, legs spreading slightly wider, hands loosely folded over his knees.

“can you even tell what part is making you moan like that? is it the pulses? the heat setting? or is it just the fact that someone’s finally paying attention to that sad little clit of yours?”

your hands grip the armrests harder, knuckles white. your face twists with the effort to stay composed, but another whimper escapes, and your lashes flutter from the building sensation. every hum of the vibrator sends your hips bucking.

“stop staring,” you choke, voice breaking from the mix of shame and pleasure.

he snorts. “what, you shy now? sweetheart, you’re on my table, strapped open, soaking my tech. i’m doing you a favor.”

he flicks a finger against the side of the vibrator casually. it twitches in response.

you gasp, whole body jolting. your eyes fly open wide, lips quivering as your muscles lock up for a moment.

he watches your back arch, eyes sharp and entirely too smug. “god, that’s adorable. you really don’t know what to do with it. how long you been walking around with a cunt that’s never been spoiled?”

beep.

he taps the tablet.

the vibration intensifies.

your whole body jumps, a startled moan ripping from your throat. your eyes squeeze shut, face contorting as your chest heaves in shallow gasps.

“ohhhh yeah,” he says, eyes gleaming. “now that’s the sound i needed on record. keep goin’, princess.”

you shake your head furiously, tears pricking at your eyes. your shoulders twitch with every wave of stimulation. “satoru—i c-can’t—”

“you can,” he says, nudging your thigh with his foot. “that’s literally the point. now stop whining and let the tech do its job. unless you want to redo all the calibration logs.”

he leans forward suddenly, forearms on either side of your thighs. he’s close now, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, the sharpness in his gaze as he watches you break apart. “you’re already crying and we haven’t even hit auto-rhythm. wanna see what happens when we let it pick the pattern it thinks you like best?”

“no—!”

beep.

too late.

he watches you twitch and writhe, cheeks flushed, lips trembling from overstimulation. your cunt is soaked. the toy hums louder. your jaw slackens as you pant, barely holding onto your sense of self.

“god,” he mutters, not even trying to hide the awe in his voice, “you’re gonna short-circuit the sensors with how wet you are. is this what happens when broke girls finally get some tech between their legs?”

you let out a strangled sound—half moan, half sob—as your body twists against the restraints, chest heaving in shallow bursts. your head tosses to the side, hair clinging damply to your temple, strands sticking from the sheen of sweat along your brow.

satoru tilts his head, one white brow arching lazily as if he’s genuinely puzzled. his lip tugs up in amusement, eyes gleaming with mischief under the fringe of silver bangs. “what’s wrong? you wanna stop?”

your voice breaks on a whisper, barely audible through your trembling breath. “yes,” you whimper, eyes glassy, lashes wet.

he flashes a grin—wide and obnoxiously bright, the corner of his mouth dimpling as he leans back on his stool, spine stretching in a casual roll like he’s just lounging at a bar, not orchestrating your unraveling. “too bad. you signed a full-cycle clause. twenty minutes minimum.”

his wrist lifts casually, tablet tilted toward him with a flick of his fingers. his thumb scrolls the screen like he’s checking a grocery list. “we’re only at seven.”

“satoru, please—” your voice cracks on the plea, lip quivering as your hips instinctively try to shy away from the overstimulation.

he doesn’t even blink. “oh now you’re begging. yeah, that’s goin’ in the notes.” he mutters it more to himself than you, tapping something in lazily, though his eyes never leave the way your body squirms.

his hand comes down slow, deliberate, resting lightly on your hipbone. the heat of his palm spreads through the thin fabric of the gown they’d given you, and his fingers flex slightly, just enough to feel the way your muscles tremble beneath his touch. you flinch—just barely—but he catches it, and his lashes lower in interest.

“try to keep your voice down, though,” he says, tapping your thigh twice like it’s nothing. “walls are thin. or don’t. up to you.”

then he leans back again, reclining just slightly in his seat, one knee bouncing idly, clipboard resting across it. the corner of his smile twitches as he watches your face twist again, eyes fluttering shut. “science is beautiful, huh?”

#gojo satoru #gojo drabble #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x reader smut #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #jjk smut #jjk drabbles

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all-with-angel · 21 days ago

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Stress test // Superhero!Sukuna

➤ Superhero!Sukuna x Gearmaker!Reader

➤ Deadlines are nipping at your heels and you haven't found yourself a willing test subject for your projects. As your last Hail Mary, you waltz into the training area and borrow the first person you see; Not knowing who exactly you had just made your test subject. Not like it matters to you.

➤ gn!reader, Sukuna being sukuna, cocky Sukuna humbled by reader, both are 20+, light injury, sfw, NOT PROOFREAD and I couldve probably done a better job but wtv we die like gojo

You haven’t slept in thirty hours.

You haven’t eaten anything other than energy bars and instant coffee in fourteen, and the last time you took a break was when a rogue drone had exploded and knocked you out for 16 minutes. Those were a good 16 minutes.

You’d love to take a rest, sleep until the world exploded even, but deadlines were looming over your head like a death knell, red marker on your calendar telling you ‘You’re screwed.’

You had ideas- God, you had way too many ideas. Building them was one thing, but that was the easiest part really. You could do that in your sleep, and frankly, probably had once or twice. No, the problem was testing them.

You needed raw data. Field stress levels, user performance under duress, energy thresholds when pushed to their uppermost limit. Simulated tests could only go so far. The board wanted grit. They wanted the real deal. The kind that said, “Yes, this will absolutely survive a villain launching a bus at your face.” or “Yes, this will hold up against the strength of Infinity.” (Like that's even possible)

And you couldn’t give that. How could you? You didn’t have teams of testers like the more known gadget makers, no, you had yourself and A.I. test dummies that started flirting with you if they weren’t reset every other week.

You were a genius. But what good is a genius without results?

You put on your best unwrinkled lab coat, shoved your tablet under one arm, slapped a fresh stim patch onto your neck, and marched your overworked ass down to the training floors of the facility. Academy, as the higher ups would say, but it was anything but that really.

You didn’t learn much here other than that most of your coworkers were stupid.

Today’s plan?

Find the strongest idiot. Throw gadgets at them. Hope for the best.

Yeah.

Yeah, that sounded good. You really were a genius. Or sleep deprived. You couldn’t tell.

The facility, of course, was always active. Training rooms were booked 24/7 by heroes, cadets, and the occasional egomaniac. As you stepped into the third hall, the sound of explosions- actual explosions- echoed down the corridor, followed by some deeply maniacal laughter.

Sounds like the strongest idiot to me.

You took a step into the viewing area, peering into the highly reinforced glass and observed. There was smoke everywhere, but it quickly dispersed to reveal your maybe test subject.

He looked pretty familiar. HawkTuna-something?

He stood there in a scorched tank top, hands on his hips, surrounded by sparking debris. Pink hair and red eyes, face tattoos. He looked more like a gangster than a hero.

You jogged your memory, as fucked as it was- and remembered some news broadcasting about a Hero that had more than half of his fights end with a building or two collapsing. You snapped your fingers when you remembered, “The King”. That was his hero name.

You recalled it from an interview, where he refused to be called anything other than that. Right, so he was a cocky fucker. You could work with that.

A few minutes later, you found yourself at a vending machine right outside the training hall, buying yourself your nth energy drink today. Just as you grabbed the can from the machine, the mechanical doors of the training room opened. Out came walking the King, steps heavy but not rushed.

You straightened your lab coat, holding your tablet to your chest and energy drink in the other as you walked up to him. “Uh, excuse me?” You smiled politely. Holy hell, he was bigger up close.

“What?” He clicked his tongue, red eyes narrowing at you. “You better make this quick. I have things to do.”

“Would it be alright if I borrowed you for a little while? You see I need test subje-”

“Not interested.” He huffed, shoving past you.

Okay, rude. You stumbled to the side, head whipping in his already departing direction. You mentally debated whether pursuing an already bitchy test subject was worth it, before realizing that both your job and education was on the line. You let out a huff of frustration before running after his retreating figure.

“Hey! Wait! Um- Tuna guy? Suzuki, was it?”

He stopped abruptly, leading you to bump into his back face first. He didn’t even budge. Instead, he turned around, a scowl that would leave any sane person shaking in their boots.

Unfortunately, you were not sane. At least not right now.

“Sukuna. It’s Sukuna.” He hissed at you.

“Oh right, yeah, Sukuna. Anyway-” You took a few steps back, clearing your throat before continuing. “I need to put my projects under stress tests so I need-”

“Don’t they have simulations for that?” He was tapping his foot, crossing his arms as he looked down on you.

