#Your [computer] is low on memory

[ms-demeanor]

So You Need To Buy A Computer But You Don't Know What Specs Are Good These Days

Hi.

This is literally my job.

Lots of people are buying computers for school right now or are replacing computers as their five-year-old college laptop craps out so here's the standard specs you should be looking for in a (windows) computer purchase in August 2023.

PROCESSOR

Intel i5 (no older than 10th Gen)

Ryzen 7

You can get away with a Ryzen 5 but an intel i3 should be an absolute last resort. You want at least an intel i5 or a Ryzen 7 processor. The current generation of intel processors is 13, but anything 10 or newer is perfectly fine. DO NOT get a higher performance line with an older generation; a 13th gen i5 is better than an 8th gen i7. (Unfortunately I don't know enough about ryzens to tell you which generation is the earliest you should get, but staying within 3 generations is a good rule of thumb)

RAM

8GB absolute minimum

If you don't have at least 8GB RAM on a modern computer it's going to be very, very slow. Ideally you want a computer with at least 16GB, and it's a good idea to get a computer that will let you add or swap RAM down the line (nearly all desktops will let you do this, for laptops you need to check the specs for Memory and see how many slots there are and how many slots are available; laptops with soldered RAM cannot have the memory upgraded - this is common in very slim laptops)

STORAGE

256GB SSD

Computers mostly come with SSDs these days; SSDs are faster than HDDs but typically have lower storage for the same price. That being said: SSDs are coming down in price and if you're installing your own drive you can easily upgrade the size for a low cost. Unfortunately that doesn't do anything for you for the initial purchase.

A lot of cheaper laptops will have a 128GB SSD and, because a lot of stuff is stored in the cloud these days, that can be functional. I still recommend getting a bit more storage than that because it's nice if you can store your music and documents and photos on your device instead of on the cloud. You want to be able to access your files even if you don't have internet access.

But don't get a computer with a big HDD instead of getting a computer with a small SSD. The difference in speed is noticeable.

SCREEN (laptop specific)

Personally I find that touchscreens have a negative impact on battery life and are easier to fuck up than standard screens. They are also harder to replace if they get broken. I do not recommend getting a touch screen unless you absolutely have to.

A lot of college students especially tend to look for the biggest laptop screen possible; don't do that. It's a pain in the ass to carry a 17" laptop around campus and with the way that everything is so thin these days it's easier to damage a 17" screen than a 14" screen.

On the other end of that: laptops with 13" screens tend to be very slim devices that are glued shut and impossible to work on or upgrade.

Your best bet (for both functionality and price) is either a 14" or a 15.6" screen. If you absolutely positively need to have a 10-key keyboard on your laptop, get the 15.6". If you need something portable more than you need 10-key, get a 14"

FORM FACTOR (desktop specific)

If you purchase an all-in-one desktop computer I will begin manifesting in your house physically. All-in-ones take away every advantage desktops have in terms of upgradeability and maintenance; they are expensive and difficult to repair and usually not worth the cost of disassembling to upgrade.

There are about four standard sizes of desktop PC: All-in-One (the size of a monitor with no other footprint), Tower (Big! probably at least two feet long in two directions), Small Form Factor Tower (Very moderate - about the size of a large shoebox), and Mini/Micro/Tiny (Small! about the size of a small hardcover book).

If you are concerned about space you are much better off getting a MicroPC and a bracket to put it on your monitor than you are getting an all-in-one. This will be about a million percent easier to work on than an all-in-one and this way if your monitor dies your computer is still functional.

Small form factor towers and towers are the easiest to work on and upgrade; if you need a burly graphics card you need to get a full size tower, but for everything else a small form factor tower will be fine. Most of our business sales are SFF towers and MicroPCs, the only time we get something larger is if we have to put a $700 graphics card in it. SFF towers will accept small graphics cards and can handle upgrades to the power supply; MicroPCs can only have the RAM and SSD upgraded and don't have room for any other components or their own internal power supply.

WARRANTY

Most desktops come with either a 1 or 3 year warranty; either of these is fine and if you want to upgrade a 1 year to a 3 year that is also fine. I've generally found that if something is going to do a warranty failure on desktop it's going to do it the first year, so you don't get a hell of a lot of added mileage out of an extended warranty but it doesn't hurt and sometimes pays off to do a 3-year.

Laptops are a different story. Laptops mostly come with a 1-year warranty and what I recommend everyone does for every laptop that will allow it is to upgrade that to the longest warranty you can get with added drop/damage protection. The most common question our customers have about laptops is if we can replace a screen and the answer is usually "yes, but it's going to be expensive." If you're purchasing a low-end laptop, the parts and labor for replacing a screen can easily cost more than half the price of a new laptop. HOWEVER, the way that most screens get broken is by getting dropped. So if you have a warranty with drop protection, you just send that sucker back to the factory and they fix it for you.

So, if it is at all possible, check if the manufacturer of a laptop you're looking at has a warranty option with drop protection. Then, within 30 days (though ideally on the first day you get it) of owning your laptop, go to the manufacturer site, register your serial number, and upgrade the warranty. If you can't afford a 3-year upgrade at once set a reminder for yourself to annually renew. But get that drop protection, especially if you are a college student or if you've got kids.

And never, ever put pens or pencils on your laptop keyboard. I've seen people ruin thousand dollar, brand-new laptops that they can't afford to fix because they closed the screen on a ten cent pencil. Keep liquids away from them too.

LIFESPAN

There's a reasonable chance that any computer you buy today will still be able to turn on and run a program or two in ten years. That does not mean that it is "functional."

At my office we estimate that the functional lifespan of desktops is 5-7 years and the functional lifespan of laptops is 3-5 years. Laptops get more wear and tear than desktops and desktops are easier to upgrade to keep them running. At 5 years for desktops and 3 years for laptops you should look at upgrading the RAM in the device and possibly consider replacing the SSD with a new (possibly larger) model, because SSDs and HDDs don't last forever.

COST

This means that you should think of your computers as an annual investment rather than as a one-time purchase. It is more worthwhile to pay $700 for a laptop that will work well for five years than it is to pay $300 for a laptop that will be outdated and slow in one year (which is what will happen if you get an 8th gen i3 with 8GB RAM). If you are going to get a $300 laptop try to get specs as close as possible to the minimums I've laid out here.

If you have to compromise on these specs, the one that is least fixable is the processor. If you get a laptop with an i3 processor you aren't going to be able to upgrade it even if you can add more RAM or a bigger SSD. If you have to get lower specs in order to afford the device put your money into the processor and make sure that the computer has available slots for upgrade and that neither the RAM nor the SSD is soldered to the motherboard. (one easy way to check this is to search "[computer model] RAM upgrade" on youtube and see if anyone has made a video showing what the inside of the laptop looks like and how much effort it takes to replace parts)

Computers are expensive right now. This is frustrating, because historically consumer computer prices have been on a downward trend but since 2020 that trend has been all over the place. Desktop computers are quite expensive at the moment (August 2023) and decent laptops are extremely variably priced.

If you are looking for a decent, upgradeable laptop that will last you a few years, here are a couple of options that you can purchase in August 2023 that have good prices for their specs:

14" Lenovo - $670 - 11th-gen i5, 16GB RAM, and 512GB SSD

15.6" HP - $540 - 11th-gen i5, 16GB RAM, and 256GB SSD

14" Dell - $710 - 12th-gen i5, 16GB RAM, and 256GB SSD

If you are looking for a decent, affordable desktop that will last you a few years, here are a couple of options that you can purchase in August 2023 that have good prices for their specs:

SFF HP - $620 - 10th-gen i5, 16GB RAM, 1TB SSD

SFF Lenovo - $560 - Ryzen 7 5000 series, 16GB RAM, 512GB SSD

Dell Tower - $800 - 10th-gen i7, 16GB RAM, 512GB SSD

If I were going to buy any of these I'd probably get the HP laptop or the Dell Tower. The HP Laptop is actually a really good price for what it is.

Anyway happy computering.

[arolesbianism]

You know I rly rly wish Jackie had more personal logs because god damn do we barely get to see her perspective on like anything. Like... What gets me most abt Jackie is that she clearly on some level still cares abt Olivia. Olivia was a very important person to her. I don't think Jackie is some victim or anything, but I have to imagine it hurt to watch someone that close to you drift away and grow to hate you. I just find it interesting to imagine Jackie as almost petty in her coldness to Olivia. Like, the two have been working closely for years, Jackie Knows that Olivia isn't the purely moral scientist she seems to think she is, and while I do still think Jackie is worse, I also do think she had a point when she did point out Olivia's hypocrisy. So it just makes me think... Did Jackie maybe become more stubborn against Olivia's feedback because of this? I think it'd be interesting if from her point of view, Olivia has been actively manipulative in her hypocrisy. I think it'd be so fun if Olivia wasn't just an annoyance, but the villain of Jackie's story from her point of view? I just like the idea of them both being the villains of each other's stories, it adds more to the doomed toxic yuri I think

[maddilynmuse]

Memory of Liar

Another fic for @mari-lair ‘s Siffrin? More like Sif’s Out AU based on this memory exclusive to it. This one got a lil long, as I think y’all can see. Also I enjoy writing Odile. Apologies for any formatting opposed, I wrote this on my computer but had to upload on my phone.

No major CW’s beyond just “Odile questioning Siffrin’s mental health.” Enjoy!

It hadn’t been too long since that one loop. That loop where they found out just how good Siffrin was at pretending to be fine. How convenient that not long after, Odile got a skill to deal with it. Memory of Liar. It allowed her to know when Siffrin was lying (albeit not by omission, but still). Ideally, it would be a niche skill at best, one to keep on for a loop or two and forget that she had-

“Hey Odile!”

Siffrin began his usual greetings. Seems Mirabelle reminded him about the clocktower “sleepover” this time. She must be feeling nostalgic; they’d all planned to meet up at the clocktower afterwards anyways, so there was no need to send Siffrin on a quest to go talk to them all, but given how low he got, how useless he felt, it made sense for her to give him a task. Would it be too cynical to say Mirabelle was establishing a baseline? Perhaps.

“So, what will you do after?” Siffrin asked her.

After. Gems, at this rate such a thing felt laughable, but she bit her tongue well enough. What had she planned to do after this? So much time had been spent on loops and the breaking of them that leaving Dormont was starting to feel like more of an impossibility than beating the King ever had been.

“I’ll probably go back to Ka Bue,” she said. It seemed like the next most logical step. She had a home there, after all. Besides, it might be nice to get far, far away from Dormont.

“And wrap up your research?”

“Research?” Oh, right. Her fake research.

“Your research into cultures-ology?”

Had he said that last time? When was the last time Mirabelle called for a sleepover? Gems, she didn’t like this.

“Cultures-ology isn’t a field of research, Siffrin.”

“But it is the field of research you spent your life trying to create…”

“No,” she said bluntly. He looked a little put off by that, so she changed the topic the most natural way she could. “What about you? What will you do after we beat the king?” If they ever get to leave Dormont, that is.

“Come up with my own field of research.”

… huh?

Something about what he said there, it sat oddly in her gut. It felt… wrong. But how could-

Right. Memory of Liar. He was lying. Of course he was, why wouldn’t he be? She knew from the start that was likely a joke, and a joke could count as a lie, she supposed. Maybe this ability wasn’t particularly discerning. She’d have to test that too, wouldn’t she? Would it activate at anything that wasn’t true? Or would it only activate if Siffrin was actively trying to deceive?

As Siffrin walked out again, only then did it occur to her… what did the rogue intend to do when he got out? Well, a question for the others, she supposed.

------

They were back at Dormont. It wasn’t of much use, asking the others. Bonnie and Mirabelle couldn’t remember off the top of their heads, but apparently Siffrin had told Isabeau they intended to start a comedy club… That sounded considerably more likely than them going into research, but she was still inclined to double check. It was nothing wasting a whole loop over, but they’d agreed that next time they looped back to Dormont, Mirabelle would tell Siffrin about the clocktower, and Isabeau and Odile would “switch places,” so to speak. She needed to be the one to hear him, so she had to come last.

As Siffrin got up sleepily, almost tauntingly laid back, he greeted Mirabelle saying the nap was a solid 9 out of ten… The thought that their rogue was rubbing in their lack of exhaustion was illogical, something she knew all too well, but maybe she wasn’t in a particularly giving mood as she squatted in the bushes against the protest of her knee. A few more pleasantries were shared and…

“Where will you go after?”

“Oh! You know… maybe a pilgrimage? I-I suppose this all kiiiiiinda already counted as a pilgrimage, but, um… does it?” Does it if she only half remembers some of it, so much time taken over by these last few days? Or was Odile projecting here?

It didn’t matter.

“What about you though Siffrin. What will you do after?” Mirabelle asked.

Odile watched him like a hawk as he had his little smile, looking up to the sky, and, “Go on a pilgrimage too, maybe.”

“Oh! That’d be lovely,” Mirabelle said.

If only it were true.

Odile waited for them to get to the store—the store she often started at but currently housed Isabeau—forcing herself up and stumbling like a drunk from the woods, knee seizing up all the way. Mirabelle rushed over, using a bit of healing craft on her.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine…” Odile said, though sighed in relief at the healing craft easing the pain.

“… so?” Mirabelle said.

“He was lying. He has no intention to go on a pilgrimage.”

Mirabelle sighed but nodded. Neither of them were surprised, really?

“Can you even go on a pilgrimage if all you do is travel anyways? What’s even the difference?” Odile muttered to herself. “Ah, no use now. I have to catch up before Isabeau runs out of ways to stall.” Thankfully it was a short walk. The door was open, she simply had to linger near it.

“What will you do after?” Siffrin asked Isabeau.

Seems she was right on time.

“Eh, I’ll probably just go back to Jouvente. Not sure about rejoining the Defenders, not after they left Mira, but maybe I’ll try some clothing design?”

“Oh? I didn’t know you were interested in that. That sounds great, Isa!”

“Heh, thanks Sif. But what about you? What will you do when we beat the King?”

Assuming Isabeau did a good enough job of recapping what he said before, presumably Siffrin’s answer would be the same…

“Start a comedy club!”

… that one wasn’t true either? She’d honestly thought it might be, or at least that it was fifty fifty, but no. Almost a shame, it fit all too well. Then again, it meant more people were spared his puns…

She tuned out the rest in favor of trying to get a head start on making it to the East side of town. Siffrin tended to dawdle when left to his own devices, but still would be nice to find a way to listen in that wouldn’t be physically painful this time…

Oh right. There’s a building here, right near Bonnie. She’d basically gone blind to it, considering it no more than any other house: pointless. Though she did know the open phrase, well, the only thing of value was the “Long Thingy Thing” (as Bonnie put it), and they didn’t really need to go through the trouble of crafting a bomb at this point. That said, she did know the open phrase, so she could probably get inside, and she could hear Bonnie, but could she hear Siffrin? Then again, once Siffrin was near Bonnie, she could sneak closer.

And so she did. It went off almost disappointingly easily. Gems alive, what she wouldn’t give for something to go awry in a way that would let her dig her teeth into something again. But no, no. This was more efficient. (Everything was efficiency these days, that’s how Siffrin got so bad).

She crept closer as the two talked. Siffrin was needling Bonnie, and Bonnie was rising to the bait. Was it genuine irritation and stress, or just their mimicry of it? She wasn’t sure, maybe both. Not too long in, the question came up.

“Well what about you, Frin? What are you gonna do?”

“I’ll go to space.”

… she didn’t even need the Memory equipped to know that that was a bald-faced lie, but she supposed that confirmation was nice? Well this one was a waste of time. Best to try to slip out towards the favor tree and play her own part.

Four different answers, none of them true. Why would he hide what he intended to do after? Maybe earlier in their adventure together she would’ve assumed that it was for nefarious purposes, but if he was an assassin on the behalf of the King or anything like that, he’d probably have done something to stop them on at least one of the occasions that they killed him. Whatever happened with Euphraise usually seemed centered on him, but he always looked shocked, so it was unlikely he expected it any more than the rest of them had the first time.

So if not foul play, then why? Some charitable part of her mind wanted to say his plans were just embarrassing, but…

As they’d recently learned the hard way, their little rogue wasn’t nearly as fine as he seemed. All it took was one day of them taking the lead a bit too much for him to consider himself a useless idiot. He rarely spoke of home. Never spoke of loved ones, at least not for more than a few sentences. He’d taken losing his eye almost too well. She wouldn’t say that he was at risk of becoming a Sadness or doing something willingly stupid, but the more she thought on it, the more things painted a picture she didn’t like the look of, but couldn’t afford to look away from either.

If she didn’t know better, she could mistake him for a ghost. A spirit. Maybe even some Expression. Nothing but a being floating through to help. But she’d seen him eat, seen his blood splatter on the floor, heard his gasps and screams at hard hits. She’d seen him lose an eye. Ghosts didn’t do that. He was flesh and blood yet missing so much he seemed almost insubstantial. Was he aware of this one some level? And what could do that to a person? Gems alive, she knew he had bad memory, but maybe she should’ve been delving deeper into it. Why hadn’t she? It wasn’t like her to see something so strange, to see someone start stories over and over that never reach an end, to see him speak of things and lose his train of thought halfway through, and she just…

Never questioned this?

Gems alive, her head was pounding along with the beat of her heart, but she screwed her eyes shut and blocked the world out, determined to follow this rabbit hole down. Something was wrong here, and maybe if she could puzzle out what, if she could find the missing piece, she could somehow make him whole again and, expressions willing, maybe that’d be the key to fixing this whole mess. Maybe it’d set them free. She just had to figure out why-

“Hey, Odile, are you okay?”

She jolted, whipping her head around to see, “Gems, Siffrin. You startled me…”

“Sorry,” he said. “Thinking on your wish?”

“Hah, no, I already made that,” she said. A stupid wish to win a coin flip that came to nothing in the end. And unimportant. She had to figure out… figure out…

Had to figure out what Siffrin intended to do with his life, right? Yes, that’s what she’d been doing.

“I was just… trying to figure out what to do afterwards,” she said. Maybe it was manipulative, but if she pretended she needed suggestions, maybe he’d offer something more tangible?

“Hmm? You don’t already know? I figured you’d wrap up your research.”

No, that’s right. He already had that idea in mind, didn’t he? She let out a bitter chuckle. “I’ll let you in on a secret. There is no research, Siffrin. It was just a convenient lie to explain why I’m here.”

He looked at her with a hard to read expression. “But… huh???”

They were off balance. Good. Maybe it’d trick him into saying something real.

“Yes, yes, sorry to give the game away, but I guess I realized that if I don’t admit it now, I might never. And I wouldn’t want to actually beat the King and then have to figure out what next. Plus I figure if I have a plan for after, if I have a goal, I might be more driven to reach it. Whatever helps, yes? So, any ideas?”

He was looking at her like she’d grown a second head, clearly thrown off. “You could… actually start researching something? Or, um… aren’t you writing a book?”

“My journal? That’s just personal notes. It’d be nonsense to anyone else.”

“Oh.”

She waited but, no, they weren’t offering anything up, were they. She’d have to take the offensive.

“What about you, Siffrin? What do you plan to do after?”

“Oh, uh…” he looked around and shrugged. “I haven’t really given it much thought.”

… not a lie. Interesting…

“Oh? Why not? I mean, you’re not even from Vaugaurde, you must have joined for some reason, right?” She could list theories, but that’d likely give him an out. She was wise to his game. At least half his answers, maybe more, were just mimicking what the other person intended to do. Otherwise it’s just what they’d most likely want to hear, save for perhaps telling Bonnie they’d go to space. An interesting outlier, that one. It seemed innocuous, but maybe it was important?

No, focus now. Theorize later.

Siffrin squirmed a little and finally chuckled awkwardly, offering an awkward shrug. “I didn’t really have anything better to do…”

And gems alive, he was not lying.

“I… see.”

Maybe she should let him go, but she needed to know one more thing first…

“And after we all go our own ways, you’ll be alright, right?”

“I guess I’ll go back to how I was before.”

Not a lie, but not an answer either. “And were you happy before?”

“Of course!”

She needed to talk to the others about this.

——————

I prefer tea, but buy me a Kofi?

[midday-clouds]

Yandere Batfamily x Neglected & "Immortal" Reader 》 II

Part I Part III Part IV Part V

Thank you so much for the love for the first one! 💞 There are so many ways I can imagine how this story can go and it's hard to pick one or try merging all the ideas. Nonetheless, I hope this meets your expectations!

CW: Stalking, Breaking and entering, Violence(Being stabbed, beating up a thief), Blood, (Menstion of past) Kidnapping

You had officially moved into your apartment in Bludhaven

Everything has moved so quickly and now you can finally relax

You gave up connecting with your family, got kidnapped, died, came back to life and moved out

It may be a bit much to pick the farthest college from the manor but you’re clearly unwanted there

Your family has neglected you and didn't do anything when you were kidnapped, so you have every right to be as far away from them as possible

It was honestly quite lucky that you were already accepted into a college in Bludhaven during your senior year. If you had applied after your kidnapping, the chances of you getting in would have been low.

But you’re here now and can finally feel happy. Well, if you don't count some of the nightmares you get from when you “died”.

Sometimes you do wonder how you survived that gunshot. Were you not hit somewhere vital? But then, where was the hole?

A part of you was curious and wanted to replicate the injury but that would be painful. You surviving the gunshot also could have been a one-time thing

You never ended up going to the police or the hospital because what were they going to do? You don’t have any proof that it even happened because your injury is gone, the blood left at the abandoned building is likely dried up and doesn’t look fresh, and Bruce probably threw away the ransom letter. 

The only proof you have that it even happened is your memories and you telling your friends. But the police or doctors would just look at you and say “You look fine now, no need to look into the situation anymore.” 

But enough about that though, you’ve got a few more hours before it gets dark and you want to get to know about the area.

It is still the middle of summer so your college classes haven't started yet. You could have waited until class started to move but you wanted to be out before Alfred returned from his vacation.

Alfred was the closest thing to family in the manor. But he and Bruce have never felt like safe adults to share your problems with. 

He should be back from his vacation now, has he found out about your kidnapping or did Bruce cover it up? He probably did to avoid getting news out. You should probably look into how you can change your surname.

Just as you finish your thoughts about the manor, you use your laptop to find interesting places in the area before heading out the door with directions in a notebook

Bruce and the rest of the family may know where you are currently, but bringing you back home was the hard part. Alfred had to convince Bruce that if he wanted you back, he shouldn’t just barge in all of a sudden. 

You’ve been hurt by the family's actions and won't return without a fight. 

But even then, Bruce has to see you. The entire family needs to see you with their own eyes at least once.

With this in mind, the whole family decides to take a small road trip to Bludhaven. They’d find you and figure out the best way to approach you without scaring you off. 

It was almost sundown when the family got to Bludhaven. They change into their vigilante gear so it’d be easier to hide in the shadows

Tim loads up the tracker on your phone and leads the way. It seems the tracker you have isn't the best because once the family gets close to your apartment, your phone just says your laptop is nearby instead of its exact location. 

No problem though, Tim can easily hack into the computer system for the apartment and find which room is yours.

Once your room is found, the family takes a peek inside. You’re nowhere to be found, which is a little worrying.

The locks on your windows are broken as the family opens them and sneaks inside. Your living room and kitchen are littered with boxes but that’s it. They each take a look around to find you but come out empty-handed. If you were here, they may do exactly what Alfred discouraged and just take you home. However, because you aren’t home, the only other place you could be is outside. Where it’s dark out and you’re alone.

Worried for your safety, the family immediately goes on another search for your

Because you could be anywhere, the family decides to split up to find you

You look around as you walk back to your apartment, a few small bags of food and snacks in your hands. Because it’s getting dark, you do begin to pick up the pace. You’re so focused on not getting home that you don’t notice when a person peeks over at you from a rooftop.

You’re just about to pass a convenience store when someone runs out and knocks into you. The person curses as they quickly get up and reach for their bag of stolen goods. Filled with adrenaline, the thief takes out a knife and stabs you. They were aiming to kill you so there weren’t any witnesses but ended up putting the knife in your shoulder. As the thief makes a run for it, a certain vigilante quickly blocks their path

Nightwing goes full force on the thief. How dare they hurt his baby bird. He refuses to make the same mistake of leaving you alone and hurt.

Your heart is racing as you attempt to pull the knife out of your shoulder. Your eyelids feel weak but you refuse to fall asleep. Unlike before, you aren’t restrained and can still escape.

You pull the knife out and let it fall on the ground next to you. After a few breaths, you do your best to stand up. You take a small glance at Nightwing before quickly running back to your apartment. 

Once inside, you almost collapse on the floor but try to get your first aid kit.

Your bandaging may not be that good but the best but it’s enough for you to feel comfortable sleeping for the night

Nightwing got a few swings in before he heard the sound of something falling onto the ground

He looks up to see that you've pulled the knife out of you and about to stand up

Before Nightwing could help you, his opponent throws a punch while he was distracted.

The vigilante shifts his attention to the thief when you suddenly make an escape. Night wing attempts to call out to you but it appears you didn't notice.

He sighs as he handcuffs the thief. This guy was such a hassle that Nightwing almost forgot why he was in such a hurry to wrap up the whole situation

The vigilante turns to where you were but only finds a bloodied knife and the bags you left behind. He carefully picks up the bags and knife while he considers where you have gone.

Spotting a trail of blood, Nightwing quickly follows it, contacting the rest of the family as well

The family gathers at the same spot near your apartment and finds you sleeping in your bed. Wanting to help you, Nightwing comes up with an idea

You lay on your bed, waiting for sleep to consume you when a knock comes from your door. You try to ignore it but the knocking continues. The only thing that gets you up is the realization that the knocking is too loud to be from your door. Opening your eyes, you realize that someone is at your window. 

Getting up, you pick up your pepper spray as you slowly walk towards the window. You have your curtains closed so you try to peek past them to see who is there

Who you see is Nightwing and it gets you worried. Does he think you were involved with that other person? He must have seen that the thief stabbed you at least

Not wanting to make the vigilant wait, you open your window slightly. Only enough so you can hear what Nightwing has to say

Nightwing happily greets you and shows you the bag of items that you left behind when leaving the scene.

Surprised, you thank Nightwing and open the window. Making sure to not open the window more than necessary, just enough to collect the bags

Just as you reach for it, the vigilante points out your bandaged shoulder. He goes on to say the importance of properly handling injuries and offers to rebandage your arm.

It takes you a couple of moments before you agree to his help.

Like a big brother, he sits you down and redoes the bandages. Honestly, it makes you wish your actual big brothers would care for you in this way. Even though one of them is right in front of you

Once your shoulder has properly been bandaged, you thank Nightwing for his help. He offers to stay the night but you tell him that you’d be fine. Plus, doesn’t he still have to take care of Bludhaven

You make sure to close and lock your window once Nightwing leaves before going back to bed.  As sleep consumes you, your whole family watches from a distance. You didn’t seem to recognize Dick as Nightwing so it may be possible to get you to trust them before taking you home

[frostedfragments]

calling dr zayne! ✧.* zayne x reader ✧.* 2.2k words ✧.* only fans au summary: dr zayne stumbles across his favourite patient's onlyfans account warnings!: zayne breaks some rules!!!, masturbation, use of a sex toy, voyeurism note: couldn't help but imagine an au where zayne doesn't know you and you wind up as his patient...and breaks a couple of dr oaths lol note2: ive' never seen the of website so if the mechanics of it are innacurate pls ignore and lets stay playful together

divider cred. @enchanthings-a

There’s only so many online medical articles one can read before they need some mindless doom scrolling. It’s not often Zayne logs into his social media accounts, he much prefers to spend his small amount of free time reading or hiking, but he can’t resist catching up on what his friends and family are posting on Instagram. He doesn’t see them nearly as often as he should, and it’s the small trickle of guilt down his throat that has him scrolling on his computer, smiling when he sees a couple photos of his parents on their holiday, his co-workers on a night out he declined to join them on, and the occasional cat video.

He’s not sure how he finds it, but the explore page is such an overstimulating mess of faces and bodies that he usually avoids it completely. It’s only because his hand twitches that he even sees the post in the first place, but he looks. And continues to look.

The woman in the photo doesn’t show her face, just the long line of her neck and the soft, plumpness of her cleavage in a bra that leaves little to the imagination. He briefly wonders how a picture like this is allowed on the app, but he’s soon clicking on the profile before he can stop himself, intrigued by smooth skin and little else. He is still a man after all, and once he is exposed to the abundance of tantalising images on the woman’s profile, he is reminded how long it has been since he had his hands on a woman.

His favourite patient doesn’t count, he thinks reflexively, frowning that the thought even crept into his mind at all. You’ve been his patient for roughly six months now; you’ve had a heart condition all your life, one that is well-managed and non-life threatening, but still needs regular monitoring. Your previous heart doctor passed away, and so your case was given to Zayne.

He tries to shake the memory of your face out of his mind as he glances through the pictures, having every intention of clicking out of the woman’s profile and logging off for the evening. Maybe even taking a shower to rid his body from this sudden thrum of energy that radiates low in his stomach, but a link in the bio of the profile catches his eye. Snags his attention like a siren, luring him in with the promise of more, and he almost feels as if he’s doing something illegal when he clicks on it.

OnlyFans isn’t completely new to Zayne - there are a few colleagues he knows who watch adult content on the site, though he mistakenly always thought it was a place where fetish content lived. Feet videos, women humiliating men on camera, food play - not really his taste. But when the link has loaded, and racier images of the woman appear, Zayne feels his cock twitch, feels it begin to fill out as his eyes graze the image of the woman laying on a bed, back arched, breasts displayed beautifully in a black lace bra which leaves her pert, pink nipples completely uncovered.

God, he needs to get laid or something. He hasn’t had the time to date, or even the energy to masturbate, always exhausted from multiple surgeries in one day or typing up notes from said surgeries. His body reminds him now of the necessity to release all the pent up tension that collects in his spine, and he absentmindedly rubs his hand over the bulge in his slacks, sighing softly at the instant swell of pleasure.

His eyes dart back up to the screen, a flush warming his cheeks and the tips of his ears, but he makes an account anyway before he can stop himself, typing in his credit card information and subscribing to the woman who seems to have come out of nowhere and locked in his attention with just a few pictures of her body.

Once he has full access to the page, he scrolls through picture after picture, some more explicit than others. When he reaches the video section, he notices one posted just a few hours ago titled watch me cum while i think about him. The thumbnail shows the woman in a pale pink lingerie set, plush thighs wrapped in white, lace stockings as she sits demurely on white bed sheets. Her neck, chin and full mouth are all that is visible of her face, and Zayne’s gut tenses as he moves the mouse over, clicking play on the video.

His speakers hum with the sound of the video as the woman walks towards the bed, sitting down and smiling softly. Her lips are glossy with a balm or something, and Zayne resigns himself to his base need, slowly unbuckling his belt as the girl shuffles back on the bed slightly.

“Hi guys,” Her voice filters through the speakers, and Zayne frowns, though he can’t think what it is about the voice that makes him pause, “I just got home, and I saw my favourite doctor today. Obviously, though you’ve all been asking, I can’t say his name, but just trust me when I say he’s…so fine,”

Zayne’s hand pulls down the zipper of his slacks, licking his lips, watching closely as she trails her hands over her skin that already looks flushed with arousal. The bra barely contains her full breasts, nipples already straining against the thin fabric. He needs to see them, his hands feel empty with the need to fill his palms with their softness, and he dips into his briefs to pull out his cock, already hard and red at the tip.