Okay, this guy seriously had to stop interrupting you. “Well uh, those can only go so far. And the board wants actual real life testing,” You answered. “Could you come up to the lab with me and test some of them? It’ll be quick. I promise. I just need to get my reports done before my deadline.”

“Why should I care?”

“Sorry?”

“I said why should I care?” Sukuna repeated. “You’re some nobody asking me for a favor when I’m supposed to be getting dinner. Who do you think you are talking to the future number 1, huh?” He leaned forward, looming over you with a scowl.

“The future number 1 hero?” You mused, staring right back at him. “I highly doubt that.” It hurt your neck to crane your neck this high, but you kept your voice from wavering.

“Tsk. Do you not even know who I am? What I’m capable of, brat?” He clicked his tongue, voice lowering into a growl as he glared, crimson eyes inches away from yours. “I can destroy this facility and everyone in it in seconds.”

“So?” You blinked.

You could see his eye twitch. “Do you have a death wish you-” His voice raised, almost yelling before you cut him off.

“Dude. Seriously, I can’t care less about what you can do.” You waved him off, “I only care if you can help me. Got it?”

Sukuna, The King- The so-called prodigy with more potential as a villain than a hero, stood there, dumbstruck at your audacity. You could see the gears turn in his head, the veins starting to pop on his neck.

You sigh in faux defeat, slumping your shoulders. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to test some measly little gadgets.” You shake your head, turning away from him. “It’s a shame really, the so-called future number 1, scared by some nobody's little inventions.”

“Do I look stupid to you?” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not falling for your taunting.”

“Alright.” You shrug. “But you do sound,” You look him up and down, pointedly ignoring the imprint of his muscles the size of your waist. “-pretty weak to me.”

Sukuna stood there, glowering at you, a support course nerd he’d never even heard of. To be honest, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit curious at what you’ve got in store in that lab of yours if you’d really go this far to recruit him. His manager probably would be annoyed that he was late to their dinner meeting again, but what was that idiot gonna do anyway? Yell at him?

He clicks his tongue. “Fine.”

“Fine?” You raise a brow, a small smirk tugging on your lips.

“Yeah, fine.” He snarled.

“Perfect!” You clapped your hands once, previous ‘disappointed’ demeanor melting away quickly. “Come, come. Follow me.”

You click the handcuffs into place. “Comfortable?”

“No.” Sukuna answered, flexing his hands under the cold steel of the cuffs.

“Good. They’re not supposed to be,” Nodding, you take a few steps back. “Now break out of them.” You look down to your tablet, tapping a few buttons to monitor the stress levels of the cuffs and see how quickly they might break. You two have been at this for a while now, most of the gadgets being destroyed or barely grazing the cocky hero- Who simply grew more arrogant with every failed test. “These are a pair of reinforced handcuffs, they should hold up quite well-”

The handcuffs explode into pieces, scraps of metal littering the floor and edges of the testing area. “Against some robber, maybe.” Sukuna drawled. “Is this it? Are you seriously gonna waste my time with barely put-together chunks of metal?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing the pair of handcuffs off the list and marking it for extra blast reinforcement and maybe power dampening qualities.

“Nope. Next.” You grabbed a gadget from your side table, raising it and aiming at Sukuna. The hero stares at you, the weapon and then back at you. Seemingly unimpressed. “A gun? Really?”

“It's a non-lethal firearm, just as impactful as rubber bullets but not as harmful.” You keep your aim steady, ready to fire.

“I’ve melted bullets in mid-air. Do you really think that would work?”

“They’re high velocity, so we’ll find out.” You pull the trigger twice, but nothing hits Sukuna. Instead, two very small and unrecognizable puddles of the bullets are a few feet away from him.

“Well, well, well. Looks like your high velocity rounds aren’t much compared to me.” He scoffed.

This time, you felt your eye twitch. He really was starting to get on your nerves. “Yeah, guess so.” You lowered the gun to your side. “Could you get the next gadget? It’s behind you.”

“Tsk. Asking me to do your job now, huh?” Sukuna rolled his eyes, large frame turning around and inspecting the table behind him. Just enough time for him to lower his guard. You raised the gun again, firing at his back- This time, it hits.

“Fuck!” The hero exclaimed, lips pulled into a scowl as he whipped his entire body towards you. “The hell was that?!”

You hummed in satisfaction, finally setting down the gun and tapping your tablet to record the results. Success. “My finger must’ve slipped, sorry.”

“Like hell it did!”

“Did it hurt?” You smirked.

Sukuna felt a bruise forming on his back, the point of impact throbbing lightly on his back. “No. Of course not.”

“Noted.”

Sukuna growled at you, ready to lunge and rip you a new one before he remembered that if he did maul another of his coworkers, that he’d get suspended. Again. So instead, he huffed and crossed his arms. “Are we done yet? Or do you have more chaos to unleash?”

“Yep, just one more.” You tossed a grenade-shaped contraption up and down your hand. “Though, this one has healing properties. Should help with the pain.”

Sukuna eyed you suspiciously, checking if this was another trick. He didn’t find anything other than quiet amusement in your eyes and anticipation. You were clearly enjoying it with him as your test subject. When you noticed his distrustful glare, you reassured him with a smile. “Don’t worry, if something goes wrong, the agency has your medical bills covered.”

He rolled his eyes, like that made it any better. “So you're saying something can go wrong?”

You shrugged. “Anything could go wrong, really.” You traced your thumb on the metal of your little toy, finger hovering right on the detonation button- It should go off after 5 seconds after pressing it. “But trust me.”

“I don’t trust you.” Sukuna said, voice flat.

“Shame.” You pressed the button, tossing it at his feet and stepping backwards. He didn’t move though, even if he did raise a brow at your sudden withdrawal- It didn’t last long before the healing grenade exploded.

Green slime-like substance coated him and a good portion of the area, luckily nowhere near you. The substance from the grenade seemed to pulse and glow green, especially the chunks that were on and around Sukuna. You quickly noted that down.

Sukuna cringed at the sludge coating his body, he didn’t feel any better than he did 3 seconds ago, maybe even a little worse with how icky the green goo felt. “The hell?” He raised his hand, the slime connecting in strands to the rest of his torso. “Some healing grenade this is.”

You stayed quiet.

He clicked his tongue, glaring at you before looking to the door. “I’m done with this bullshit. Now I gotta take a shower before going anywhe-” Sukuna tried to take a step forward, only to be halted by the slime. He kept trying to pull at his limbs, each action taking more effort than the last as it became apparent that this was no ordinary healing grenade.

It hadn’t even passed any screenings yet. And this was still a work in progress, not an actual thing you had to test at the moment. It was one of your flukes, you knew that. Sukuna, did not. “Oh, right. About this one,” You picked up your tablet, voice painfully nonchalant as you act unaware of the struggle that Sukuna was going through. “I don’t exactly have a dissolvent for the healing cream, and it gets quite sticky.”

“Then what are you waiting for??” Sukuna screeched, head snapping in your direction as any fire or explosion he tried to use was cancelled by the healing agent. Did you mention that it also doubles as a power-cancelling agent? No? Oops. “Get to work on it then!!”

You shrugged, turning your back to him and towards the exit “Alright.”

“Hey, HEY! Where the hell do you think you’re going?!”

You turned around, motioning towards the testing area in shambles. “You don’t expect me to work in this mess, do you?” Voice level, like you were pointing out solid facts- trying your damn hardest to not let the smugness bleed into your tone.

“So, what? You're just gonna leave me here??” Sukuna sounded a mix of stunned, confused and angry.

“Thats the plan, yeah.” You start walking away, the door hissing as it automatically opened. “Don’t worry! It’ll probably melt off in an hour if I’m not done by then!” You give him a wave, smirking at him over your shoulder.

“Probably?? You motherfu-”

He was spewing curses at you now, belittling you and trying his hardest to defend his last remaining drops of dignity. You simply smiled back, polite. “See you, Number one.”

Yeah, you weren’t going to work on that dissolvent.

(open!) tags: @idontwannatalkrn1

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tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

Text

Tw: cussing, descriptions of torture, angst,

Part 3

Words of Command - Part 4

Your room in Stark Tower is the closest thing to quiet you’ve had all day. The windows overlook the city street, shop lights flickering far below like soft embers in the afternoon glow.

The curtains are half-drawn, bathing everything in a dusty orange hue. It smells like chamomile from the tea you forgot to drink earlier.

You’re curled cross-legged on your bed, Stark-issued tablet balanced in your lap.

Bucky stands awkwardly beside the desk.

He’s not pacing, but his posture makes it clear he’s not at ease. His back is straight—too straight—arms tense at his sides like he’s awaiting orders, his metal hand twitching every so often as if testing the weight of the silence.