The woman has barely touched herself yet, and he feels so pent up he might come before she even gets started.

Reaching over, the woman grabs what looks to be a pink sleep mask, hands disappearing out of frame before she sits back on her elbows, her full face in frame, half covered by the mask. She rolls onto her tummy as she stretches across the mattress again, the sounds of a drawer opening and closing. Her ass is almost bare, round and soft in a matching pink thong. Zayne let’s his hand stroke experimentally over his dick, exhaling shakily.

The girl is back facing the camera now, long hair fanning out over the sheets. It has Zayne pausing again, the first shiver of alarm running through his spine as he spots something on her hip. A tattoo.

The same tattoo his new patient has. But surely, it’s just a coincidence. Maybe you and this girl just have similar taste. He pauses his movements, still as stone while his brain works overtime to avoid the truth of the situation.

By now the girl, or as Zayne realises with a start, you are fully spread out on the mattress. Your legs move restlessly, like you’re so turned on you can’t stay still, and Zayne’s eyes close at the way the thought sits heavy in his groin, balls tightening as his hand squeezes the base of his dick.

He absolutely cannot do this, he cannot watch a video of a patient writhing around on their bed in nothing but their lingerie. The item you had pulled out, a sizable pink dildo, is laying by your thigh, and there is no question between that and the title about what is about to happen. But then you start speaking again, and Zayne is forced to open his eyes at the sound of your voice.

“Will you guys stay with me?” Your voice is breathier now, and you lick your lips when your hand palms a breast. Zayne’s jaw clenches, “I’ve needed to come all day since my appointment. My doctor has such big hands, it’s so fucking hot -” You gasp, fingers twisting a nipple through your bra, and Zayne’s thighs tense, a thick bead of precum dribbling down his cock at the idea that you’re about to think of him while you fuck yourself.

He must be fucking dreaming. Or maybe it’s a nightmare, given that he’s breaking every single possible rule right now by not clicking out of this video. But his dick is almost throbbing in his hand now, and he can’t rip his eyes away from the screen when your hand trails over your stomach, fingers slipping under the elastic of your thong. Your hand presses back against the mattress as you moan softly.

“I’ve been wet the whole way home,” You whine, “His voice, it’s so deep and soft. And his eyes; he watches me like he could ruin me if he wanted to. I can’t stop thinking about him,”

Zayne loses the battle against his entire brain screaming at him that this is wrong, this is a terrible idea. That he needs to stop. But he can’t, how is he supposed to stop when you’re rocking against your hand, lips parted to accommodate the ragged breaths and throaty sounds you make. He strokes himself, all the air leaving his lungs.

Your other hand reaches down to your thigh where the dildo sits, forgotten, and you smile as you hold it up to the camera, “I chose my biggest one for tonight. I want to imagine him fucking - ah - fucking me,”

“Oh, fuck,” He grits, other hand gripping the arm of his desk chair. His balls ache, and he runs his thumb over the head of his cock, watching you with half-open eyes as you shimmy out of the thong.

“How much do you want to see?” Zayne almost thinks you’re speaking directly to him, and it feels that way with the intimate hum of your voice. Maybe you are, maybe you’re imagining him doing this right now. Breaking every rule and fucking his hand while you shift on the bed, facing away from the camera and falling forward to reveal your soaked, pink pussy and the tight hole above. Zayne’s teeth nearly bite right through his lower lip when your hand reaches back, small fingers pushing right inside.

His hand speeds up, the slick sounds filling the room alongside your moans, and he wishes you were right here with him. He wishes that instead of removing your fingers and sliding the dildo through your folds, that you were here, bouncing on his cock.

You sit up slightly, looking over your shoulder as you place the dildo at your entrance. Your lips curl into a smile, “I don’t even need any lube tonight. I’m so fucking wet,”

“Yeah, you are,” Zayne murmurs to himself, half-mad with desire to see you be filled up. Even if he can’t be the one to do it, his teeth ache as he clenches his jaw, waiting for you to sink down onto that silicone, imagining it's him.

Teeth pressed into your soft lower lip, you slowly take every inch of the dildo, thighs trembling slightly, enough to make the skin of your ass ripple a bit. When you raise your hips up again, the silicone is shiny with your need, and Zayne’s mouth is watering, his fist jerking almost too fast. He doesn’t want this to be over yet, but when you start to bounce it’s too late to slow down. You’re almost moving at the same pace as his hand, and he groans, falling back into the seat so he can jerk his hips up a little, fantasising that he’s under you, that you’re taking him like a good girl would.

“Oh, god,” You whimper, the wet sounds of you fucking yourself like a melody through Zayne’s speakers, “s-so big, oh he’s so big, I know it -,”

“Shit,” Zayne digs his nails into his thigh to stop himself from coming. There’s sweat running down his chest now, and he reaches up to undo his tie, tossing it to the ground. He can barley breathe, his cock so wet it’s almost like he’s actually fucking you.

“F-fuck- I waited all day for this. Since I left his - hng - office. God, I want him to fuck me on the desk. I bet he would be so good, so rough. Oh god, please,” You’re no longer bouncing on the dildo, instead grinding your hips on it, skin dewy and flushed red, “God, I’m gonna come, oh - oh, fuck -”

Zayne is shaking, his hand almost cramping from how fast he’s dragging it along his cock. His balls give a warning throb before he flicks his eyes up to see you coming with him, your thighs twitching, hips moving jaggedly as you continue to grind down on the fake cock. He twists his wrist at the head of his length and groans loudly, closing his eyes, imagining you’re coating his dick, coming all over it. His cum stains his fingers and his white shirt, chest dropping harshly with every breath he drags in. His body feels weightless, eyes heavy, and he opens them to watch as you roll over on the bed, on your back with your legs parted, showing him and the camera the mess you’ve made.

Zayne’s cock twitches back to life at the thought of cleaning you up with his tongue.

Before he closes the video, he watches till the end. Stares at the way you slowly come back down to earth, sleepily stretching and grinning at the camera, voice hoarse, “Thank you, doctor,” you giggle, before the screen goes black, and Zayne is left to stare at his sweaty, fucked out expression in the reflection.

“Fuck,” He says.

[pomegranatelifethis]

In the Hollow of Shadows

The rain stung your face as you stormed out of Wayne Manor, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind you with a finality that echoed in your chest. Your backpack, slung over one shoulder, held the bare essentials—clothes, a phone with a dying battery, and the tattered remains of your pride. The argument still burned in your mind, a jagged wound that refused to close.

“You’re overreacting, Y/N,” Dick had said, his voice calm but dismissive, like you were a child throwing a tantrum. “You don’t need to be in the field with us. It’s safer this way.”

Safer. That word had been a slap. As if you hadn’t trained, hadn’t begged to prove yourself, hadn’t spent years watching your so-called family leap across Gotham’s rooftops while you were left behind, a forgotten shadow in a house full of heroes. Bruce’s silence had been the worst—his piercing blue eyes fixed on his computer screen, not even sparing you a glance. Jason had snorted, muttering something about “drama queens,” while Tim barely looked up from his coffee. Damian, predictably, had sneered, “If you can’t handle the cave, you’d be a liability.”

You’d screamed, you’d cried, you’d thrown every ounce of your hurt at them, and they’d just… stared. Like you were a ghost they could barely see. So you left. You didn’t expect them to chase after you. They never had before.

The streets of Gotham were merciless, the neon lights flickering like dying stars. You trudged through the rain, your sneakers soaking through, your heart a lead weight. You didn’t know where you were going—just away. Anywhere but that suffocating manor. You didn’t notice the van idling at the corner, its engine a low growl beneath the storm. You didn’t see the figures watching you, their eyes glinting with malice, until it was too late.

The rain had been your last taste of freedom, its cold bite a fleeting memory now buried under days—weeks?—of darkness. You didn’t know how long you’d been in this place, this concrete tomb that smelled of damp rot and despair. Time was a thief here, stealing hours and days until they blurred into a single, unending nightmare. The ropes that bound your wrists at the start had been replaced by chains, their cold links biting into your skin whenever you shifted on the thin mattress shoved against the wall. The room was small, its walls scarred with cracks and stains, the single flickering bulb overhead your only companion. It buzzed like a dying insect, casting shadows that danced mockingly across your bruised skin.

You didn’t cry anymore. Not after the first week, when your tears had run dry and your voice had cracked from screaming. No one had come then, and no one would come now. The men who held you—three of them, though you only knew one by name, Marcus—made sure you understood that. “Scream all you want, sweetheart,” Marcus had said, his crooked smile gleaming under the bulb’s sickly light. “Ain’t nobody out there listening.” His words were a blade, slicing through the fragile hope you’d clung to after they’d snatched you from Gotham’s streets. You’d been so consumed by your anger, your hurt, that you hadn’t seen the van, hadn’t heard the footsteps until rough hands yanked you into the dark.

～～⁠～⁠～

The First Days

The early days were a haze of pain and defiance. You fought at first, kicking, biting, spitting curses you’d heard Jason toss around in the Batcave. You’d thought of him then—his sharp tongue, his reckless fire—and tried to channel it, to be unbreakable. But defiance came at a cost. Marcus’s fists were heavy, his patience thin. A backhand to your cheek left your lip split, blood tangy on your tongue. Another man, stockier, with a scar across his brow, preferred his boots, aiming for your ribs when you refused to eat the stale bread they shoved at you. “Ungrateful,” he’d snarled, his voice a low growl. The third, quieter, never touched you, but his eyes—cold, calculating, lingering—were worse. He watched, always watched, his silence a promise of something you didn’t want to name.

They didn’t just hurt you. They stripped you bare, piece by piece. Marcus’s words were venom, dripping with mockery as he leaned too close, his breath hot against your ear. “No one’s coming for you, princess. You’re nothing. Nobody.” He’d laugh when you flinched, when you pulled away, your chains rattling. The harassment was constant—taunts about your body, your weakness, your abandonment. They knew enough to twist the knife, to make you question whether the Batfamily even noticed you were gone. “Bet they’re glad to be rid of you,” Scarface had said once, tossing a moldy sandwich at your feet. “One less mouth to feed.”

You tried to hold onto memories of Wayne Manor, to anchor yourself. Alfred’s warm tea, Dick’s rare smiles, even Damian’s cutting remarks—anything to remind you that you’d existed outside this room. But the memories slipped, fraying at the edges. Had they cared? Had they ever? The silence from the outside world was deafening, louder than Marcus’s shouts or the crack of fists against your skin. You’d been invisible in the manor, a shadow among heroes. Why would they look for you now?

～～⁠～⁠～

The Weeks That Followed

By the second week, survival became instinct. You learned their patterns. Marcus was impulsive, quick to anger but easily distracted. Scarface was methodical, his violence precise, calculated to break you without leaving you useless. The quiet one—Watcher, you called him in your head—was the enigma, his presence a constant weight. He brought you water sometimes, unprompted, but his eyes never met yours. You didn’t trust it. Kindness here was a trap.

The abuse wasn’t always physical. They starved you for days, then offered food laced with cruel choices—eat what they gave you, no matter how foul, or go hungry. You chose hunger once, your stomach clawing at itself until you couldn’t stand it. When you finally ate, Marcus’s laughter was a bitter reward. “See? You’re ours now.” The chains were another game, loosened just enough to let you hope for escape, only to be tightened when you reached for the door. They wanted you to try, to fail, to learn that resistance was pointless.

The harassment grew worse. Marcus’s hands lingered, brushing your arm, your hair, his touch a violation you couldn’t escape. “Pretty thing like you,” he’d murmur, “could be useful if you played nice.” You’d spit in his face once, earning a black eye and a week without food, but the fire in you hadn’t died yet. Not then. Watcher’s stares were different, clinical but invasive, like he was cataloging you for some purpose you didn’t understand. Scarface was blunt, his threats explicit—promises of what they’d do if you didn’t “learn your place.” You curled into yourself at night, your body a shield, your mind a fortress. You wouldn’t break. Not yet.

～～⁠～⁠～

One Month In

A month passed, or so you guessed from the faint scratches you’d carved into the wall with a rusted nail you’d found under the mattress. Thirty marks, thirty days of survival. Your body was a map of pain—bruises fading into new ones, cuts that scabbed over only to be reopened. Your ribs ached from Scarface’s last “lesson,” your wrists raw from the chains. But the physical pain was secondary now. The real battle was in your head.

You started talking to yourself, whispering memories to keep sane. You’d recite Alfred’s scone recipe, step by step, imagining the warmth of the kitchen. You’d replay Dick’s terrible puns, the ones that made you groan but secretly smile. You’d even conjure Jason’s voice, rough but steady, telling you to “tough it out.” But the memories were double-edged. They reminded you of what you’d lost, of the family that hadn’t come. Had they even looked? Or were they too busy saving Gotham, too busy being heroes, to notice the hole you’d left behind?

The loneliness was a living thing, wrapping around you like a second skin. You’d never felt so alone in the manor, not even when Bruce ignored you or Damian called you useless. There, at least, you’d had the illusion of belonging. Here, you had nothing but the bulb’s flicker and the men who saw you as less than human. You started to wonder if Marcus was right. Maybe you were nothing. Maybe you always had been.

～～⁠～⁠～

Two Months

By the second month, you were a ghost of yourself. Your body was thinner, your strength sapped by hunger and pain. The bruises had layered, old purples blending into fresh reds. Your voice was a rasp, unused except for the occasional plea or curse. The fire in you still flickered, but it was faint, buried under exhaustion and despair. You’d stopped scratching the wall. What was the point? No one was counting.

Marcus had grown bored, his visits less frequent but no less cruel. Scarface was relentless, his boots a familiar punishment. Watcher was the constant now, bringing you water, bread, sometimes a blanket. You hated him most. His small acts of mercy weren’t kindness—they were control, a reminder that your survival depended on them. He’d sit sometimes, just outside the door, silent but present, his gaze a weight you couldn’t shake. You stopped looking at him. You stopped looking at anything.

The abuse had become routine, a rhythm of pain and humiliation. Fists when you spoke out of turn, threats when you didn’t move fast enough, harassment that left you feeling dirty, hollow. They didn’t need to chain you anymore; the fear was enough. You’d flinch at footsteps, your heart racing before you even saw their faces. But somewhere, deep inside, a spark remained. You’d survived the Batfamily’s neglect. You’d survived two months of this. You could survive longer.

You started planning, not escape—not yet—but survival. You memorized their voices, their habits. Marcus drank too much, his temper worse when he was drunk. Scarface slept during the day, his snores echoing through the walls. Watcher was meticulous, always checking the locks, but he left the key on a ring at his belt. You watched, you waited, you endured. If no one was coming for you, you’d save yourself. Eventually.

～～⁠～⁠～

The Edge of Hope

One night, or what you thought was night, you heard something—a faint crash, far beyond the walls. Your heart leapt, a traitor that still hoped. You pressed your ear to the cold concrete, straining to hear. Voices, muffled, angry. Not Marcus, not Scarface, not Watcher. Someone else. You didn’t dare believe it was them, the Batfamily. You couldn’t afford to. But the spark in you flared, just a little.

The door didn’t open that night. No one came. The sounds faded, and the silence returned, heavier than before. You curled up on the mattress, your chains clinking softly, and whispered to yourself, a promise: “You’re still here. You’re still you.” It was all you had left.

The crash you heard that night lingers in your mind like a ghost, a faint echo you can’t shake. You tell yourself it was nothing—another trick of this concrete prison, another cruel game your captors play to keep you teetering on the edge of hope. But the spark inside you, that stubborn ember you’ve guarded through two months of hell, refuses to die. You don’t dare believe it’s them. The Batfamily doesn’t come for shadows like you. Still, you listen, ear pressed to the wall, heart pounding against ribs that ache with every breath. The silence that follows is worse than the pain. It’s proof you’re still alone.