He's wearing the borrowed clothes from Steve still, a faded gray henley stretched a little too tightly across his shoulders, and soft cotton sweats. He looks strange in them—domestic. But they fit better than the blood-stiff rags he wore when he stumbled in yesterday.

You pat the space beside you gently. “You can sit down, you know.”

He hesitates.

Then, slowly—like a machine winding down—he obeys. The mattress dips under his weight as he lowers himself beside you.

One arm remains stiff at his side, but his eyes flicker to the screen.

“Doll,” he murmurs. The word is still uncertain in his mouth. Like it’s foreign and sacred all at once. “What… is this?”

“A website,” you say gently. “Think of it like… a store. For clothes. You get to pick what you want.”

He blinks. “Permission?”

“You don’t need it,” you say. “But ... Yea, you have permission”

There’s something that looks almost like relief in his features. Almost.

You start scrolling slowly. The website flickers through pages of jeans, hoodies, boots, jackets.

He watches. Intently.

Every so often, he points. “That one.”

You add it to the cart, careful not to overwhelm him with choices. “Why that?”

He shrugs, uncertain. “Not torn.”

The statement is so simple. So haunting.

“Okay,” you say softly. “We’ll get that.”

You move on to jackets. When you pause on a military-style field coat, his eyes narrow.

“No.”

You glance at him. “Too familiar?”

A beat. Then he nods, once.

You skip it and choose something soft instead. A wool-lined hoodie.

“Doll…” he says after a moment, voice quieter. “This… is strange.”

You look up.

“Strange doesn’t mean bad.”

You demonstrate how to tap the items into the cart of the tablet and offer it to Bucky.

He’s cautious. Delicate, even, as if his touch might break the tablet—or worse, be the wrong command.

“Here,” you whisper. “Tap that.”

A beat.

Tap. Tap. Bucky's brows furrow.

Tap.

"Uh, sorry try the other hand ... it's sensitive" you attempt to lie releasing the touch screen won't responding to his vibranium digits.

Tap.

A small smile tugs at your lips as the item adds to cart, "perfect" You mumble.

The screen shifts. More shirts. Hoodies. Soft cottons. Burnt oranges. Deep blues. Flannel.

His brow furrows. “What are these?”

“They’re... just clothes. Casual. Comfortable.”

He scrolls. The motion is jerky at first, but steadies. He lingers over greys. Earth tones. Things that don’t draw attention.

But when he hovers over a faded navy blue henley with wooden buttons, you see it, a spark of curiosity.

You lean in. “You like that one?”

He doesn’t answer.

You don’t push.

But he taps it again. Adds to cart.

Like it’s a mission complete.

“Why do you help?” he asks, not looking up. His voice is flat. Mechanical.

“Because you needed someone,” you say. “And because I wanted to.”

“Others… don’t want.”

“They’re scared.”

He considers this. Slowly. Like the concept of fear from others directed at him is a theory he’s never explored.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says at last.

You smile a little, sad and honest. “I know you wouldn’t mean to.”

He doesn’t respond to that. But after a beat, he says—quietly

“Doll ?”

You look up.

His brow is creased. His voice slower. “I do not remember. But this feels… less wrong. Here.”

Your chest tightens. “What does?”

He looks down at your bed. The blanket. The hum of the screen. Your bare feet. The quiet.

“This.”

The website session ended quietly. You closed the tablet and set it aside. Now, afternoon light filters through your curtains, which you'd taken the time to open, catching flecks of dust in the air.

Your room is quiet—soothing. Stark Tower’s sounds are distant here, softened by thick walls and the hum of your own breathing.

He hasn’t spoken in a while.

You’re seated at the edge of your bed again, legs tucked beneath you, sipping the lukewarm tea from earlier. The Soldier stands not far from the dresser, eyes scanning the space like there are invisible threats tucked into corners.

But it’s his arm that holds your attention.

His left one.

The vibranium arm is quiet as it moves, the panels shifting with precision. Sure there some whirring but it's actually pleasant if you listen for it. Just… grace. Lethal grace.

You’re not staring—but you are watching. Your eyes trace the way it flexes when his fingers curl slightly, the faint shimmer along the metal when light hits the edge of the plates.

There's something heartbreakingly human in the contrast—his flesh arm hanging loose, awkward, while the metal one seems almost… alive.

He notices.

Sharp eyes flick to you, jaw tightening just a little. Not angry. Not suspicious. Just… alert.

“Doll,” he says, voice quieter than usual, and without accusation. “Why look?”

You blink, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to— I just… it moves differently than I thought.”

A beat. He tilts his head. The muscle in his jaw jumps, then relaxes again.

“It’s not… mine,” he says. Flat. But there’s a note of dissonance there, something uneasy buried under the robotic delivery. “I don’t remember how.”

You nod softly. “It doesn’t look wrong on you.”

That seems to throw him for a second. He blinks. Then, strangely, his left hand twitches—just once—like the metal is confused too.

You think he’ll go back to standing guard. But instead, he surprises you again.

He looks at the bed. Then at you.

“Doll… Can I try sleep?”

It’s barely a whisper. Not broken, not pained—but hesitant. As if he’s not entirely sure sleep is something he’s allowed.

“It’s the middle of the day,” you say gently.

He frowns, confused.

“But yea. You can sleep if you want to.”

He nods once and steps slowly around to the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to protest. When you don’t, he lowers himself down—not under the covers, but on them, laying flat and still. His hands rest over his chest, metal arm on top, as though bracing for an attack.

You don’t know how long it takes before his breathing evens out. But it does.

And when it does, you stand carefully.

Your footsteps are near-silent as you cross the room, bare feet brushing the carpet. You pause at the doorway, hand hovering over the handle. Glancing back, you take in the sight.

The Soldier—this ghost of a man—laying in soft light with his brow finally unfurrowed. His body still taut, but no longer locked like it’s ready to spring. His expression—if not peaceful—at least quiet.

You slip out into the hall without a sound.

You find Tony hunched over a workbench, humming ACDC at tech in sharp edges of light. The lab is a patchwork of brilliance—mechanical arms frozen mid-reach, holograms still flickering in the air.

He doesn’t turn when you come in. Just sips his coffee and keeps tinkering.

“You’re either here to tell me you adopted Terminator or to ask for something that’s gonna make me yell,” he says dryly.

“I want access to the S.H.I.E.L.D. files,” you say, voice calm but firm. “On the Winter Soldier.”

He turns slowly.

"Please" you add.

Tony doesn’t raise his voice, but his expression tightens behind the glow of the interface. “And why exactly does my receptionist want that bedtime story ? Looking for tips on how to get choked less while sleeping?”

You flinch—just a little—but you don’t look away.

“I need to understand,” you whisper. “He only listens to me. If there’s anything in there… that helps me help him…”

Tony sighs. He scrubs a hand down his face and looks at you, really looks. His gaze drops briefly to the makeup at your throat—too thick over the bruising. His jaw clenches.

“You’re a civilian,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Civilians aren't meant to survive long in the middle of nightmares.”

“But maybe I can keep one from getting worse.”

That wins you a reluctant scoff and a resigned wave toward his console.

“You’re lucky I’m a sucker for you, Thumbelina” he mutters, typing with a few aggressive taps. “Temporary access. You’re not allowed to start a revolution with what you read.”

The screen lights up. A file folder labeled

S.H.I.E.L.D. Secure Archive: W.SOLDIER — 32557-W

blinks into view.

"What you're about to see isn't PG-13," Tony warned.

His voice uncharacteristically solemn beneath the usual Tony drawl.

"HYDRA makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a day spa. And—well, let's just say he wasn't there voluntarily."

"I understand," you said quietly.

"No, you really don't," Tony replied, and for a moment, real concern showed through his cavalier facade.

"But you will. JARVIS will monitor your access. You've got six hours before the clearance expires. The command words are redacted—we can't risk those getting out—but what is there is conditioning protocols and medical procedures." He paused.

"And by medical procedures, I mean torture."

He turned toward the door, then stopped. "Oh, and I'm giving Capsicle a heads up about your little research project. Since you're Terminator's emotional support cupcake, someone needs to make sure you don't end up as a statistic."

As he reached the doorway, he added, "And for the record, this was a terrible idea. But then again, most of my best ideas started as terrible ones, so... good luck, I guess."

With a mock salute, he disappeared.

You turned to the screen, fingers hovering over the interface. With a deep breath, you opened the first file.

What you saw made your stomach lurch.

Clinical photographs of a cryogenic chamber, designed not for medical purposes but for storage—human storage.

The notes beside it detailed the freezing process in cold, methodical language, addressing the "asset" as nothing more than equipment to be maintained.

There were annotations about.

"acceptable tissue damage"

"cognitive reset advantages."

"Holy Fuck" you muttered.

You forced yourself to continue, opening records that spanned decades.