Days pass, or maybe hours—time is a traitor here, slipping through your fingers like sand. Marcus hasn’t come since the crash, his absence a gnawing unease. Scarface’s boots haven’t echoed in the hall, and even Watcher, with his cold eyes and calculated mercy, has vanished. The bulb overhead flickers, its buzz weaker now, like it’s giving up too. You’re curled on the mattress, your body a map of bruises—yellowed patches on your arms, deep purples across your ribs, a fresh red welt on your cheek from Scarface’s last visit. The chains are gone, but their weight lingers, a phantom on your wrists. You don’t move much anymore. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts worst of all.

You’re whispering to yourself again, a lifeline to sanity. “You’re still here. You’re still you.” The words are a ritual, a shield against the void. You trace the scars on your knuckles, souvenirs from the early days when you fought back. You were fire then, all defiance and rage. Now you’re ash, but ash can still burn. You have to believe that.

～～⁠～⁠～

The door explodes inward, a deafening crack that rips you from your haze. You flinch, curling tighter into yourself, your bruised arms shielding your face. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate—flood the room, and voices overlap, sharp and urgent. You don’t look up. You can’t. Your heart is a drum, pounding too fast, too loud. It’s a trick, you think. Another game. Marcus, Scarface, Watcher—they’re back to break what’s left of you.

“Y/N!” The voice cuts through, familiar but distant, like a song you haven’t heard in years. Dick. You don’t move. You don’t trust it. Hands reach for you, gloved and steady, and you jerk back, a strangled gasp escaping your throat. The touch burns, not with pain but with memory—Marcus’s hands, Watcher’s stares, the violation of every unwanted brush. You press yourself against the wall, your breath shallow, your eyes squeezed shut.

“It’s me, Y/N. It’s Dick.” His voice is softer now, laced with something you can’t name—guilt, maybe, or pity. You hate it. You don’t want his pity. You don’t want anything from him, from any of them. You crack your eyes open, just enough to see him crouched in front of you, his blue eyes wide with horror. He’s in his Nightwing suit, the black and blue stark against the dim light. Behind him, shadows move—Jason’s red helmet glints, Tim’s cape brushes the floor, Damian’s scowl is a blade. Bruce is there too, a silent monolith in the doorway, his cowl hiding everything but the tight line of his mouth.

They’re here. After two months, they’re here. The spark in you should flare, should scream with relief, but it doesn’t. It gutters, smothered by the weight of everything you’ve endured. You don’t feel saved. You feel exposed, raw, like a wound they’ve come to prod.

“Don’t touch me,” you rasp, your voice a broken thing. Dick’s hands freeze, hovering inches from your arm. His face crumples, and you look away, your gaze falling on the bruises that bloom across your skin. You’re a canvas of pain, every mark a testament to your survival—and their absence. You pull your knees to your chest, making yourself small, untouchable. Contact is a threat now, a trigger that sends your mind spiraling back to Marcus’s leering grin, Scarface’s boots, Watcher’s silent promises.

“We’re getting you out of here,” Jason says, his voice rough but steady, like he’s trying to anchor you. He steps closer, and you flinch again, your body betraying you. His helmet tilts, and you can’t see his eyes, but you feel his hesitation, his anger—not at you, but at this place, at what it’s done to you. “They’re gone. The bastards who did this—they’re not walking away.”

You don’t care. You should, but you don’t. Justice, vengeance, whatever they’re offering—it’s too late. The damage is done, carved into your skin, your mind, your soul. You shake your head, a small, jerky motion. “Just… get me out.” Your voice cracks, and you hate how weak it sounds, how it betrays the fire you’ve fought to keep alive.

Tim steps forward, his tablet glowing as he scans the room, probably analyzing every detail—chains, bruises, the scratches on the wall. He’s clinical, detached, and it stings. “We need to move,” he says, glancing at Bruce. “This place is wired. Cameras, maybe explosives.”

Bruce nods, his voice low and controlled. “Y/N, can you walk?”

The question is a knife. Can you walk? As if you haven’t spent two months forcing yourself to stand, to endure, to survive. You want to scream at him, to demand why it took them so long, why they left you to rot. But the words won’t come. You’re too tired, too broken. You nod, pushing yourself up, your legs trembling under your weight. Pain lances through your ribs, your knees buckling, and Dick reaches out instinctively. You recoil, a sharp “No!” escaping before you can stop it. He steps back, hands raised, his face a mask of regret.

～～⁠～⁠～

The journey out is a blur. The Batfamily moves like a machine, precise and coordinated, clearing rooms, disarming traps. You trail behind, each step a battle against your body’s protests. Jason stays close, his presence a silent guard, while Tim murmurs updates into his comms. Damian is ahead, his katana drawn, his silence louder than any words. Bruce leads, his cape a dark shield, but he doesn’t look at you. Not once.

You’re hyper-aware of everything—their footsteps, their breathing, the way their shadows stretch across the walls. Every sound is a threat, every movement a potential attack. You keep your arms wrapped around yourself, your bruised skin hidden under the tattered remains of your shirt. You don’t want them to see, don’t want their pity or their guilt. You don’t want anything but to disappear.

The night air hits you like a slap when you finally emerge, the cold biting into your wounds. Gotham looms around you, its skyline a jagged reminder of the life you left behind. The Batmobile waits, sleek and silent, and you hesitate. It’s safety, it’s escape, but it’s also them—the family that forgot you. Dick notices, his voice gentle but urgent. “Y/N, we need to go. You’re safe now.”

Safe. That word again. It’s a lie, and you both know it. You’re not safe, not from the memories, not from the fear that coils in your gut at the thought of being touched, of being seen. But you nod, climbing into the back, your body rigid as you press yourself against the door, as far from them as you can get.

～～⁠～⁠～

Wayne Manor is unchanged, its gothic spires looming like sentinels as the Batmobile pulls into the cave. The familiar hum of computers, the faint scent of motor oil—it should feel like home. It doesn’t. It feels like a museum, a relic of a life you no longer fit into. Alfred is there, his face paling as he sees you, his hands trembling as he reaches out. You step back, your breath hitching, and his hands fall, his eyes glistening.

“Master Y/N,” he says, his voice thick. “I… I’m so sorry.”

You can’t meet his gaze. You can’t meet anyone’s. The cave is too bright, too loud, the weight of their stares crushing. You’re covered in bruises, your body a testament to your ordeal, but it’s the invisible scars—the fear, the isolation, the betrayal—that hurt most. You’re afraid of everything now, of the hands that might reach for you, of the voices that might promise things they can’t deliver. You’re afraid of them, your family, because they left you to this fate.

Bruce finally speaks, his voice low, controlled. “Y/N, we need to get you to the med bay. Leslie’s on her way.”

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. “No. I just… I need to be alone.” You don’t wait for permission. You turn, your steps unsteady, and head for the stairs. Their voices follow, a chorus of concern and confusion, but you don’t stop. You can’t. You climb, each step a reminder of the night you left, the night this all began. You reach your room, the door still ajar from when you stormed out two months ago. It’s untouched, a time capsule of a person who no longer exists.

You lock the door, your hands shaking, and slide to the floor, your back against the wood. The bruises throb, the memories scream, and the silence is deafening. They’re here now, the Batfamily, but it’s too late. You’re not the sibling they knew, not the shadow they ignored. You’re something else—fractured, haunted, alive but not whole.

You whisper to yourself, one last time: “You’re still here. You’re still you.” But the words feel hollow, a promise you’re not sure you can keep.

[scriptseekstories]

Queen Bee’s Hive

Chapter 10- Static Amongst Memories

A/N: Guess who’s back after not existing for almost two weeks 🧍🏽 not my fault (totally my fault I forgot about I had to write instead of daydreaming)

Dick held the mantel of being the big brother they can rely on. He couldn’t say no to his baby brothers and sisters, especially when they feel low. He loves his family, seeing it expand over the years he knew them like the back of his hand.

Yet ever since a week ago he felt like shredding that mantel to pieces. He couldn’t even imagine being the best brother after failing you, losing you, seeing you in that grave made him fall into disparity.

“I-Is it done? Did you finally get to my baby bird? Are we going to see them one last time?” He asked in a frantic manner, gripping the back of Barbara’s chair, causing her to scowl at him and swatted his hand away.

“Back off birdbrain, we’re all wanting to see them,” She hissed at him, her calm demeanor didn’t hide her shaking hands that were filled with excitement and dread. The Bat Cave was filled with the entire family, all waiting around as the process of infiltrating your phone was almost complete.

She wanted to see how truly a genius you were, but it made the fact she didn’t see you as you, and that made her feel horrible because she saw you the same way people saw her when she was first bound it her wheelchair. She swore to never make others feel weak for who they are.

God, this whole family is full of hypocrites.

“Dick done with his aneurysm?” Jason asked while limping back to the Bat computer. It was a mere few moments after his attempted murder on the bee beast, being scolded heavily by Bruce and Alfred before his broke wrist was tended to.

"Look," Damien spoke up, "Whatever we will see, it'll be out of respect and closure... even if we don't deserve it," Ever since your death, Damien has gone through a roller coaster of emotions, your room, photos, now these videos he inspected very single thing just to understand what he failed to see all thise time.

“So you have managed to break through the H.I.V.E defense, congratulations! ~🐝”

A cheery robotic voice popped that caused everyone to scramble and stand right in front of the computer. Barbara grinned widely in triumphant pride before clicking on the keyboard.

“The few reasons to do so is that if my creator has had their device stolen, a simple hacker attempting to get a hard-on for getting through strong encryption, or that my creator has sadly passed, ~🐝”

Duke and Alfred looked at each other, hugging out breathless laughs. That was created by you alright, even if one of them knew you for hours, it was definitely your humor.

“I must advise you to handle with my creator’s mind with care, they were a very gentle soul, ~🐝”

With a glitch and a static, the voice went silent before beginning to upload files of videos into the Bat Computer. Barbara swallowed hard, before pressing play to the first video ever recorded.

The family went silent when the video showed the camera behind shaken around, being set up before staying still, showing off the empty warehouse. Nobody appeared on screen for a moment before a child like voice began to make “duuuun, dun dundun” sounds and a cardboard with scribbles that appeared to be earth came on screen.

“Earth!!” A very young voice that belonged to you years ago spoke “What is it? A floating rock drifting in space? A massive planet filled with awesome life and color? And why is it considered to be the greatest?” You dramatically asked.

The cardboard was thrown to the side, and there you were. You were only 10 years old, yet your smile never changed in Alfred’s eyes. His gloved hands tighten around the chair, tears welling up as you giggled on screen.

“Simple. Plants and animals! They were first roaming the earth way before the mere concept of humans! And plants are like the superheroes to them! They feed us, give us protection, and provided materials to make our world today!” You waved your arms up in the air, giggling while you yelped when the camera unfocused on you, frantically fixing it.

“But that’s the problem. Humans are getting greedy and hurting this planet, causing the bee population to go out rapidly! Which is where we come in!” You stepped out of view, before pulling a cart with flourishing plants on top, cloth covering a large object underneath.

“(M/N) Raine, a wonderful and beautiful woman who spent her life on saving those bees. She had a whole group to help her, even got funded by The Bruce Wayne!” Another scramble and you held up a different cardboard that had a photo taped to it of your mother, your finger pressing on a crude drawing of the Wayne Enterprise logo.

“Right before he ghosted her and got her pregnant like the slut he was,” You then bluntly stated, “But that doesn’t matter! Because despite her no longer being here… I-I made it my goal to keep her legacy alive,” You trailed off, eyes drifting away before clearing your throat.

Meanwhile, Bruce watched with his heart aching at the fact you saw so lowly of him. Though he cannot blame you, what you said was true, and he regrets it every single day until he dies.

“Hello, my name is (Name) Raine Way… Raine, and this is day one of my re-research to bring Project: Honey back! For you, mama!” You swirled in your chair, giggling as you pulled the cloth off the cart, revealing the small beehive that belonged to your mother. You tended to it all this time even after a year being away.

The video ended, showing the black screen that reflected the whole Wayne Family. Some stared in awe, others letting their tears fall. You were so small, so alone in the Manor yet you still smiled as bright as the sun.

“Show us more,” Bruce managed to choke out, placing a shoulder on Barbara’s shoulder. She nodded and clicked on another.

~

“Day 15, all these papers don’t make sense!” You whined, holding up old papers, with complex math equations and blueprints of bees invoking over complicating words.

“But that’s why mama was so smart! She could understand this…” The look in your eyes the kids knew very well. Missing your parents was hard, but they had each other to comfort. But not you.

~

“Day 46, and the bees have hatched their new queen!” You beamed, “Aaand, guess what? Bruce took in another kid! His name is Jason, and he’s so nice to me! My new big brother!” You rambled on as you let a bee perched on your finger.

Dick’s heart shattered. He never was mentioned once, and Jason got the title of big brother? He… deserved it.

~

“Day 847… JayJay is…” You hiccuped, “I don’t know why… how… but he’s-,” You couldn’t finish the recording as you broke down, sobbing into your hands as you scrambled for the camera, cutting it off quickly.

Tim gripped Jason’s hand as he felt his brother shudder ragged breaths. It was a hard blow to remember that day, he was selfish to not see how it truly affected everyone.

~

“I think this is day 1034? Wow,” You breathed out, looking older, “Guess helping for the greater good takes a while, huh?” You looked tired, with a terrible black eye on your left side.

Jason remembered. The day he returned, he punched your face out of anger. But it wasn’t for you. Never towards you he would be angry.

~

“Day 2304, Just had to shake off a dog attack from… a brat,” You tried to joke, but there was bitterness in your tone, rubbing the bandaged area on your arm.

Damien winced ever so slightly and looked away. That damn scar on your forehead stayed permanently traced on your skin the moment he arrived. He made it your problem for him not understanding anything outside the League of Assassins.

~

“Day-! Um… well, it’s my 15th birthday,” You gave a little cheer, “Wanted to try and ask Cass and Steph to hang out… didn’t even acknowledge me,” You rolled your eyes, taking a deep breath before smiling again when your bees began to swarm the sweet fruits you brought them.

Steph looked down in shame, Cass clutching the photo that held you and your mother she took from the warehouse.

~

“Another kid came in today… his name was Duke,” That was all you said, tiredly looking at the camera before moving on with your bee process, as if he wasn’t worth mentioning.

It hurt Duke deeply, but he knew it wasn’t personal truly. The others swept him away before he had the chance to know you, and he shamefully admitted he never bothered to see you again since then.

~

“Day… whatever,” It was a 16 year old you. Only recorded a month ago, you still have the awkward yet bright smile. However, the smile you had was a tired one, one that looked pitiful and pathetic.

“Not really a day to log for important things. Just a way to vent I guess,” You shrugged, before slumping over the desk and rubbing your face, inhaling shakily.

“My so-called family apparently did a family portrait when I was at school… couldn’t even be bothered to interrupt them so I just snuck behind them to my room,” You snapped bitterly, fiddling with your sleeve.

“Not only that, but Damien decided to get me into trouble again… I hate that little rat,” You hissed, before your lips quivered ever so slightly.

“I’m tired…” You finally admitted, “I’ve been trying for years to get things right, but all deemed failures… no breakthroughs, no discoveries, no legacy,” You rubbed your hand across your face.

“And the worst part? I have no one to lean to…” Tilting your head up you blinked any years away. It broke their hearts seeing you cry, why now should they feel guilt for witnessing you cry?

“My family… I can’t keep living there any longer. I have a father who doesn’t even look at me, siblings who never gave me a hint of acknowledgment unless it’s only to torment me… but at least I have a father figure, a-and a mentor!” Your wavy lips turned into a small smile, trying to cheer yourself up.

“Her name is Ivy, and she’s amazing with plants! I told her all about my love for bees, plants and animals! Sure, she’s one of the most deadliest criminals in Gotham for trying to replace humans with plant mutated corpses, but so what?” You awkwardly smiled, before coughing and sucking your teeth in at what you said.