The same man—sometimes bearded, sometimes clean-shaven, but always with those haunted blue eyes—documented in photographs as he was prepped for assassinations that had shaped international history.

Each report ended with the same procedure.

Wiping his memory, erasing whatever fragments of humanity might have resurfaced during the mission.

Tears stung your eyes as you read about the "chair"—the device used to scramble his brain with electricity until his memories fractured and dissolved.

The reports noted how many sessions were required each time before the asset stopped asking questions.

Stopped remembering.

Stopped being human.

You felt bile climb from your gut, and crawl at your throat.

There were medical charts showing where his left arm connected to his body—not just the shoulder but deep into his chest and spine, fused to his skeleton with brutal efficiency.

Notes detailed how often the connection needed to be "adjusted" without anesthesia, citing that pain responses provided useful data on neural connectivity.

Your hands were shaking, you didn't realize you where crying until the tears dripped off your cheeks.

You'd moved from horror to rage to a deep, aching sadness.

The man who had stood before you, dangerous but somehow vulnerable, had endured seven decades of systematic dehumanization.

They hadn't just used him, they had methodically stripped away everything that made him a person.

Over and over again.

Leaving only a weapon in the shape of a man.

And yet, despite it all, something in him had fought back. The reports showed increasing "cognitive recalibration" sessions needed over time.

Notes expressing frustration that the asset occasionally became "non-compliant" between wipes.

His humanity, it seemed, was stubborn—damaged but never fully destroyed.

You closed the last file, wiping tears from your face.

As you stood to leave, determination replaced your horror. You would need to be careful, patient, and incredibly gentle with a man who had known nothing but cruelty for longer than you'd been alive.

And HYDRA didn't deserve to win

388 notes · View notes

nekonaps0 · 17 days ago

Note

Girly pop your writing is immaculate. Don't stress, cause you got that dawg in you. :D

Also can I be known as Idia anon? Cause I ask for him the majority of the time. :>

So my request-

Actually I didn't check if you were accepting any...

I got too overjoyed, sorry :(

So incase you are taking requests--

House wardens dealing with a reader who's from like...the 1900s, so she's really bad with anything technology related.

Um anyway have a good day!!

You from the 1900s !?!?

✦characters: House warden

✦ gn!reader

Thank you so much! I’m trying my best!^^

And yes the requests are open!

And OMFG I LOVED WRITING THIS! I had so much fun writing it!

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle has no patience for breaking rules… unless it’s you.

He watches you poke suspiciously at a tablet, muttering something about how

“this strange mirror-box must be possessed.”

You nearly scream when the screen flickers.

“It’s not a cursed object!” he snaps. “It’s just a MagiTab! Everyone uses them nowadays!”

But when he sees the genuine confusion on your face, he exhales and sits beside you.

“It’s okay. I’ll teach you. Just don’t touch any random buttons. And absolutely don’t try to boil it in a kettle again.”

He ends up patiently writing out a guide for you in fountain pen ink because “it feels more familiar to you.” You keep it folded in your coat pocket like a love letter.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona groans when you stare at the washing machine like it’s going to explode.

“Herbivore, it's not gonna bite you.” You shoot him a dry look.

“We didn’t even have electricity in half the town I grew up in. This thing looks like a metal beast.”

He’s lazy, sure, but he ends up tossing his book aside and swaggering over.

“You put the clothes in, close the lid, hit the button. Boom. Magic. Now stop actin’ like it’s a damn ritual.”

You squint at the buttons. “Which one’s the ‘start’?”

“…You know what, move. I’ll do it. You’re gonna break something.”

But secretly, he likes it. It makes him smirk seeing how wide-eyed you get at the simplest things—like it’s all new magic. He tells Ruggie to record your first time using a microwave “just for the laughs.”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul is delighted.

You’re from the 1900s? You have no idea how phones, networks, or cameras work? Oh, what a dream client.

“I see… so, if I offered you a little contract that would instantly teach you how to operate all current-day magical tech…”

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s the catch?”

Azul pushes his glasses up. “No catch! Only a… minor magical pledge of servitude—er, assistance! For educational purposes only.”

But you’re stubborn. You refuse. So, instead, he ends up painstakingly drawing diagrams and holding tech history lectures just for you. Floyd laughs at him for it.

“You’re such a nerd for them, Shrimpy’s like a time traveler and you’re still blushing!”

Azul glares, but doesn’t deny it.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim thinks you’re amazing. You’re like a walking, talking history book! He once finds you trying to light a candle with flint and steel because “electricity is unreliable.” You flinch when the lights flicker.

“WHOA! You’re like… ancient…cool!” he gasps, stars in his eyes.

He insists on giving you the tour of the century he teaches you how to use smartphones by letting you decorate his with beads and charms. He even buys you a flip phone

“because it’s got buttons! You like buttons, right?!”

When you confuse the intercom with a telephone, he goes along with it and starts calling you over it like it’s a telegram line.

You both get in trouble for yelling into the hallway speaker system. He just laughs it off and offers to help you write your first email like it’s a royal decree.

Vil Schoenheit

You nearly faint the first time you see yourself in a selfie camera. You swat the phone out of your hand and scream.

Vil just blinks. “Dear, that’s not black magic. That’s your reflection. Honestly, you look rather radiant—”

He catches the phone before it hits the floor and sighs dramatically.

“You’re going to give me gray hairs.”

At first, he finds it exasperating until he realizes how refreshingly natural you are. No filters, no tech addiction, no social media dependence.

He starts calling you his “timeless darling,” and he adores how you prefer letters to texts. Vil even plan a classic-style photoshoot: vintage clothes, candlelight. It goes viral.

He won’t admit it, but he’s charmed by your innocence.

Idia Shroud

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

You don’t know what a smartphone is? You don’t have a favorite game? You’ve never even seen an anime?!

Idia short-circuits.

At first, he’s horrified. You stare at his glowing screens like they’re cursed runes. You once asked Ortho if he was a ghost.

“You’re like… a time traveler NPC,” he mutters, nearly spiraling. “No firmware update… no RAM… Y-you don’t even know what a meme is!”

But then…

He starts showing you all his favorite things. One by one. Old-school games, slow-burn anime, classic consoles. He sets up a CRT monitor just so it’s “authentic” to your time. You think the pixel art is “darling.”

It becomes your thing: old meets new. You even help him write a game based on “your era.”

You don’t get half the references, but you love his excited rants.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus… doesn’t think you’re strange at all.

You shyly explain your fear of cell phones, how the “mirror network” feels eerie, how magic-infused technology makes your skin crawl.

He just smiles, serene.

“I can’t agree more, you don’t have to worry about those dear” he says gently.

When you accidentally burn toast in the toaster and start panicking like you’ve summoned a fire demon, Malleus calmly puts it out.

“It’s only toast.”

He takes your hand and teaches you to send letters with magic, introduces you to enchanted paper that writes itself, and listens truly listens when you talk about your old world.

He even arranges a ballroom evening for you, with string quartets and vintage dancing. No phones. No electricity. Just you, stars, and a smile that makes you feel right at home.

..............................................................................................................................

380 notes · View notes

fabtech01 · 2 months ago

Text

Advanced Cleanroom Technologies Shaping the Future of Pharma Manufacturing

The pharmaceutical and life sciences industries are undergoing a massive transformation. As the demand for high-quality, contamination-free production continues to grow, so does the need for advanced cleanroom technologies. Whether you’re working in R&D, production, or quality assurance, understanding how cleanroom systems and equipment are evolving is crucial.

From modular cleanroom infrastructure manufacturers to specialized solutions like dedusting machines, the integration of modern cleanroom technology is revolutionizing pharmaceutical processes. Additionally, the expertise of a trusted Cleanroom equipment manufacturer, a qualified Pharmaceutical isolator supplier, and a reliable Pharma HVAC Manufacturer is essential to ensure compliance, sterility, and operational efficiency.

The Rise of Modular Cleanroom Infrastructure Manufacturers

Traditional cleanrooms, while effective, often come with long lead times and complex construction requirements. That’s where modular cleanroom infrastructure manufacturers step in. These providers design prefabricated cleanroom environments that are easy to install, scalable, and compliant with global standards like ISO, GMP, and FDA.

Modular cleanrooms offer:

Quick deployment: Reducing construction time significantly

Customizable layouts: Easily adaptable for changing processes

Cost-efficiency: Lower operational costs due to energy-saving design

Clean construction: Minimal contamination risk during setup

Leading modular cleanroom infrastructure manufacturers focus on designing environments for pharmaceuticals, biotechnology, electronics, and other high-precision industries. These systems come pre-engineered, enabling a smoother path to validation and operation.

Critical Role of the Dedusting Machine

Pharmaceutical tablets, capsules, and powders often carry residual dust, which can compromise product quality and contaminate the cleanroom environment. This is where the dedusting machine plays a pivotal role.

A dedusting machine ensures:

Removal of excess dust and loose powder

Improved product appearance and finish

Enhanced machine uptime by preventing powder buildup

Compliance with regulatory standards

Especially in tablet and capsule production lines, installing a dedusting machine before packaging is essential for both quality control and operator safety. It also contributes to the longevity of downstream equipment.

Trust in a Qualified Cleanroom Equipment Manufacturer

To maintain controlled environments, it’s crucial to work with a certified and experienced Cleanroom equipment manufacturer. These manufacturers specialize in providing advanced equipment like air showers, pass boxes, laminar air flow units, and biosafety cabinets.

Key offerings from a professional Cleanroom equipment manufacturer include:

Stainless steel furniture designed for sterile environments

Dynamic and static pass boxes to minimize cross-contamination

Air showers that reduce particle load before personnel entry

HEPA-filtered airflow systems for maintaining ISO compliance

The role of a Cleanroom equipment manufacturer is not limited to product delivery—they often assist with cleanroom design integration, layout planning, and ongoing maintenance, ensuring the facility stays within regulatory norms throughout its lifecycle.

The Value of a Specialized Pharmaceutical Isolator Supplier

When dealing with potent compounds or sterile operations, isolators are indispensable. A reliable Pharmaceutical isolator supplier offers containment and sterility in a single system, minimizing risk to both product and personnel.

Pharmaceutical isolators are used for:

Sterile aseptic processing

Handling of highly potent APIs (HPAPIs)

Sterility testing

Aseptic filling and packaging

A reputable Pharmaceutical isolator supplier provides isolators that offer:

Closed-loop systems for contamination-free processing

Integrated glove ports and HEPA filtration

CIP (Clean-In-Place) and SIP (Sterilize-In-Place) functionalities

Compliance with cGMP, USP, and EU standards

With automation and advanced control systems, these isolators can maintain class 100 (ISO 5) environments, ensuring product safety and operator protection.

Role of a Reliable Pharma HVAC Manufacturer

Cleanroom air quality is fundamental to pharmaceutical manufacturing. The air handling system is responsible for maintaining temperature, humidity, and most importantly, particulate count. A proficient Pharma HVAC Manufacturer is instrumental in designing and maintaining this delicate balance.

A Pharma HVAC Manufacturer typically delivers:

Custom-designed Air Handling Units (AHUs) with HEPA filters

Temperature and RH control systems

Laminar airflow systems for sterile zones

Real-time monitoring of pressure differentials and airflow rates

Proper HVAC systems help maintain cleanroom classifications such as ISO 7 or ISO 8, depending on the process needs. Without a capable Pharma HVAC Manufacturer, maintaining compliance becomes increasingly difficult, especially during audits or validations.

Integrated Cleanroom Ecosystems: A Unified Approach

While each component—from the dedusting machine to HVAC systems—plays an individual role, their integration is what truly creates a successful cleanroom. Choosing partners across the spectrum—be it modular cleanroom infrastructure manufacturers, a Cleanroom equipment manufacturer, a skilled Pharmaceutical isolator supplier, or a reputable Pharma HVAC Manufacturer—ensures all systems work harmoniously.

This holistic approach leads to:

Seamless validation processes

Improved contamination control

Reduced downtime and higher OEE (Overall Equipment Effectiveness)

Scalability for future expansions

Conclusion

The pharmaceutical industry is continuously evolving, and cleanroom technology is evolving with it. The collaboration of modular cleanroom infrastructure manufacturers, manufacturers of critical systems like the dedusting machine, and experts such as the Cleanroom equipment manufacturer, Pharmaceutical isolator supplier, and Pharma HVAC Manufacturer is central to building future-ready facilities.

Whether you're setting up a new plant or upgrading an existing one, aligning with the right cleanroom technology providers will enhance your compliance, performance, and production quality—ultimately contributing to better health outcomes across the globe.

#tablet coating machine #pharmaindustry #pharmacy #big pharma

0 notes

neocorp012 · 1 year ago

Text

Innovative Tablet Coating Machines in Ahmedabad

Neocorp is a pioneer manufacturer of tablet coating machines in Ahmedabad. We provide a wide range of tablet coating machines that are closed material handling, automated cleaning, uniform mixing and flexible batch sizes.

#Tablet Coating Machines #Tablet Coating Machines Manufacturer #Conventional Coating Machine #Automatic Tablet Coating Machine #Ahmedabad

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zaynessbeloved · 19 days ago

Text

The hospital quiets after dark in a way few places ever do—low hums of distant machines, faint footsteps in the corridor, the soft sweep of janitorial carts echoing like waves retreating from shore.

Zayne’s office is dim. One floor lamp glows warm in the corner, casting long shadows across the glass and steel of his workspace. You’re perched on the edge of his desk, half-crossed legs swinging idly, the hem of your skirt grazing your thighs in deliberate little shifts.

He’s finishing a patient report, silent behind his glasses, brows slightly furrowed in that way that makes you want to lean over and kiss the crease away. The sleeves of his white coat are rolled up just past his elbows, and the faint clink of his stethoscope swinging loosely from his neck reminds you that he hasn’t even changed out of his work attire yet.

You tip your head, feigning innocence. “Long day, Doctor?”

His fingers pause on the tablet, his gaze sliding to you without turning his head. “Very.”

“And yet you still haven't looked at me once since I walked in.” You pout, then let your hand drift—playful, light—across the top of his desk. You make a slow show of reaching for a pen, but your fingers brush the stethoscope instead, grazing it purposefully as if by accident.

Zayne’s eyes drop to your hand. You feel it before he speaks—that shift. The quiet tension winding slowly, barely perceptible to most, but now, after all these months, unmistakable to you.

Your smile curves slyly. “You remember what you said last time? Something about showing me how surgeons tie knots…”

He exhales, a sound closer to a breath through his nose than anything resembling amusement.

You lean in slightly. “I was just wondering—was that an idle threat? Or a promise?”

That’s when he moves. No warning, no theatrics—just fluid, controlled motion. Zayne sets down the tablet. Then he rises from his chair and stands in front of you, close enough that your knees press against his thighs. His hand lifts—slow, precise—and you half expect him to brush your cheek. But instead, he reaches for the stethoscope still hanging loosely around his neck.

The warmth in your chest blooms at once, curling low in your stomach. He doesn’t speak as he unloops it, doesn't even glance at your expression. His gaze is on your wrists, and his hands are deft, practiced—too practiced, you think, to be improvising.

“Zayne—” you start, half-laughing.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmurs, voice low and cool as satin.

You barely manage a breath before he takes both your wrists in one hand, firm but careful, and guides them behind your back. The cool press of rubber brushes your skin, then tightens. The stethoscope coils around your wrists in a perfect knot, but not in any way painful.

Your breath stutters. You shift your arms experimentally, but there’s no give.

Zayne finally lifts his eyes to yours.

“I wasn’t joking,” he says simply, and the weight behind his words is the kind that lands deep between your ribs.

You blink up at him, breath catching, heart thrumming like it always does when he’s like this—focused, present, tethering you to him with nothing more than touch and quiet authority.

“Say something,” he murmurs, his free hand brushing the inside of your thigh with maddening softness.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You teased me knowing I might.”

That hand inches higher, slipping beneath your skirt now. Your thighs tense, then fall apart for him as naturally as breath. His palm is warm against the curve of your leg, and he lets it linger there, not moving further—just being there.

“You’ve been doing this lately,” he murmurs against your ear, voice steady. “Testing how much it takes to break my focus.”

“I like when you lose it.”

“I don’t lose control,” he says, and you feel the smile more than see it—brushed against your neck like the stroke of his fingers.

You press your cheek to his shoulder, helplessly fond. “You don’t. But I like it when you pretend to.”

He hums, then sinks to his knees in front of you. Your wrists flex against the knot behind you, your breath catching again—not just from the anticipation, but from how he looks when he’s kneeling there. Still in his dress shirt, glasses catching the low light, expression unreadable and devoted and utterly calm.

“You always do this,” you whisper.

He tilts his head. “Do what?”

“Show me I have your attention in the most unfair ways.”

Zayne doesn’t respond at first. His hand moves again, slow and patient, parting the last layers of your clothing like he’s opening something sacred. When he speaks, his voice is softer—something quieter than seduction. Something real.

“This is how I love you,” he says.

And then his mouth follows the trail his hand made, and you forget how to answer.

Your wrists flex instinctively behind your back, the rubber tubing of his stethoscope biting into your skin in the gentlest reminder—you can’t touch him. Can’t bury your fingers in his hair the way you always do when he goes down on you. Can’t cradle his jaw, guide him, cling to him as your hips lose rhythm and your breath unravels.