“Poison Ivy…” Bruce mumbled, eyes wide in realization. How could he have been so stupid for not figuring it out?! Where you knew about plants so much in your journals, ones where they were extinct too, either you were into books too much… or you had a little tutoring from the best of the best plant lover.

“She even asked me who my family was so she could grind them into fertilizer for my “siblings”? And take me away from Gotham… okay now that I think about what she said-,” You scratched your neck, eyes widened at how crazy you must’ve sounded, but let out another awkward laugh.

“B-but anyways, haven’t told her who my family was, because you know. Not like it matters, since once I publish my mother’s research, I’ll be out of there and living in my own home, with my friends, and Ivy, and even Alfred!” You gave the same old determined bright smile before cutting the video short.

“That plant bastard,” Tim hissed after a moment, “Of course, she must’ve had brainwashed (Name) into their death,” Maybe he wanted someone else to put the blame on, or maybe truly Ivy was manipulating you all along, but that wasn’t true. They know nothing of your trust in others, even if it might be obviously to the point of naivety.

“Do we really know master (Name) enough to claim such things?” Alfred muttered, causing Tim to stagger slightly and rubbed his arm.

The last recording you made, was dated to the night where you were taken away from them.

“I don’t want to see this moment again,” Steph muttered, attempting to move away, yet her eyes still trailed up to the screen as Barbara hesitantly clicked on the very last video you made.

The video immediately began frantic breathing, the loud sounds of rain hitting metal was heard as the camera was shakily being tossed around before half-hazardously getting set up on a stand.

"Project: Honey," You began, "An intense research study on genetically altering the DNA and structure of the honeybee. To provide better insight on saving endangered plants and to uprise the declining bee population," You swallowed hard, preventing more tears from falling.

You were pacing around the warehouse, grabbing whatever you needed going in and out of frame, mumbling like a madman. Duke watched uncomfortably seeing you act like this. It unnerved that it was the same you when you were smiling with joy hanging out with him earlier that day.

Bruce watched as his child, the one he was meant to love and protect, breaking out after he destroyed the last thing you ever cared about in the Manor. How could he screw up this badly?

"Final test, what more can you push yourself into being a part of your research than being just like a bee?" You asked yourself, holding the jar up in the light, "For you, mama," And with that, you took a small sip.

Then another, then another. Tim and Cass winced at how you became more desperate in drinking more honey, mumbling about how delicious it was, tilting it until the honey was all gone.

Then silence.

Then it all started.

The horrific, unimaginable horror recorded for them all to see. Alfred stumbled back as if he was slapped, face pale and his hands shook. Dick covered his mouth and choked. Jason felt like throwing up, along with Steph as she looked away. Cass couldn’t bear your screams and the disgusting noises of flesh tearing. Duke was mortified, bile rising in his throat before vomiting. Barbara pushed her wheelchair away and gagged as the sounds boomed across the cave.

Then… silence. Bruce managed to stay still the whole time, horrified at what he witnessed. The bee beast… the one they saw hovering over your corpse… was you all along. The camera was then knocked over and froze mid recording when the sound of the glass roof shattered. Then silence once more.

No one dared to say a word, not a single movement as they took in what they saw, and what they realized.

“It was them…” Jason stumbled back, causing all eyes to be on him, “W-When I tried to attack it… them… It was Bumble all along… a-and I tried to kill them,” That’s when all hell broke loose.

“W-where are they now?!” “They must be all alone and scared! Of us!” “I tried to kill them…” “Oh god, are they even still alive?!” “They must be…” “Poison Ivy probably has them being tortured as we speak!” “We have to search the whole city!” We don’t even know if they’re still in Gotham as all!!” All these voices broke amongst each other, all filled with shame, fear, and rage.

Meanwhile, Bruce’s fearful eyes turned to Alfred, the one who truly knew you yet never did, the one who cared yet was never there to protect you, the one who loved you yet never was enough.

“Alfred…?” He whispered out, before flinching when a tear fell down the butler’s face, eyes shiny and hands trembling. All Alfred managed to say was weak, yet it was clear enough for all to hear.

“I need to get my baby back,”

꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁

They say there’s two reactions to danger: Fight or flight. In your bees’ case, it was freeze. Older workers protected the little ones, drones high alert, your mother’s beehive bused so loudly it shook the entire warehouse.

“My my! A party? I must say, you simply cannot call this a party without inviting entertainment!” The raspy and psychotic tone that fell into manic giggles caused the whole hive to go silent.

No one spoke, simply staring at the clown and his goons piling inside, guns drawn and pointing at them. The glow from the hive began to dim completely, the tense feeling filled the air.

“Now, which one of you sweet little insects is the leader?” Joker asked in a fake sweet tone, crouching down to look at the drones as if he was talking to children. And in a way, he was, the youngest drones were 12.

A 14 year old worker snarled at the sight of Joker, horrid memories of her last encounter with the clown involving her parents and Joker Gas rose her rage. An older drone sensed her fear and mixed rage, stopping the kid before anything she does anything stupid.

Then, a sudden loud thump shook the ground, all heads snapped at the dictation to the gigantic figure standing in the center of the hive. Joker clapped his hands delightfully and giggled.

“Wonderful! Say, something about you seems familiar? Have we had band practice before?” Joker pointed a finger, grin wide as ever, yet you stayed silent. He playfully placed a finger on his chin, thinking and squinting his eyes as he stared into yours.

“Yes… I recognize you! Hahahaha!!” Joker clapped again, “Those eyes are always a show for the light!” He waved his hands up, signaling his clown goons to raise their guns higher, causing your drones and workers to back away out of fear.

“You surely changed a bit, but I know your eyes anywhere!!” He grinned, “You’re that child belonging to that bee loving scientist! Lovely woman, I admit!” The drones and workers held disgusted expressions when Joker licked his lips at the thought of your mother.

Yet you stayed silent.

“A beauty in one’s eye, I admit, but still not amusing enough to spare her life however,” He clicked his tongue in feign sadness, shaking his head as if her death was a mere inconvenience. Your antennas twitch wildly, causing the others to snarl at him.

“They said it was a mugger, but oh ho ho!! I knew better!!” He cackled, “A simple accident on my end, one of my loyal minions had a bit of pent up anger, took it out on poor dear mother!” He faked a horrified gasp, pointing his gun at his head and pretended to shoot his head, grinning as he could practically hear your heart stop.

“But that’s neither here nor there, I supposed you want to know the reason I’m here! Funny story, really!” He kept on laughing. His stupid, irritating, psychotic laugh that made your anger rise more and more.

Your emotions vibrated heavily through the hive, causing your drones and worker’s antennas to twitch with rage, your mother’s beehive glowed in a searing bright light as Joker raised his gun.

“You see, Cobblepot has really irked me lately, and he totally crossed the line! Do I decide to be a little petty, and bring your head on a platter to him!” He did a shrugging motion, one hand on his hip and the other holding the wild lazily as if this was just another Tuesday.

His stupid smile still there.

“A reminder to him that I. Do not. Like to be undermined by,” He cocked his revolver, his face swirled into a serious sneer before grinning again, “You’ll understand when you’re older, kiddo! Or rather… guess maybe not!!” He lets out a cackle before snapping his fingers, and his clown goons pointed their guns at your drones and workers.

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

The hive wasn’t filled with screams, no terror, no nothing. The Joker still had his manic grin, yet it faltered ever so slightly after the dust has finally settled. His clown goons lowered their weapons a little, searching for the bodies they assumed to take, but not a single drop of blood.

Between the clown and the drones, was a bright orange glowing wall of honey, one that you controlled with a single lift from your arms. A glint in your eyes priced Joker’s own eyes, grin getting a little wider as you swung your arms down to release the wall of honey.

With a snap of your fingers, your drones pushed the workers back and lunged at the clown goons with such speed it was merely a blink of an eye that they attacked. Joker took a stumble back, eyes darting at the sounds of the screams from his goons, the darkness only illuminating so little of silver glints from the moonlight.

The silver glints from sharp objects digging into the skin of the clown goons, cries and screams continued before Joker looked back, only to see glowing eyes in the shadows, and the looming figure of your bright body staring him down.

The Joker could only let out a hysterical giggle before taking another stumbled and tripping over a gun, falling as you sneered at him with disgust and hate.

“You dare enter my home,” One step closer to this pathetic clown.

“Terrorize my drones,” One terrified scream from one of his goon’s before muffled by honey.

“Insult my mother,” One constant cackle from Joker.

“Yet dare to expect me to laugh at my own demise?” One last step you grabbed his throat tightly, claws digging into his pale skin.

“When a wasp intrudes into a hive, the bees kills the wasp by lots of excess heat produced from intense rubbing of their bodies,” Your eyes glowed in sync with your drones, your wings unfolding and fluttering over the lights, creating a bright and reflective shine looming over Joker.

“But death seems to be a kind route… You killed j̸͈̆͌̂̋̑́͂͜͠â̸̠̋y҉̃̀̋̑j̸͈̆͌̂̋̑́͂͜͠â̸̠̋y҉̃̀̋̑, so I have a special fate for you,” That name was like a mixture of poison and fondness, an unknown yet familiar. You weren’t going to kill him. God knows you can’t take a life, you’re not a monster.

But you could make him into something useful. Something you can make better. After all, royalty needs a jester. You pushed his jaw down, opening his mouth as he kept on cackling, his permanent smile painted on his sickly pale face.

“You wish to be this party’s entertainment?” You stared down at him, pushing his mouth farther apart while your clawed finger lowered a single large drop of your honey, glowing so bright as everything seemed so fuzzy in Joker’s eyes.

Buzzzzz

“Then open wide,”

A/N: Heyyy!! Looks like you got ONE thing from your father, you don’t kill! Just… use them ig-

Anyways, that’s neither here nor there.

You finally got the Bats reacting to your videos! All sad and shameful really, but now they know!

Taglist: @pix-stuff @jellystar-star @moon0goddess @bad4amficideas @lettucel0ver @lithiumval @degenerates-posts @ryuushou @deathbynarcisstick @silverklaus @artistwithcreativeburnout @middevil465 @jsprien213 @1abi @oliviaewl @redkarmakai @nxdxsworld @the-dumber-scaramouche @sc3n3mo-t3to @tw-om-gi-hs-56387 @bunniotomia @welpthisisboring @rad4bean @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @ceramic-raven @danart501 @esposadomd @trashlanternfish360

[abbotsanatomy]

hello!! i love ur writing you’re feeding my abbot addiction <33 could you write a fic with a depressed reader, maybe she had a hard case that hit close to home that ended badly and is really lingering for her, and jack noticed because she’s been more withdrawn and distant for the past few days and he tries to get her to talk about it and she says shes fine then blah blah fast forward shes on yhe roof crying after working a double :) sorry im a fiend for hurt comfort

⨳ PROTECTING THE HIVE

pairing: jack abbot x chief resident!reader warnings: (20-ish year) age gap, resident/attending relationship, workplace romance, depictions of depression, mentions of suicidal ideation, kinda medical malpractice (lol), panic attack, allusions to child abuse. author's note: i had no idea what to name this, so here's my attempt at being funny... (also keep the compliments coming, they're feeding my ego <33 mwah)

You used to love your bed. It used to be a huge source of comfort. And sleep. Sleep is a special commodity when you work night shifts at a trauma center.

Now, you hate it. Because whenever you aren't working, you're just lying there. Not even asleep, just staring at the ceiling. Half of the time, you want to get up and be with your hot, older boyfriend.

The other half of the time, your mind is just pulling out the most horrendous memories possible, making you relive them, and wish you were dead. There's a bottle of pills on your nightstand you know would do the trick. You won't let yourself.

People rely on you. Jack relies on you. You save lives every day; you just wish you didn't have to lose so many along the way.

The only place you can escape your own thoughts is the ER. So, you throw yourself into your work. You work twice as hard, for twice as long.

Of course, Jack notices. He can see the most imperceptible changes in your demeanor, so this major shift doesn't exactly fly under his radar.

Be that as it may, you won't tell him any of it. He's a natural worrier. He hovers and he worries. That's just who he is. You're doing him a huge favor, really.

Besides, out of all the things your coping mechanism could be, it's saving lives. Who wouldn't support that?

So, you work yourself to the bone guilt-free. You take on double shifts with a few extra hours sprinkled on top. It's more than tiring, but it also means that when you get home and you're in bed, you pass out. You don't lay there for hours thinking about the kid who died in your ER two weeks ago.

You're careful about it, too. You change your scrubs and chug a cup of that terrible break room coffee before Jack comes in for the night shift.

Tonight's another one of those long, grueling, self-inflicted shifts. You've got a Red Bull in one hand, and a patient's bloodwork in the other. You've assessed labs like this one a million times, but the numbers aren't making any sense right now. Parker passes by you with a quick tap on your shoulder to bring your attention to her.

“Hey, you want me to count you in for the rock climbing thing this Sunday?” she asks, opening up one of the ER computers, “It was fun last time, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say slowly.

You're not too sure you can come up with a viable excuse right now, so you'll just have to cancel later. It was really fun, it just sounds like too much effort right now.

She walks away with a nod, when one of the nurses calls for her. When you start feeling surrounded in the middle of the ER hallway, you make your way to the break room. It feels even more stuffy, somehow.

You grip the papers in your hands tighter. The throbbing in your head that hasn't really left for the past two weeks has become unbearable now.

Noises are too loud. Everyone's too close. You need to get out, now.

Everything in your hand gets abandoned on the break room counter. You make your way as swiftly as possible past the patient’s rooms. A hand gently grips your arm, before you can pull the emergency exit open.

“Are you alright?”

Jack's low cadence coupled with his steady touch on your arm make you want to burst out into tears right then and there.

“I'm fine. I just—” your voice cracks.

“I need a minute,” you tell him, willing your voice to be as firm as you can manage. You can't even pull your gaze up from the floor. It isn't clear if he's buying it or not.

He lets go of your arm, and you can finally run up the hospital's stairs to the rooftop. You're completely out of breath, and still wildly overstimulated by the time you get there.

You pull the roof's metal door open. The moment the cold December air hits your face, it calms your panic down. But it brings with it a wave of sadness that can't be quelled or distracted away. You let yourself feel it.

You're out of control, now. Hands shaking, limbs completely wracked by these huge, full-body sobs. You steady yourself with your arms on one of the roof's AC units, when the memories start flooding your mind.

The kid you killed, he'd come in a week before. He had bruises all over, cuts where he wasn't supposed to. You passed the information onto someone on the day shift, so they can tell the department social worker. The next day you came back, he was gone.

A week later, he was dying in your arms. His blood literally staining your hands is a memory you'll never be able to erase. You spiral, his first and last visit to the ER flashing in your mind with equal consequence.

The footsteps growing closer barely register to your ears over your wailing. The moment Jack pulls you close, a hand on your jaw to bring your eyes to his, you instinctively pull away. He's insistent, though. He was trying to give you space, but look where that's gotten you.

“Hey, hey,” he says firmly, to grab your attention.

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. He quickly realizes he can't get you to understand anything he says, not right now. So he does the next best thing.

He holds you. Really tight. So tight you can only smell his cologne and that sterile hospital scent that lingers on him for hours after a shift. It reminds you of home. You see him almost every day, but you miss him. He somehow always knows exactly what you need.

It takes a good ten minutes for you to stop crying in his arms. He's happy to be there, just glad you're slowly calming down. When your breathing evens out, and your eyes have dried out, you look up at him.

Where you think there should be disappointment, maybe even hatred, there's only admiration. If you’d actually picked up a scalpel and killed someone, he wouldn't even flinch, you think.

His gaze alone is making this a lot easier, “Better?”

You nod. Your eyes feel heavy, like you might just sleep here in his arms.

“It's the oxytocin,” he jokes.

“Yeah. I know,” you chuckle.