And Zayne knows it. He watches you squirm—cool eyes lifted to your face as he drags his lips along the inside of your thigh, so achingly slow you swear the air itself grows thicker. The heat of his mouth lingers like a secret against your skin, ghosting higher with each kiss, each breath, until he brushes just shy of where you need him most.

You press your knees apart a little more, a silent offering. Your breath hitches, back arching slightly as his nose grazes the lace of your panties.

And that’s when he looks up at you again. A soft, knowing curve touches his lips—not quite a smirk, but close. It’s the smile he gives only to you. Not the cold, distant mask the hospital sees. Not the sharp-edged detachment that made the world believe he doesn’t care.

This is Zayne, focused and ferociously gentle, utterly immersed in you.

“Was this what you wanted?” he asks softly, fingertips teasing the crease of your thigh as his mouth presses another kiss just beside the damp fabric clinging to you. “Or were you just bored and wanted to play?”

The question is rhetorical. He already knows the answer. He can feel it in the way your body trembles, in the way your breaths come fast and shallow, chest rising against the soft fabric of your blouse.

You try to lift your hips just a little. Just enough. But your balance wavers without your hands, and you find yourself bracing your forearms against the edge of his desk instead, cheeks flushed with heat, mouth parted but silent.

“Careful,” Zayne murmurs, warm breath fanning across the soaked center of your panties. “You’ll fall if you push too hard.”

His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, anchoring you—large, steady palms curling around your hips with exquisite care. And then, without ceremony, he leans in and kisses you through the fabric.

You gasp. The pressure is firm and deliberate, just enough to make your spine curve, your head tip back, a low sound catching in your throat as his tongue presses against the thin lace, slow and maddening, wet heat barely dulled by the barrier.

The friction is torture. You writhe, thighs trembling as he continues—unhurried, focused—like this is a puzzle he intends to solve thoroughly.

Zayne pulls back only far enough to speak.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice low, a dark thread of satisfaction beneath the observation. “You’ve been like this since the moment you walked in, haven’t you?”

You make a soft, helpless noise, not even words—just yes, just please, just more. But your lips can’t seem to shape any of it fast enough.

His fingers hook into your panties, pulling them down with a slow drag that makes your breath catch again, the fabric sticking slightly before sliding down your thighs. They pool at your ankles, forgotten, as he leans back to look.

And then his glasses come off. He sets them down somewhere behind you, probably on top of a chart, a folder, maybe that patient report he’d been working on before you walked in and turned his focus to this.

Now his attention is undivided. You watch him, helpless, as he leans back in—this time, without anything between his mouth and you.

The first pass of his tongue is slow and deliberate, a firm stroke from your entrance up to the aching bundle of nerves above. Your head tips forward, eyes wide, moan caught halfway between shock and relief.

He does it again—slower. Deeper. And then he settles there, lapping between your folds in measured, practiced rhythms, the way he always does when he wants to unravel you completely before even thinking about letting you come. Like he’s taking notes with every movement, every tremble.

You can’t touch him. Can’t push his head closer. Can’t thread your fingers through his hair and plead for him to keep going. You can only brace yourself against the desk, back arching as your legs tremble, thighs spreading wider to give him more space, more of you.

And still, he hums against you, a soft, approving sound that vibrates through your core. His grip tightens just slightly on your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk, anchoring you to him.

You feel every flick of his tongue like a secret only he knows how to coax out of you. And then—just when your breath is shuddering, when your body is taut with want—he speaks again, his voice like silk, low and infuriatingly in control against your slick skin. “Tell me what you want.”

Your voice cracks. “Zayne—”

But he doesn’t stop. He knows. He knows exactly what you want. What you need. What your body has been aching for since the moment he looked up at you with that calm, fond expression.

And because he knows—because this is how he shows love—he gives it. He gives you everything.

Your moans begin to crumble—trembling little things that slip past your lips with every sweep of his tongue, but soon they're laced with something else. A softness. A frustration. A whimper that doesn’t rise from pleasure alone.

Zayne doesn’t miss it. He hears the change in your breath, the pleading edge behind the sounds you make when you try to shift your weight forward, when your fingers curl helplessly against the knot of his stethoscope behind your back. When you whine his name again—not because you want more (he’s already giving you that), but because you can’t touch him. Can’t reach him. And you want to. Desperately.

His mouth stills against you. Your breath catches, eyes wide, pupils blown, your whole body trembles on the precipice—and then his voice cuts through the haze, low and controlled and unbearably intimate.

“You’ll come like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your inner thigh, voice warm as velvet and edged in something firmer. “Tied up and aching, just how you wanted it. Like a good girl.”

You whimper, the words hitting deeper than they should. Your hips twitch in response, clenching down around nothing, body already inching back toward the edge.

“And then,” he adds, letting his thumb trace the slick mess between your thighs, “maybe I’ll untie you. Let you touch me while I bury myself inside you right here on this desk.”

A pout forms at your lips, your thighs flexing around his shoulders, the sweet ache of wanting him more than your body can contain bubbling over—and just as quickly, it shatters when he dives back in.

This time, there’s no slowness. No teasing. He licks you like he owns you, like he knows every flick and circle and drag that turns your breath into broken gasps. His tongue moves with purpose now—steady, hungry, unrelenting—and his grip on your hips tightens until you’re pressed full against his mouth, helpless beneath the force of your pleasure.

You cry out—sharp and high—and he hisses under his breath, quick and quiet, lifting one hand to cover your mouth even as he doesn’t stop. Even as he groans into you, eyes half-lidded with focused heat.

“Quiet,” he breathes, not unkindly. “Do you want the whole floor hearing you?”

Your answer is muffled by his palm, a keening moan that dissolves into little sobs of pleasure as your thighs begin to shake, your body teetering and then tipping.

You come with a cry against his hand, full-bodied and raw, your whole form arching and curling forward as his mouth works you through it, never once letting up, never leaving you alone in the heat of it. His tongue doesn’t stop until you collapse, trembling and wrung out, hips twitching from oversensitivity.

Only then does he let go. Only then does he lift his head. His lips glisten. His breath is steady. But his eyes…They’re anything but calm.

You’re panting now, wrists still bound, arms aching with the need to hold him, and your eyes—blown wide and glassy—lock on his mouth, silently begging.

And Zayne, who rarely gives in to impulse, does. He rises swiftly, catching your mouth with his in one deep, consuming kiss. The taste of you lingers between your lips, thick and warm and intimate, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, it fuels him.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s been waiting hours, not minutes. Tongue deep, breath hot, hands bracketing your hips now. You whine into him, pushing forward even with your arms behind you, trying to get closer, needing to feel more, all of him.

His fingers slide behind your back and the knot falls away with one smooth tug.

Your arms fly forward in an instant. You drag him close, fisting your hands in his white coat, in his shirt, in anything you can reach. And Zayne, caught in your grip, lets out the faintest gasp as your momentum tips him forward—your back hitting the desk with a soft thud, pulling him down with you.

You kiss him harder, breathless and greedy, your hands finally free, finally on him. And he groans into your mouth—low and real this time—as if the weight of your touch knocks the air from his lungs.

There is no more distance. No restraint. Just the dizzying heat of skin on skin, lips clashing, breaths stolen, and the desk beneath you both groaning quietly under the shifting weight.

The desk behind you is hard and unyielding, but you hardly notice. Not with Zayne between your thighs. Not with his mouth on yours, hot and breathless, stealing whatever air you have left with every deep kiss.

You brace your hands on his shoulders, clinging to the rough lines of his coat, nails dragging across the thick fabric. And then he shifts, fluid as breath, tugging the white coat from his shoulders in one clean motion. It falls to the floor, forgotten.

Your hands are on his shirt the moment the coat is gone, working fast at the buttons with shaking fingers. He groans into your mouth when you get halfway, and you feel his hips roll forward, just slightly, like his body is already preparing for what comes next.

The shirt stays on—half-open, collar loose, sleeves still clinging to his arms—but you don’t care. You drag your nails down his chest, savoring the heat of his skin, the hard definition beneath your fingers, and the way he shudders when your touch grazes low, just above his waistband.

He grips your hips harder—broad palms cupping your ass, pulling you forward to the very edge of the desk. You’re wet, aching, desperate, and he’s just as wrecked. You can feel it in the way he holds you, in the tremble beneath the surface of his control.

Your hand fumbles at his belt.

“Zayne,” you whisper into his mouth between frantic kisses, “I need you. I need it—need you.”

He exhales sharply against your lips like the words land somewhere deep in his chest, and his fingers twitch where they’re gripping you, heat rising off his skin in waves. His jaw tightens—your name caught somewhere in his throat—but he doesn’t waste a second more.

With a soft grunt, he unfastens himself, movements rougher now, urgent. You reach between you, helping—wanting—until you both gasp when the thick heat of him presses against your slick entrance.

There’s no hesitation. He sheathes himself inside you in one deep, smooth thrust, filling you to the hilt. Your head falls back with a broken sound. Zayne swears under his breath, forehead pressed to yours, one arm wrapping around your back to steady you both as you tighten around him.

“God—” he breathes, “you always feel like this.”

He doesn’t wait. Can’t. You claw at his half-unbuttoned shirt, dragging him closer, grounding yourself against his chest as he begins to move. Slow, deep thrusts at first—controlled, precise—but the rhythm builds fast. Every time your hips meet his, you fall apart a little more.

You kiss him through it—sloppy, gasping, desperate kisses that taste like love and heat and everything you can’t say fast enough. His hand fists in your hair, tugging gently to tilt your head so he can kiss you deeper, longer.

And then—between your moans, between the hard, rocking thrusts that send the desk beneath you creaking—you whisper it, “I love you.”

Zayne stills for a heartbeat, but you feel the way it wrecks him. Feel it in the way his body stutters. In the rough, choked breath he exhales against your lips.

And then he moves harder. Not reckless, not wild, but deeper. Hotter. More. He kisses you like he’s falling apart.

“I love you,” he growls into your mouth, voice frayed and hoarse, “my love—I love you—fuck—you feel so good…”

You whimper against him, breathless, as he thrusts harder, each stroke sending you sliding slightly on the desk. He grips your hips again, anchoring you as your bodies crash together over and over, his mouth never far from yours, kissing you through every sound, every gasp.

The office is hot. The windows are fogged. The world outside doesn’t exist—just this. Just you and him. And the way you fall into each other like you’ve done it a thousand times—and would do it a thousand more.

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internetdaddy98 · 2 months ago

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The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 10

Previous | Next

[Series Masterlist]

Content Warning: mushy feelings ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robby was not prepared.

Not for the 7 a.m. shift. Not for the two back-to-back traumas that hit before his first bathroom break.

And definitely not for Y/N Williams to show up in glasses this morning.

He had been getting ready for the shift ahead, halfway through reviewing overnight notes, when the sliding doors opened.

He didn’t even look up at first—he knew that walk. Quick. Focused. A little heavier than usual.

But when he glanced up, his hand froze mid-scroll.

Same black scrubs. Same ridiculous yellow cardigan she refused to retire, even though the left sleeve was slowly unraveling at the cuff.

But today, today she had on glasses. Brown-framed, slightly askew, perched on the bridge of her nose like an afterthought. Her ponytail was lopsided and loose, strands falling out and catching in the corner of her lip gloss.

She looked ethereal.

A wave of quiet affection hit him, all at once, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

She glanced at him over the top of the lenses with a bleary squint, like she couldn’t quite focus on his face yet.

“Don’t start,” she muttered, voice still coated in sleep and irritation.

Robby set the tablet down and raised both hands in mock surrender, the beginnings of a grin tugging at his mouth.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You were absolutely going to say something,” she countered, shouldering past him toward the counter.

He folded his arms across his chest, leaning back against the counter just to watch her move. The glasses made her look somehow younger and smarter and more infuriatingly attractive all in one. A walking contradiction. His brain short-circuited trying to process it.

“Fine,” he said, eyeing her over the rim of his own coffee cup. “You look like a sexy librarian who moonlights as an ER doctor.”

She froze with her hand on the keyboard.

Then turned her head slowly, her expression hovering between suspicion and amusement.

“That’s disturbingly specific.”

“It’s a compliment.”

“It sounds like a fantasy.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “I didn’t say whose.”

Her cheeks flushed, betraying her irritation, but she turned back to the machine without another word, reaching for a tablet. He noticed her hands shook just slightly—maybe from lack of caffeine, maybe from something else.

“These are my backup glasses from med school,” she said finally, tapping her ID badge on the computer “My contact prescription expired. I feel like I look twelve.”

Robby tilted his head, gaze trailing slowly over her profile.

She was frowning down at the screen. Her glasses had slipped again, resting precariously on the tip of her nose, and she pushed them up absently with her ring finger—an old, unconscious habit, probably from residency. Something about the motion made his chest ache.

“You really don’t,” he said.

There was a softness in his voice that surprised even him.

You paused mid-type, fingers tightening around the mouse. For a beat, she didn’t move at all. Just stood there, like she wasn’t sure what to say—or maybe like she didn’t want to say something that might be too much.

She turned slightly, eyes meeting his under the muted fluorescent lights. Her expression wasn’t playful anymore.

“You okay?” Robby asked gently.

She hesitated. Then nodded once.

“Yeah. Just… didn’t sleep great.”

“Too much thinking?”

Her gaze lingered on his face. And for a flicker of a second—just a heartbeat—he saw it. The wall slip. The thing she didn’t let anyone else see. The part of her that carried everything, that held tight to every mistake, every bad outcome, every pressure to be perfect and untouchable and fine.

“Yeah,” she said, almost too quietly. “That.”

Robby opened his mouth. He didn’t even know what he was going to say—maybe something dumb and sweet, maybe something dangerous and real—but before he could, the intercom above their heads crackled to life.

“Code One Trauma, ETA four minutes.”

Just like that, the moment dissolved.

You turned on your heel, all business again. But her eyes lingered on his for half a second longer than they needed to.

They fell into step down the hallway, walking shoulder to shoulder toward the trauma bay like they had a hundred times before. No more talking. Just the beat of their sneakers on linoleum and the weight of the unspoken hanging in the space between them.

By 10:30, they’d already cleared two trauma rooms and started prepping for a third.

They hadn’t had a break. Hadn’t spoken about anything outside of clinical orders. But Robby kept finding himself watching her—not just watching, but noticing.

The way her glasses slid down her nose every twenty minutes, and she pushed them back up with the back of her wrist without even thinking.

The way her lashes fluttered when she focused hard on a BP drop or scanned a chart.

The way her cardigan kept slipping off her shoulder and she never once fixed it, too busy thinking two steps ahead of everyone else in the room.

And the worst part?

Every time he looked at her, it hit him harder.

This woman—this terrifying, brilliant, sarcastic woman—was undoing him with the stupidest things. A squint. A cardigan. A pair of backup glasses that didn’t even fit her right.

And she didn’t even know.

She didn’t see the way the nurses looked between them sometimes. The way his residents had started to raise their eyebrows when he followed her out of a trauma room instead of heading to the next patient.

She didn’t feel the way his pulse jumped every time she brushed past him in a hallway or said his name in that low, unimpressed voice she used when he teased her too much.

And maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was safer if she never did.

But as she bent over a monitor, squinting to read an ABG without realizing her glasses had slipped all the way to the end of her nose, he couldn’t help it.

He walked over, reached out, and gently pushed them up for her.

She blinked, startled.

Then turned her head, eyes wide and unreadable.

He dropped his hand and stepped back before he could say something stupid.

“You were gonna go cross-eyed,” he said casually.

She stared at him. Then smiled and looked away.

He turned back toward the supply cart, pulse hammering in his throat like he’d just crossed a line.

Maybe he had.

But in that moment, watching her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and pretending her ears weren’t turning red, Robby knew exactly what was happening to him. He was falling. Hard. Helplessly.

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adinathinternationalindia · 10 months ago

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youtube

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#traditional coating pan #tablet coating system #Coating Pan Machine #Youtube

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strawb3rryg2l · 2 months ago

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The Temp, Part 1

Characters: Robert Reynolds x (Female) Reader.

Summary: Mel trains a new temp - Y/N. Y/N just wants a normal life, one where she can forget her past as a spy and start anew. When she meets The Thunderbolts, she can't help but notice Robert Reynolds... or Bob, as everyone calls him. He's quiet, shy, and seemingly holding a lot inside. She almost feels the same, even if she doesn't know him personally. They find a likeness in one another and grow closer.

Warnings: reader is an ex-spy, talks of self-doubt, spoilers for the movie (Let me know if there any more warnings I should put).

Word Count: 1790

Note from the author: This is my work and not only will it be posted on this account (@Strawb3rryg2l) . It will also be posted to my account of Archivesofourown (@ Strawb3rrygal). I will link it here once it is uploaded. This is a work in progress, and my first ever fanfiction so please be kind. This movie brought back my love for Marvel, and I'm super excited about this series I will be writing. This is my first attempt of a slow-burn, friends to lovers, and smut (mueheh). So without further ado... Happy reading!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Being the assistant of the new Avengers was quite an ordeal.

Y/N had shadowed Mel. It was only supposed to be temporary work. Y/N was only meant to cover Mel during her vacation. She was leaving for her well-deserved three-week trip to the Dolomites in Italy. Y/N was willing to work.