His scrub top looks incredibly comfortable. For the first time in weeks, you wish you were just in bed. You could lay on his chest and have the best sleep you've had in too many nights to count. The best you can get right now is resting your forehead on the black fabric. That's exactly what you do.

Jack lets a few seconds go back before speaking up.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I...” you take a deep breath.

I killed him. The words die on your tongue. You can't say them.

Jack must notice this is causing you distress, so he runs his fingers through your hair. He kisses the top of your head to calm you down.

“We don't have to, right now,” he whispers, “Not ever, even. But you do need to talk about it to someone.”

You nod in agreement, against his shirt. Your coping mechanisms are so not working.

“When was the last time you ate?”

You blank, “I don't...I don't know.”

“Sleep?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“Alright. You're done.”

He pulls your head up with a hand on each cheek, “Clock out. Go home. Have some food, and I'll be there in a few hours.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

You both walk to the emergency exit. In the stairwell, you turn to him, your eyes still glistening.

“Hey, um. I'm not fine, Jack,” you admit.

“I know that,” he tells you. “But you will be. I'll make sure of it.”

You believe him.

[sweetshuga]

「 𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆 ✰ 𝑴.𝑺 」

ᯓ lecturer!matt smut! ────

𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔: Giving him a blowjob during a 10 minute break between a long lecture.

Matt kept anxiously glancing at the bathroom door as he helped you hold your hair in a ponytail while you worked his length, bobbing your head up and down all while looking up at him with those eyes that made him weak.

He let out a low moan when your tongue swirled around the head of his cock. His eyes closed as his head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, his breath getting shakier as you kept sucking him off.

If anyone told him a month ago that he’d be against a bathroom wall without the door locked as he received the best head he’d ever received, from one of his students no less, he’d most definitely would have laughed in their face.

But here he was, getting just that.

It was so wrong but so fucking good—good enough for his rational side to take a backseat.

"Fuuck, sweetheart--" Matt moaned, barely holding back from just grabbing your pretty face and fucking your mouth until you were a sobbing mess, but he didn’t want to get rough with you even if you liked it or not.

You felt his length twitch in your mouth, his moans now muffled behind his hand and his expression was one of pure bliss.

His knuckles were turning white from how hard he was clamping his hand over his mouth, not wanting others to hear what you were doing to him.

It wasn’t long before he was moaning loudly behind his hand, his hips jerking forward as he released his warm load deep down your throat and you, of course, swallowed it all.

After all, It would’ve been a waste not to.

A few minutes later...

You walked into the lecture hall first and after a few minutes came Matt with his water bottle—the reason why he even stepped out of the auditorium in the first place, but then you were backing him into a wall of a bathroom just beside the lecture hall and getting down on your knees before he could react.

Your stomach did a somersault when he made eye contact with you for a few seconds – which felt like minutes – before he focused on working on his computer to open a slideshow that he planned to talk about.

He looked edible just standing there.

As Matt talked about some topic that didn’t interest you one bit, you couldn’t help but let your eyes wander alll over him like he was yours.

He caught your eyes while trying to fix a problem on his slideshow and his breath hitched, barely audible and not enough for you to hear but you knew what you were doing to him.

You knew he was as affected – if not more – by you as much as you were affected by him.

The thought sent shivers down your spine and you crossed your legs, trying to discreetly ease the tension in between them.

You were getting turned on from your own little fantasies about your lecturer and the memories of his dick in your mouth and the prettiest expressions he made when he came.

Matt was oblivious to the thoughts swirling in your head, unaware that their next encounter was going to leave him craving you more than before.

To be continued...

★ 𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆! | 𝒘𝒄: 𝟎.𝟓 𝒌 ★

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔𝒉𝒖𝒈𝒂

[sadesluvr]

FEEL. — mickey 17

somewhat inspired by @darkoies doctor c.ai! (NSFW)

w/c: 2.3K

As he felt his body temperature slowly begin to drop, Mickey knew that he’d been cloned again.  

He’d grown to accept that there was nothing like climatising to the perfect 20°C of the lab, sometimes laying there for hours with nothing but a sheet to cover his modesty – only if he’d been lucky enough to be attended to that quickly. Mickey seemed to be reborn in a lab full of people, yet he was always alone. 

Blinking, he fought to adjust himself to the sterile curing lights, expecting to be faced with Dorothy or one of the other scientists. Instead, he was met with warmth; rounder, fuller features staring down at him with a curious look and a gentle smile. He'd certainly never seen you before.

“...Vitals are surprisingly low,” the voice spoke. “Is this normal?” 

Instinctively Mickey opened his mouth to answer, clamping it shut once he realised you weren’t speaking to him, but a fellow doctor across the lab. He hoped you hadn’t noticed. He felt a bit silly. 

“I’m just going to put this in, ok? It’s a small chip to help us track your endocrine system, hormones, endorphins – those kinds of things. You shouldn’t feel a thing, it’s virtually weightless.” You spoke again, eyes occasionally making contact as you glanced down to reassure him, but more focused on dabbing at his skin with a wipe.

Mickey took a short breath, having not particularly grown accustomed to needles throughout any of his seventeen iterations. 

“Uh-huh... Why do I -” 

“All done.” You grinned, withdrawing the tool with a smile.

He couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed, selfishly wishing a flare up of some kind, anything that could get him to spend just a few more minutes longer with you. Anything was better than a meaningless afternoon within the four walls of his room. Pursing his lips, he pushed himself to sit upright, allowing for him to get a better view of you.  

“How do you feel?”  

“Fine...” he began, wringing his hands. “Though in my position I’ve learned that’s not much.” 

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to be an Expendable. I admire your bravery,” you began, leaning in, your faces a few centimetres apart. “Chin up.” 

Goosebumps peppered his skin as he felt your breath on his cheek, the warmth of your hands felt even through your plastic gloves as you held his face in place, running a torch over his eyes. 

“It’s not all bad,” he chuckled nervously. “I get to keep my memories.” 

“I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse. There are definitely a few things I’d like to forget...” 

“Like what?” he questioned, hoping that you wouldn't find his prying weird. He’d never get this far with any other doctor on the team. 

“Bad hairstyles for one,” you said with a soft sigh, stepping away from the man to enter something into a computer. "My entire college years, amongst other things.” 

“I bet they weren’t that bad,” he shrugged, brushing a wet, messy strand of his mousy brown hair from his eyes. “Nice girls like you definitely had a better time than me.” 

The statement seemed to illicit a smile.  

“Well,” you huffed as you scribbled something down on a clipboard. “Nice girls tend to finish last. That’s why I’m here. Other than the pay, being a doctor on Earth is pretty shit.” 

Mickey grinned, and this time let out a genuine, audible laugh, so unrestrained that his voice broke in the process. You hummed in amusement, presumably at the fact that the man had taken such glee in an offhand comment, before going back to your job and listing some rather important things about the tests being run.  

By that point Mickey had naturally zoned out, having heard all the doctors’ spiel before. What did it matter if hypertension could cause blackouts, heart attacks or death – he would just be reprinted anyway. In a fucked-up way, nothing really mattered... In what he thought would’ve been basic empathy, he hoped you could see him for who he was - less of a crash dummy and more of a human.  

- 

Marshall was fuming.

And by that nature, the whole lab was pissed off with you. 

The past few experiments had been complete failures – not due to misguided hypothesises, but because Mickey was a shitty lab rat. If you could even call him that.  

Over the few weeks that 17 had been cloned, nothing had gone to plan. Half the time, he’d passed out before research could begin, or hadn’t even been deemed fit to work. You’d only seen him in passing, being wheeled about on a table or through plexiglass – but you knew something was wrong…the numbers told you so. 

It was difficult. On Earth there were too many patients for you to really care about them in the way your cared for Mickey, but reading his past files and listening here-say from the other workers was enough to sympathise with him. From what Dorothy had told you, his past iterations had never been so stubborn, which was why it didn’t make sense for him to act up now. 

Arkady thought it to be a fault in the tech, that somehow he’d reprinted wrong…but you knew better.  

It was obvious he’d grown fond of you. You’d caught him staring multiple times, a distant smile dotted across his face as he carved out your visage through the haze of the testing room. Sometimes, he’d even wave. Discreetly, you did back. 

To be fair, you liked him too.

Naturally, it made sense for you to ‘deal’ with him. You clutched your clipboard to your chest as you walked down the empty corridors to a distant room, curtly waving away the guards as you entered. 

The brown haired man perked up, and if you weren’t facing expulsion – or death – from Marshall himself then you would’ve made a quip about it. 

“Oh - I, uh...They just shoved me in here, I have no idea what’s this all about —“ Mickey stammered, eyes glancing around the room frantically as if to search for a source of reason himself. You watched as he shrunk in on himself, seemingly realising from your crossed arms and pursed lips that you weren’t in a generous mood. 

“You shouldn’t be surprised. You haven’t been eating as much. Or sleeping,” you began, shoes tapping against the floor as you strolled towards him. He seemed to be trying (and failing) to divert his gaze from you, eyes as wide and watery as ever, and it occurred to you that it felt like a mean teacher punishing a schoolboy. “They wanted to throw you in the cell, but I convinced them to lend you to me under the name of science.” 

He nodded shyly and peered up at you from his bangs. 

“Our research is compromised if you go into a mission on two hours of sleep and low blood sugar. Then we look bad, and Marshall blows his gasket.” 

Mickey itched uncomfortably, contemplating something before the edges of his lips curved up into a small, jaunty smile. “...Isn’t there some kind of shot for that?” 

“That isn’t the point, Mickey,” you chided, ignoring his silly attempt at a joke. “Not everything can be fixed by a drug. We may be miles away from Earth, but most things are still down to basic biology. You’re still human.” 

The man sighed and cast his gaze to the floor, so much so that you couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. 

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you into trouble with Marshall. If you let me out of here, I’ll tell him it’s my fault.” 

You fought to hold back a small smile. Here he was, essentially a complete stranger – a literal lab experiment - and yet was ready to take a bullet for you. It baffled you as to why nobody else saw the gentleness of humanity in Mickey – probably because no one was willing to give him a chance. Being labelled ‘Expendable’ would do that, all too ironic that he was the most important on the ship. To the whole regime, really.  

“There’s no need to do that...” you hummed. “I’m just annoyed I’ve overlooked things.” 

“…Like?” 

“Happiness, for one,” you began, slowly striding around the room to place your clipboard on a small table. “And attention. We tend to forget that we need it.” 

Mickey swayed his head, seemingly taking in what you were saying as he watched you like a hawk. As if his body had been pulled taught with a string, his back visibly straightened as you stopped in-front of him, your shins touching the tips of his thigh. Swallowing, he angled his head to look up at you, and your gazes met. 

“Be honest with me, Mickey…Did you stop eating just so you could see me?” 

He swallowed again, briefly diverting his gaze before looking back at you, running his tongue over his lips. Mickey was always cute, but he looked especially delectable in this angle. 

“Y-yeah…” he stammered. “I really didn’t mean to get you in trouble —“ 

“Why did you do that? Did you want my attention?” 

“Uh –“ 

“Do you like me?” 

His answered came in the form of a shy nod and an uneasy grip on your legs. In the best way, you were going to ruin him.  

“It’s okay,” you smiled. “You can touch me. I want you to.” 

Reaching out to embrace your torso, Mickey found himself softly stunned as you pulled away, comforted with the sight of you removing your lab coat and aptly peeling off your jumpsuit, discarding it across the cold floor. 

The man wasted no time in latching onto you, rubbing his face over your bare skin as he pressed wet, impassioned kisses against your stomach, making his way passed your bellybutton and towards your underwear.  

You threw your head back as you pulled him closer, placing your hands on top of his as he roamed your body, lithe fingers kneading the shape of your thighs and ass. In any other circumstance, you would’ve been trying to pleasure Mickey – and you were sure you would eventually – but you got the feeling that he only ever wanted to make you happy. 

Your pleasure was his pleasure. He was useful that way. 

Mickey let out a soft whistle from his nose, momentarily pulling away from getting his fix. 

“You smell like strawberries…” he murmured before nestling into you. Who would’ve thought that the perfume you’d grabbed from Earth right before jumping on this metal container would awaken something in him? 

Grinning, a purr escaped your lips as you lowered yourself onto Mickey’s thighs, one hand on his chest as you gently pushed him onto the bed, his back springing up ever so slightly from the recoil. He looked so beautiful like this; all desperate and wanting, eager to taste your lips. 

Pressing your lips against his, you gave him what he wanted. Though you’d never underestimated him, you were rather surprised by how skilfully his lips moved against your own, barely missing a beat as his hands worked your way up to your breasts. 

He let out a moan as he gave them a squeeze through your bra, eyes darting frantically between your chest and the sight below him – your ass grinding perfectly against his bulge. 

“You’re so sweet, Mickey, do you know that?” you teased, popping up to quickly push down his pants. “I hate the way they treat you.” 

“You aren’t like them…” he murmured. “You’re perfect.” 

If it wasn’t for hormones clouding your judgment, your heart would’ve stopped upon questioning the melancholy statement. You’d only treated him as any good doctor would – with respect – and yet he was comparing you to some kind of deity. 

Mickey stopped you with a firm grasp on your forearm, just as you began to reach down into his boxers. You were mildly shocked, almost expecting him to be completely passive in the act, but wasn’t adverse to the offer. In fact you rather liked it. 

“Let me.” He whispered. 

You obliged. 

Mickey let out a loud whimper as he sunk into you, his cock bottoming out in you nicely. He was average sized, but it completed you. You felt every pulse and twitch as you moved your hips along him, coating pink cock in a shiny film. 

He’d pawed at your chest now, popping a breast from inside the material and putting it into his mouth, sucking and licking at your nipple. You moaned at the contact, though quickly but down on your lip to suppress any more noises. At the end of the day, you were still technically a doctor on duty. 

Then again, Marshall was so weird that he’d probably enjoy your gratuitous display – limbs flailing and Mickey’s hair clung to his forehead from ecstasy. The ship was cold, but heat filled your body, tingling from your loins and rising through to your cheeks.  

You were so preoccupied with Mickey’s visual proof of euphoria that you’d barely noticed that his hands had made their way to your lower body, his hands holding the sides of your ass in position as you writhed against him. 

“Shit…” you stammered. “You’re so good…Don’t stop…” 

Naively, the man shook his head, staring up at you with puppy eyes. In an effort to impress you, he bucked his hips up into your wet pussy, squelching sounds louder and prominent than before. He seemed to be hitting your spot effortlessly. 

“Beautiful. God, you’re an angel…” he sighed, his squeaky, yet raspy accent as prominent as ever. He sounded like he was from New York. 

You’d ask him about it some day. 

As Mickey’s pace slowed, and your walls clenched around him, you could tell that you were both close. Honestly, you didn’t know whether you’d flop into his arms or if he would cave in on you, but somehow, even millions of miles from Earth, you grounded each-other.  

[internetdaddy98]

The Opening Gambit

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: From the first subtle brush of your shoulder to the featherlight graze of your thumb, you don’t flirt, you control, cool and calculated. Every touch, every murmur, every glance is measured and deliberate. You work seamlessly beside him, professional and sharp, but just close enough to fray his composure.

Word Count: 1 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, blood, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times

The shift started like any other: chaos thinly veiled by protocol. A multi-car pileup on I-279 had half the ER running on caffeine and adrenaline before noon. Trauma teams rotated like gears, syncing movement with muscle memory.

But you weren’t here just to keep up.

You were here to test gravity.

And Robby? He didn’t know it yet, but he was already falling.

You saw him the moment you walked in. Standing at the board, stylus pen between his fingers, brown locks glinting at his temples under the harsh light. His scrub top was wrinkled, his jaw shadowed with a salt and pepper beard, and you had never seen anything more devastating in your life.

“Morning, Dr. Robby,” you said, soft and rhythmical as you passed him, your shoulder brushing his ever so slightly.

You weren’t just being polite.

You were starting something.

He didn’t look at you right away, but his hand paused. You saw the twitch of a muscle in his cheek. Heard the shift of his weight.

“Morning, Sheri,” he replied, low and even. But his voice had a rasp in it that hadn’t been there yesterday.

The trauma pager went off before either could say another word.

Room Four. Level One. Blunt trauma. Male. GCS 8. ETA three minutes.

They moved like a unit, you at his side, anticipating his decisions before he made them. In the resus bay, the air was dense with urgency, but your focus never wavered. Not on the patient. And not on him.

“Needle decompression,” you said confidently, your gloves snapping on. “Right side. You want to confirm, or do you trust me?”

You didn’t say it flirtatiously. That was the genius of it. You said it with that steady, cool voice you knew he liked, that made him respect you.

And you meant it. But still, your eyes flicked up to meet his as you said it. And you held them there.

He paused for half a second too long.

“I trust you,” he said finally and you nodded with a smile.

You worked like clockwork and when it was over and the patient stabilized, you stayed behind to clean up, letting the others filter out.

He lingered near the supply cabinet, reorganizing gauze.

You slipped beside him, close enough he could smell your skin, lavender and antiseptic.

“I like it when you let me take the lead,” you murmured, quiet enough that it was for him and only him. “It suits you.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But you saw the way his fingers curled around the shelf. Saw the tight line of his jaw. The heat in his eyes when he finally turned to face you.

“That wasn’t the time to flirt,” he said gruffly.

“Oh,” you said, lips quirking, “was I flirting?”

And you left him there, too stunned to answer.

You moved through the ER with controlled grace, your expression calm but unreadable. Except he could read you. He’d known you long enough now to sense when you were holding something back. When you were leaning in instead of away.

You didn’t linger when you handed him chart updates. But your fingers always brushed his, and once, only once, your thumb skimmed his knuckle, deliberate and featherlight.

Long that he’d felt it for hours.

Later, you stood beside him as he dictated notes at the computer. You leaned in slightly, not touching, but close. He could smell the soft, clean hint of your shampoo, lavender and something warmer beneath it.

“Good phrasing,” you murmured under your breath when he dictated a particularly precise differential. The words were harmless. But your tone wasn’t.

You said it like a secret. Like a confession meant for him alone. His fingers hesitated on the keys. A flicker of heat curled low in his abdomen.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t look at you. Couldn’t.

Another trauma came in, motorcycle, late thirties, open femur fracture with significant blood loss. The room was loud, packed with motion, but Robby still felt your presence behind him as you prepped the surgical tray.

“IV established,” you said, then added softly, “I’ve got you covered.”

It should’ve been nothing. A reassurance. A common phrase.

But your voice lowered just enough that the words twisted into something else entirely, subtly charged. Personal.

He didn’t look at you then either. He couldn’t afford to. Not with blood on the floor and adrenaline humming through his veins.

But later, when the room emptied and he was washing his hands at the sink, he realized he was gripping the faucet too hard. Water too hot. Skin flushed.

And not just from the trauma.

The rest of the shift passed in a haze of carefully orchestrated tension.

You stood a little closer than necessary when reviewing imaging with him. Let your hand brush his forearm as you reached past for a chart. Tilted your head and gave that slight smile when he caught you watching him.

“You okay?” Mel asked once, nudging you while you reviewed a pelvic fracture.

“Yeah,” you said, eyes flicking toward Robby down the hall. “Just...trying something.”

Santos caught your look and grinned knowingly. “Poor man never stood a chance.”

You stood behind him again as you both reviewed a CT scan on the monitor. This time, your hand ghosted over the small of his back, not quite a touch. Just… there.

His breath caught. Brief, sharp. He said nothing.

But every nerve in his body lit like a flare.

At 7:02 p.m., as the shift wound down, Robby cornered you by the lockers. The hallway was empty, residents already changing, nurses clocking out. He stood close. Too close for it to be professional.

“You’ve been testing me all day,” he said, voice low and tight. “Why?”

You looked up at him, all wide eyes and innocent calm. “Testing you? I thought I was just doing my job.”

“Don’t play coy.”

“Who’s playing?”

He stepped closer. The tension coiled so tight between them it could’ve shattered.

But you only smiled. Tugged your pink hoodie from the locker. Brushed past him, one last slow, deliberate drag of your fingers across his hand.

And with a whisper in his ear, said, “But if I was playing, I think I’m winning.”

Then you left.

And Robby stood alone, fists clenched, heart racing, one breath away from forgetting every line he ever swore not to cross.

[sturnlsstuff]

MASK ON 2 | ghostface!matt x fem!reader

— warnings: smut (with plot? kinda), dom!matt, sub!reader, eating pussy, face riding, public, creampie, crying, dirty talking, pet names, cursing, mentions of murder, mdni