Willing… and quietly watching everything.

Being Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s assistant was more about information control than coffee runs. There were reports to catalog, people to monitor, egos to smooth over, and secrets. So many secrets. Y/N learned quickly that everyone was watching someone else. Everyone had blood on their hands. Y/N just made sure no one noticed hers.

Y/N adjusted her blazer in the mirror before stepping into the conference room. It was Day Four, and so far no one had asked too many questions about her. She was just "Mel’s temp." That was good. Low profile. Safe.

The morning’s meeting was more like a war council. The Thunderbolts — or whatever unofficial name they were using now — gathered in a quiet buzz of tension. Yelena Belova lounged in her seat like it might bite her. US Agent was already annoyed about something. Bucky looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Ghost was halfway invisible, and Red Guardian was arguing with the espresso machine in Russian.

And then there was him.

Robert Reynolds. Or Bob… which is what they called him.

He walked in like he wanted to disappear. Hood up. Shoulders tight. Hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his worn coat. The others gave him space. It seemed like a respectful distance. A low hum seemed to follow him, like the room shifted to accommodate a presence far too big to be human.

Sentry. The man with a million exploding suns inside him.

He sat quietly near the edge of the table, a glass of water in front of him. He stared into it like he expected it to show him something.

Y/N didn’t mean to stare. But there was something about the way he held himself like he was bracing for a disaster no one else could see.

She recognized the feeling.

When Valentina spoke, her voice cut through the tension like a scalpel. "Three weeks. That’s how long we have until we present our team to the U.S. Government. We need order, presence, and we need good optics. So we behave. Understood?"

Y/N took notes, nodding at key points like Mel showed her. No eye contact. Don’t fidget. Be useful, invisible, forgettable.

Then Bob spoke.

It was a mumble, barely audible. “What happens if Void shows up?”

Silence.

Valentina didn’t blink. “Then we all hope to God we don’t have a repeat of New York.”

Bob flinched like she’d slapped him.

After the meeting, Y/N found herself alone in the hallway, pretending to review her tablet. Bob was standing near a window, gripping the railing like it might vanish. The skyline reflected off the glass. He didn't look at her, but he knew she was there.

"You’re new," he said.

"Temporary," she replied.

He nodded, still not looking. "That’s good. People don’t last long here."

"You seem to be doing alright."

He let out a short breath. Not a laugh, not really. “You think?”

She almost smiled. “No.”

That earned her a glance.

His eyes were tired. Not just physically like his soul hadn’t slept in years. But there was something in them that wasn’t entirely broken. Just… quiet, waiting.

“You don’t talk much either,” he said.

“I find it keeps me alive.”

He looked at her a moment longer, then turned back to the skyline.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know the feeling.”

—————————————————————————————————

It was day Five of Y/N being an assistant and she was restocking the files in Valentina’s private office when she felt it, a presence behind her.

Too close. Too quiet.

In an instant, her fingers tightened around the steel pen she’d been using, eyes flicking to the nearest reflective surface. A silver-framed photo of Valentina shaking hands with someone who was probably on a kill list.

A shadow moved just behind her shoulder.

She turned fast not enough to strike, just enough to confront.

It was Yelena.

"Relax," the assassin said, popping a stick of gum in her mouth. "You looked like you were about to stab me with a Montblanc."

Y/N exhaled slowly and loosened her grip. Her fingers were white.

“I don’t like being snuck up on,” she said coolly.

Yelena tilted her head, intrigued. "Interesting."

Y/N said nothing. She just tucked the pen back in its holder, turned to reorganize the folders, and kept her face blank. Yelena studied her for another moment, then walked off, humming.

The tension stayed in Y/N’s shoulders even after she left.

This is a desk job. A normal job. That’s what she reminded herself every morning in her tiny New York studio apartment. It barely fit a bed, but it had a window that looked out onto a sliver of Central Park, and for the first time in years, she could wake up without her fingers twitching toward a weapon.

The job paid well (extremely well) and it had benefits. Like if she did a good job she might get a good letter of recommendation for a full time. That used to be unimaginable. Now it was survival. Not in the blood-on-your-hands way. In the groceries-in-the-fridge kind of way.

She wanted this. She wanted quiet.

But the instincts didn’t go away just because you filed paperwork instead of targets. They just got quieter, sharper, lingering.

Later that day, she ran into Bob again in the break room, of all places.

He was sitting on the counter, cradling a cup of coffee. He looked up when she walked in.

“Montblanc pens are expensive,” he said.

She blinked. Word got around quick. “Excuse me?”

“You were going to use one like a weapon earlier.” He shrugged. “Just saying. Would’ve been a waste.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Were you watching?”

“No,” he said. “But I notice things.”

There was no smugness to it. Just a quiet admission, like he couldn’t help it. Like his mind was always ticking, cataloging danger. It made her pause.

“Old habits,” she muttered, pouring herself a cup of the bitter coffee.

Bob glanced at her. “You trying to break them?”

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

He looked down into his coffee. “Me too.”

She sat on the far end of the table, not too close, but not too far. They didn’t speak again, not for a while, but the silence wasn’t awkward. It was a truce. A shared stillness between two people with shadows stitched into their skin.

It felt like the quiet recognition of someone else who was also just trying to breathe.

—————————————————————————————————

It was raining on the sixth night.

Thunder rolled low across the sky, and the windows in the briefing wing trembled slightly with each boom. Most of the team had gone home or tucked into whatever shadows they slept in. Valentina was overseas on a black-site visit. The building was eerily still.

Y/N stayed late to finish organizing next week’s logistics brief. It was busy work, a little pointless, but it kept her hands moving. Kept her from thinking too much.

When the printer jammed for the third time, she let out a tired sigh and leaned against the table, rubbing her temple. The storm outside felt too close. She hated storms. It brought memories.

Thunder always reminded her of flashbangs.

Behind her, a door creaked open.

She turned sharply and saw Bob standing in the doorway.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. His hair was damp. No hood. No coat. Just him, in a soft looking hoodie, holding a paper bag.

“You’re fine,” Y/N lied. Her heartbeat hadn’t settled yet. “Shouldn’t you be… I don’t know. Sleeping? Flying? Saving the world?”

He gave a tired shrug. “The world’s still turning. I thought I’d get takeout.”

He held up the bag like it was evidence.

“I didn’t know you ate takeout,” she said, unable to hide her surprise.

He smirked faintly. “I don’t. Usually. But I figured… if I’m trying to be normal, maybe I should start somewhere.”

He stepped into the room, hesitating just slightly before gesturing to the table.

“You hungry?”

Y/N looked at the leftover files, then at the bag.

“What kind of takeout?”

“Thai. Hope you’re not allergic to peanuts.”

She wasn’t.

They ate on opposite sides of the table, cross-legged in their chairs like two kids at a sleepover. The food was warm. The silence wasn’t heavy this time, it was easy. Familiar.

Halfway through, Bob spoke without looking up.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending?”

Y/N froze, her chopsticks hovering over the noodles.

“Pretending what?”

“That you’re okay. That you belong here. That you're not scared you're gonna slip up and ruin the whole thing.”

The words hit too close. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she set her container down, carefully, and stared at him thoughtfully.

“Yes,” she whispered. “All the time.”

Bob didn’t move. He just nodded.

“I used to be afraid of the Void showing up again,” he said quietly. “Now I’m more afraid of what happens if I get too comfortable. If I let myself believe I’m just a guy with a job. Because that’s when it sneaks in.”

Y/N turned her head slightly, watching him. The way his voice cracked, the way he didn’t look at her when he spoke like he was afraid he’d see fear on her face.

But she could only feel understanding.

“I don’t know what it’s like,” she said gently, “to have a part of yourself that powerful. But I do know what it’s like to have a version of yourself you’re trying to outrun.”

He looked at her, really looked. And for the first time, Y/N saw him soften, just a little.

“I used to be good at running,” he said.

She smiled faintly. “Me too.”

He didn’t speak again for a while after that. Y/N didn’t move, just enjoyed the silent understanding between two people who only wanted a bit of peace.

He cleared his throat after a while and Y/N looked up.

“This was nice.” He said.

She nodded, and he closed his container. He got up unsure, looking at her once more, and shook his head as though he was fighting against a thought he had had.

“Would you want to do this again?” She found herself saying. She’s not sure why she said that. Maybe it was how Bob didn’t make her feel like an intruder, or a spy, or a ghost.

Just a person.

He seemed surprised and slowly a smile crept on his face. “Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

————————————————————————————————

#Robert Reynolds x Reader #Sentry #Void #Thunderbolts #marvel #avengers #slow burn #friends to lovers #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #fanfic writing

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