— a/n: soooo... this is a long one. enjoy xx

part one | part three

~~~~

two weeks. two full weeks since it happened. with each passing day you wondered if it was real or maybe if you had imagined it. the killings stopped, people started to think that maybe the case had ended by itself and they were finally safe and free from the psycho ghostface killer. how naive.

the first night after, you couldn't sleep thinking of what happened and how you liked it, knowing you shouldn't. you shouldn't have evem let him in, but god. it was the best sex you've ever had. it fulfilled all of your fantasies. but he didn't call again, you haven't heard from him since that day, thinking maybe he got what he wanted and just disappeared. it should make you happy, he stopped killing innocent people and you also were... safe.

two days after, you found the camera he put in your room and decided to ruin it, so he couldn't watch you anymore. three days after, you came back to school after the weekend and acted natural as if your mind wasn't spinning with thoughts of him. few more days and you started being more chill, the weird feeling in your chest slowly leaving you. you really thought it was the end and you won't meet him ever again. yet the marks he left on your neck reminded you of him every day while trying to cover them with makeup, until eventually one day you noticed they were gone and sighed with relief. it's not like you didn't want to see him again, but that was the smartest option. you constantly remind yourself that you have no idea who this man is, that he literally murders people.

meanwhile matt was going insane. he noticed that you found one of his cameras and he couldn't watch you in your room anymore. but the satisfaction filled him when he realized you had no fucking clue about the camera in your bathroom. thats how he kept watching you. why was he silent? he didn't really know at first, just tried to process that he finally had you, and it was the best thing that ever happened to him. he couldn't get your noises out of his mind, your eyebrows knitted together, mouth slack opened and how fucking beautiful you looked while cumming on his dick. it was making him hard just by the memory of this. all he knew was that he wanted more.

thanks to the camera in your bathroom, matt found out about your... friend. while you were cleaning your toilet, you were talking to your bestfriend on the phone, about what you did the day before and with whom. matt literally broke his goddamn computer after hearing that. how could you even look, even think of any other guy when matt was the one who made you feel so good?? did this guy make you feel better? did he make you cum harder, be louder? matt couldn't stop thinking about it, he needed this to stop. to end this nightmare.

it was around 8pm, you were laying down on your bed reading a book when your phone buzzed. seeing the guy's name you hooked up recently with, you pick up.

"miss me already?" you ask smiling. it's not like you had any big plans with him, he was just good looking and... kept your mind busy, so you didn't think about that night two weeks ago. but instead of his voice, there's a low, hoarse laugh on the other end of the phone.

"oh, you have no idea, sweetheart."

you sit up immediately, goosebumps appearing on your body, your heart pounding like crazy right now. you would recognize this voice anywhere, it was printed in your brain since you two...

besides, no one else call you "sweetheart".

"w-what... how..."

"your friend borrowed me his phone. pretty nice of him, don't you think? though i'm not sure if he will need it anymore."

"what-- what do you mean by that?!" you could feel it. the fear taking over your body. did he do something? did he...

"meet me in the park nearby and you might find out." his voice was calm, maybe a bit too much. he was making you shiver, but you tried your best to keep your composure.

"why the fuck would i do that?"

"easy there." he murmurs, but he didn't sound as if he was annoyed. "if you wanna know, meet me by the fountain in 10. don't be late."

"but—

"tic tac, sweetheart." the call ends, leaving you concerned. it wasn't the best idea to go there but why wouldn't you? If he wanted to do something to you, you'd be dead a long time ago. he had plenty of opportunities to do so. you weren't afraid of him but of the unknown, not really knowing what to expect. nevertheless, you quickly pulled your hoodie over your head and quietly, making sure your parents won't hear anything, slipped out the window, finding yourself in a dark park ten minutes later. the park was not unknown to you, you came here many times with your parents when you were younger, and now every now and then you found yourself on one of the many benches that were here, together with your bestfriend to gossip and have a cigarette.

the old fountain was at the end of the park, in a place where no one usually went. you walked along the way there with your heart pounding in your chest, slowly starting to have doubts. earlier, when you left your room, you didn't think much, just wanted to find out why he had the other guy's phone. but now, walking down the alley in complete silence broken only by the sound of leaves blowing in the wind, you started being hesitant.

you finally got there and looked around, only one streetlamp that didn't illuminate much so every shadow you saw made you feel crazy. it made you feel like you were paranoid, but you waited, another ten minutes passed and you were ready to go back home when suddenly the sound of a branch breaking made your heart jump into your throat and look around, though you didn't notice anything special. cursing under your breath, you picked up a medium-sized stone from the ground, clutching it in your hand. just in case. you looked around again and that's when a low voice broke the silence, coming from behind you.

"gonna kill me with that rock?" a strangled scream leaves your mouth and you turn around, ready to attack the stranger. you swing but that's when you see who that was. it was him. you freeze, words stucking in your throat, the only thing you feel at this moment is the strong beating of your heart, when he is standing a few feets away from you. if not the ghostface mask, he would be barely visible, being dressed all in black again. "i suggest you to put that down."

slowly lowering your hand, you drop the stone back to the ground, accompanied by a quiet noise. stress begins taking over your body as you understand the position you are in. you were not far from home, it's true, but no one comes to this specific part of the park. no one would be really able to hear you either. matt knew it while you were completely oblivious until now. you keep looking at the man, almost waiting for his next move and noticing that he doesn't have his knife with him today. good sign?

"you ain't gonna start screamin', are ya?" his voice was dripping with irony.

"depends on what you'll do." your voice is a bit too weak for your liking, what doesn't go unnoticed by matt. a little smirk appearing on his face under the mask as he takes a few steps closer, but still keeping his distance. for now.

"hm, got a few ideas.." he hums, tilting his head to the side. you came to a conclusion that his mask looked a hundred times scarier in this situation, than when he was having it on in your room two weeks ago. "you're brave. coming here to meet me."

"what, didn't think i would?" a little frown appears on your face as you cross your arms over your chest.

"nah, i knew... i did..." he murmurs. seeing you again was making his control slipping away already, the way you looked so damn pretty even in the dark. the light from a nearby lantern highlighting your face features, the only thing annoying him was that he couldn't see much of your body since you had some sweatpants and a hoodie on. it crosses his mind that this needed to be changed quickly.

you take a deep breath, speaking up with too much confidence, trying to convince you both that his presence doesn't scare you and... excite you at the same time. "i found the camera in my room. you're sick."

"i'm sick?" he repeats, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he comes closer. "you weren't sayin' that when my dick was inside you. actually you couldn't really speak with my hand around your—"

"i remember." the small sliver of courage you had felt before, leaving you as you interrupt him mid-sentence. the memory of that night appearing in your mind. deciding it's not time for a conversation like this, you clear your throat, asking "-- why did you want me to come here? and how did you get this phone..."

"wouldn't think you need other's guy dick after that night. makes me wonder... i haven't left you unsatisfied, so what was the point of meeting with that douchebag?" you swallow realizing that he knew too much than you wanted him to.

"how do you know this..."

"that shouldn't be your concern now." he brushes a strand of hair from your face, sending a shiver down your body. "in my opinion you tried to replace me with him."

"in my opinion your ego is too big." the words accidentally slip from your mouth, making matt's smirk grow. you amused him.

"the last time you been sayin' something else was too big." his hand grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him, he wonders how you would act if he was without his mask. but it's not happening. "and talkin' to me like that? you either really dumb or brave." he hisses through his teeth. the way he talks to you, as if he is annoyed but intrigued at the same time, affects you more than you'd like to admit. his touch brings back another memory of his hand squeezing your throat in the same way, while his cock was buried deep inside your pussy. your body was reacting against your logic, the situation you found yourself in was terrifying, but his closeness and the way he was acting, sent a wave of heat between your legs. "you should use those pretty lips for somethin' else than talkin' back to me."

"i'm good at every field." you answer before thinking once again, but it hits matt intensely, his pants slowly growing tighter and more uncomfortable.

he lets out a groan. "careful sweetheart. i might have to find out myself." his hand lets go of your jaw and he takes one more step closer, now completely being in your personal space, his chest pressing against yours. you have to look up at him since he's taller, towering over you now. "you have no fear, do you? i could easily kill you right now."

"you promised not to hurt me." you repeat his own words he said two weeks ago in your bedroom. matt is surprised you even remembered that, he obviously didn't want to do anything to you, but the way you were believing him just because of one hook up was a bit insane to him. he hoped you weren't so stupid in other things in life. he hums, "so you trust me then, huh?"

"not even a bit." you say honestly, making him chuckle. of course. "but if you were about to kill me, i'd be dead already."

"only stupid characters in poor horror movies say some shit like that. they usually are proven wrong." he's amused by your confidence, it makes him turned on and being more attracted to you.

"we aren't in a movie." you mutter, it doesn't go unnoticed by matt how shaky your voice had become. you had a little fear in you, but it was overpowered by need. this goddamn mask was messing with your head, making your mind go blank.

"you look like the type of girl to be in a sequel." the smirk coming back into his face and in one quick movement, matt grabs your hips and pins you to the tree next to you two. the light of the street lamp didn't reach here, so you were hidden in the shadow, no one would be able to see you even if they wanted to. matt knew no one is gonna come here that late at night and especially to this part of the park, so he decided to be a little risky. "close your eyes."

you huff, adrenaline rushes through your body. "for what? you to disappear again?" a dry laugh rumbles through matt's chest, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he mutters, "stop bein' a smartass and do what i say." with a frustrated sigh, your eyes flutter shut, making matt smile. he wasn't really sure about what he's about to do, he was actually afraid, but all he could think about is how good you must taste. the kiss you two shared that night, even if it lasted just for a second, the feeling of your lips hadn't left him since. with a deep breath he takes off the ghostface mask, causing a feeling of insecurity in his body, he was a completely different person without it. he felt like that shy version of himself again who couldn't be funny or make a move while talking to you at that party when he first saw you. but regardless, he swallowed all his fears and pressed the mask into your hand, a frown appearing between your eyebrows as you felt the material.

"d-don't...." he immediately says when he notices you wanted to open your eyes. "keep 'em closed f'me, a'ight?" licking his lips, he shamelessly stares at your face, your perfect features. and those lips... those big plump lips, god, you were driving him crazy. you nod, keeping your eyes shut as you ask, "is that... what did you put in my hand?"

"my mask." his fingers trails over your jaw, making the goosebumps appear on your skin once again. your back scraping against the rough bark as his face is inches away from yours, his breath is heavy, coming in short, heated bursts tickling your skin. his body pinning you in place, and a thrill shoots through you as his hand snakes up to your neck, caressing your throat with a touch that's both gentle and possessive. "but.. why... uh, so you're without it?" you stumble over your words, but matt is quick to shut you up, "jus' stop talkin' so goddamn much." he crashes his lips against yours. the feeling sends a shiver down your spine, you were able to taste his lips once again and for longer this time. at first the kiss was gentle, but matt was too desperate, the same feelings accompanied him as those in your room. his hand on your neck tightens, pulling you closer, his now hard dick brushing against your thigh, stealing a quiet whine from you. being able to hear you again, matt feels his control slipping away pretty quickly, starting exploring your mouth with his tongue. his hand on your hip tightening, his fingers pressing into your flesh as he kisses you more urgently now, as if he was afraid you might disappear. the heat pooling in your chest and pussy makes you more needy with each second.

"s-shitt.... wait...." you mutter between kisses, making matt frown but he continues kissing you. "hold on—" he hears you repeating again, so he breaks the kiss, trying to catch his breath, leaning his forehead against yours. "what?" he asks confused.

"it's just... we're in public--"

"who the fuck cares?" he hums, making sure your eyes are still closed and his lips move down to your neck, blazing a hot trail across your skin, making you gasp softly.

"we aren't... supposed to be doin' that—" matt grins hearing your words and he mutters against your skin, "and who said that? relax, sweetheart, it's late at night, no one comes to this part of park anyway..." his teeth nipping your skin as he marks you, claiming as his. your fingers automatically tangles in matt's hair while his hands move up under your shirt. "i need... to taste you... right fuckin' now—"

have you lost your mind? probably. but it was already obvious. that's why you gave him a small nod and matt's hands began pulling your sweatpants down to your knees. the urge to open your eyes, to see him, it's all getting too much but you grab onto the last bit of control you have and leave them closed. your underwear follows your pants, matt is already on his knees in front of you, his eyes are fixated on you as he runs his finger over your slippery folds. "fuckkkk... all this f'me already?" he smirks, "so soaked..."

you tremble at the feeling of his finger, spreading your legs more, light gusts of wind against your heat making you shiver. "gonna be a good girl f'me and promise to keep those pretty eyes closed?" he asks looking up at you, starting to kiss up your inner thigh. "y-yes." your answer isn't enough for him, he stops just above your dripping entrance, his breath tickling your skin and making you squirm. "promise." he repeats.

"fuck, i promise! i promise, okay? just—" the desperation in your tone, he doesn't have to hear it twice. suddenly you feel his tongue, at first it's just a slight lick as if he was testing the waters, but it was enough to make you lose your mind. his tongue drags lazily through your folds, before he whispers, "oh shit, you taste so fuckin' good..." that's the only thing you hear before he literally starts attacking your pussy with his mouth, like something just snapped inside him, he got immediately addicted. moans escaping you, his fingers digging into your hips keeping you in place while his mouth moves along your folds, his nose perfectly rubbing onto your clit.

"oh— ohhh my...." your fingers tangle in his hair, the movement makes him moan softly against you as he looks up at you, feeling the precum leaking from his tip began to make a small wet stain on his jeans. it was heaven to have you like this. his dreams coming true. he desperately licks the slick out of you, not wanting to miss anything. "mmmm, fuck—" he mutters between licks as you breathing gets heavier. "taste like a fuckin'.... candy... my favorite candy...." his words blur as your ears start to ring because of the overwhelming pleasure. your hips starts slighty moving on their own, as whines and moans leave your lips.

matt can hear the way you're responding to his actions, the sounds you're making and the way you're moving. it only fuels his desire for you even more, as he's determined to make you feel as good as possible. he moves his tongue over you, flicking and swirling around. "mhmm, you like that, sweetheart??"

"please-- oh my god..." gripping the mask in your hand tighter, you move your hips against him again, what doesn't go unnoticed by him. "yeah, thaaat's it—" he watches the pleasure on your face, it only makes him harder by the sounds coming from your mouth, but tonight he wanted to please you. "--ride my face... just like that-" his warm tongue moves through your pussy, swiveling onto your clit and sucking on it, making you screech. "fuck! i— oh--" you stutter as you start desperately grinding your hips against his face, your hand twisting in his hair only makes him more determined, as he continues lapping up your juices, a quiet groan leaves his lips at the way you taste.

"holy fuck— please--" the mask falls from your grasp onto the ground and your other hand grabs his hair, as you begin to speed up the movement of your hips, your head tilting back and your skin occasionally brushing against the hoarse tree bark. "yeahh—" his words are muffled by your movements. "can't get enough of you.... mmm, s'good... all for me—"

matt laps at your clit, your legs starting to tremble as your stomach drops over and over again, "i can't..." you whine desperately, grinding against him harder, the tip of his tongue darting onto your swollen bud. "oh... 'm close—"

"thaaaats it, cmon, sweetie..." slurps and flicks of his tongue echoing through the quiet park, your loud moans and curses mixed with his groans, as he feels you clench around his tongue, his fingers gripping your hips so tight it leaves marks. your mouth dropping wide open, the knot in your stomach releasing as you let out a scream, feeling tears coming down your face. matt was watching you as your hips stuttered, he helped you grind against his face some more so you could fully ride out your orgasm. more juices linger down onto his tongue, he desperately licks every drop, his eyes rolling back from the pleasure, "oh my god..."

stopping your movements completely, your body slowly relaxes as he kisses your bud, pulling away from you and opening his eyes again to see your flushed face. "you're so fuckin' sexy... tasting so good.." you let go of matt's hair when he slowly gets up from the ground. "wanna know how fuckin' sweet you are?" you don't even have the strength to respond, all you feel is his now messy hair caressing your face as he pulls you into a kiss, slowly moving his lips against yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. you could feel his wet chin against yours meaning your juices being all over it. "made me so goddamn hard..." he groans against your lips, breaking the kiss, his heavy breathing mixed with yours. you felt so tempted to just open your eyes, to see the face of a guy who makes you feel as good as nobody else but you can't.

he looks at your face one last time before he picks up his mask from the ground and puts it on his face. it was so different, so better, seeing you with his own eyes and not through this fuckass mask, but it was necessary. "you can open your eyes." still recovering from the intense release, your eyes flutter open just as he gently pulls up your underwear and sweatpants. his mask is on again, making you feel a hint of disappointment, you had a small hope that maybe he would let you see his face, but no. "made you speechless, huh?" you don't have to see his face to know the smirk on his face.

"n-no i just... damn" you mutter making him chuckle, barely being able to stand on your shaky legs, so you lean against the tree for support. matt brushes a strand of hair from your face, still frustrated and turned on, but he didn't have time for anything more right now. his goal today was to make you understand that no other man could give you as much pleasure as he did. he wanted you to become as addicted as he was to you, for you to be crawling back to him for more everytime.

"was he able to make you feel like this?" matt tilted his head to the side as you frown, realizing what he was asking about, and you shake your head. but there was one thing you needed to know, "did you..."

he knew what you were about to ask, it made his smile widen and he took one step closer, pulling the phone out of his pocket and waving it in front of your eyes. the crease between your eyebrows widens as you look at the phone. "where does this awful taste in men come from?"

"what?" you ask confused as he shoves the phone into your hand, "you were just a bet for him. all of this is in his messages." the switch in his tone didn't go unnoticed by you, matt starts feeling the same annoyance he felt when he found out about this. the fact that anyone would even think of doing something like that to you was pissing him off. "check yourself."

your eyes move from him to the phone as matt continues, "such a sweet girl yet the guys you pick suck."

"yeah, you don't say." there's a hint of sarcasm in your tone as you stare at the phone. "how did you know about him...?"

matt just smiles, running his thumb over your lower lip, drawing your attention back to him. that look you give him, even in the dark, the way your eyes sparkle... he was going feral for you.

"jus' look what he was sayin' about you. i had to kill him." he starts backing away slowly, his eyes still on you, "no one messes with my girl."

you keep opening and closing your mouth, too stunned to speak as you watched him moving away and after a while he disappeared around the corner. you wanted to call after him, ask him questions but... you stared at the place where he disappeared, still feeling his lips on you, the way he touched you, and now leaving you with... dissatisfaction.

you craved more.

———————————

a/n: i tagged people who wanted a part 2 under the first one!! lmk if you wanna stay on the taglist or if you want me to remove you, it's completely fine!

@xaristhings @certifiedstarrr @mattsfavbitchhh @lvrsturniolo @r0s3luvr @chrislovespepsi

[sematarygirls]

   BOYFRIEND!RAFE x ACADEMIC!READER

WARNINGS .ᐟ fem!reader, unconventional study methods, fingering, lots of talking, facts about the nervous system

NOTES .ᐟ boyfriend rafe boyfriend rafe boyfriend rafe. this came to me while i was tediously taking notes for my psych class and wishing that i had a sexy rafe cameron in my bed.

You sat comfortably on your boyfriend's bed, your back pressed against his chest as you typed away on your computer, taking notes for your psychology class. His chin rested on your shoulder as he peered at the screen, reading a bunch of words he didn't quite understand while his hand rested on your thigh, his thumb drawing soft circles.

"What are you doing?" He hummed, his fingers dancing slightly higher. He knew what you were doing, but he wanted to hear you say it. He loved how excited you got and how you rambled on and on when you were telling him something you were passionate about. If he was being honest, it was kind of a major turn on.

"I've got a test tomorrow on the biological bases of behavior, so I'm just refreshing my memory on the endocrine and nervous systems," you explained, too focused on your notes to register that his touch was slowly sliding closer and closer to your clothed core.

"Oh, yeah?" He murmured, dipping his head down, his lips brushing against your skin as he began to pepper soft, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His hand continued upwards, his fingers lightly brushing you over your already damp underwear. "Tell me about it, baby."

"Rafe," you gasped softly, biting your lip. You tilted your head to the side, your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to find your resolve and tell him to stop, but you couldn't help the way your legs parted for him. "I told you I have to study."

"You are studying. Cmon, tell me all about the nervous system while I touch you, baby. You can do both," he coaxed you, his long fingers expertly pulling your panties to the side and running along your wet folds. "Tell me everything that's in that beautiful brain of yours."

You let out a breathy moan, your breathing quickening as your head fell back against his shoulder. You racked your brain for any piece of information, his touch making your mind go blank. "The brain is um-" you drew in a sharp breath as his thumb nudged your clit. "The exterior brain structures are the cerebral cortex, cereb-bellum, occipital lobe, temporal lobe, frontal lobe, and parietal lobe," you managed to say.

"Mmhmm, and what about the interior?" He prompted, his fingers slowly pushing inside of you. "Tell me every little detail, baby. I wanna know everything." His voice was low and husky as he encouraged you to keep going, his breath hot against your skin.

"Rafe," you moaned, your lips parting in pleasure as his fingers worked expertly inside you. You couldn't focus when you could feel his long fingers dragging against your tight walls.

"Cmon, my smart girl," he cooed, his other hand snaking around your waist and splaying his large hand across your stomach to keep you in place. "You know it. I know you do." He continued drawing his fingers in and out of you as his thumb rubbed your puffy clit firmly.

You did know it. You'd even forced Rafe to help you make stupid flashcards, so you could memorize the parts and all their functions. But, he had a way of making you forget everything and turning your brain to mush when he had his hands on you.

Your voice was shaky and breathless as you spoke, feeling your orgasm building low in your stomach. "The interior brain structures are the-the amygdala, hippocampus, medulla oblongata-" you gasped, your back arching into his touch when his fingers hit that spot inside you that had you practically seeing stars. You hesitantly kept going, trying to focus because knowing Rafe, if you stopped, he would too. "P-pituitary gland, thalamus, basal ganglia, hypothalamus, midbrain, and pons." You were pretty impressed with yourself that you managed to remember all that while your boyfriend was knuckle deep inside your dripping cunt.

He groaned, feeling himself grow harder as he listened to your breathy voice tell him all about your studies. "You're so fuckin' smart," he found that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking gently. "My brilliant girl."

Your walls fluttered around his fingers at his praising words. He was always so interested in what you had to say, never dismissing you or brushing you off when you started rambling aimlessly and throwing random facts his way. He listened intently, showing genuine interest that made you feel so loved and seen.

"Keep going, baby," he rasped, his fingers speeding up in a way that had you gripping his bicep—needing something, anything to keep you present. "What do all those big words do, hm?"

You let out a breathy laugh, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "Well, the um- the hypothalamus controls the pituitary gland, which releases hormones that regulate bodily functions," you explained, smiling softly at how fitting that fact seemed to be.

"Mm, like the hormones that are rushing through your veins right now, making you all hot and bothered for me?" He asked, his voice low and taunting, his teeth lightly nipping at your neck. He pushed his fingers deeper, curving them up to hit that spot that always made your legs shake.

"Uh huh," you moaned, your nails sinking into his bicep through the soft material of his sweater. His fingers curling inside you as his thumb continued swirling around your sensitive bundle of nerves, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge.

He hummed against your skin, his tongue laving over the spot where his teeth had marked you. "Cmon, pretty girl," he whispered, feeling your body tense up. "You did so good. Let me feel you come apart on my fingers."

Your eyes fluttered shut, back arching into his touch as his words sent you over the edge. A whimper of his name fell past your parted lips amongst a sea of soft moans as you came, your walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers while he continued to drag them in and out of you, prolonging your high.

He groaned as he felt your velvety walls flutter and squeeze around his fingers, your sweet cries of his name spurring him on. He worked you through it, fingers pumping steadily, thumb circling your clit until you were a boneless, panting mess in his arms.

He peppered kisses along your jaw as he carefully pulled away from your weeping core. "Who knew you could make biology sound so sexy,"

"Technically, it's psychology," you corrected him, chest heaving. You turned your head to look at him as he brought his fingers to his lips, sucking your release off of them with a low groan. You bit your lips at the sight, his lips glistening as he pulled his fingers back.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he flashed you a grin before leaning down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth to let you taste yourself on his tongue.

You moaned softly into his mouth, reluctantly pulling back after a moment. "If you keep distracting me, I'm never going to finish."

"Hm, that's weird because I'm pretty sure you just did," he hummed, feigning confusion as a cocky smirk tugged at his lips.

"Oh, shut up," you laughed, feeling your cheeks heat up at his innuendo. His hand slid up your arm, tracing soft shapes on your bare skin. You looked up at him, seeing the way his pupils dilated and feeling the evidence of arousal digging into you from behind. "Five more minutes and then I'm all yours, deal?" You raised a brow. You figured you had studied enough over the last couple days, and your oh so patient boyfriend deserved some of your attention.

A sly grin settled on his lips. "Deal, but don't think that I'll be keeping my hands to myself during these five minutes," he said, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

You turned back to your computer, giggling as he dipped his head back into your neck, already kissing and sucking at your delicate skin. His hands started to roam your body, and as you tried to focus, you found yourself wondering if you would make it five minutes before you surrendered to him.

[c1qfxugcgy0]

At my last job, we sold lots of hobbyist electronics stuff, including microcontrollers.

This turned out to be a little more complicated than selling, like, light bulbs. Oh how I yearned for the simplicity of a product you could plug in and have work.

Background: A microcontroller is the smallest useful computer. An ATtiny10 has a kilobyte of program memory. If you buy a thousand at a time, they cost 44 cents each.

As you'd imagine, the smallest computer has not great specs. The RAM is 32 bytes. Not gigabytes, not megabytes, not kilobytes. Individual bytes. Microcontrollers have the absolute minimum amount of hardware needed to accomplish their task, and nothing more.

This includes programming the thing. Any given MCU is programmed once, at the start of its life, and then spends the next 30 years blinking an LED on a refrigerator. Since they aren’t meant to be reflashed in the field, and modern PCs no longer expose the fast, bit-bangable ports hobbyists once used, MCUs usually need a third-party programming tool.

But you could just use that tool to install a bootloader, which then listens for a magic number on the serial bus. Then you can reprogram the chip as many times as you want without the expensive programming hardware.

There is an immediate bifurcation here. Only hobbyists will use the bootloader version. With 1024 bytes of program memory, there is, even more than usual, nothing to spare.

Consumer electronics development is a funny gig. It, more than many other businesses, requires you to be good at everything. A startup making the next Furby requires a rare omniexpertise. Your company has to write software, design hardware, create a production plan, craft a marketing scheme, and still do the boring logistics tasks of putting products in boxes and mailing them out. If you want to turn a profit, you do this the absolute minimum number of people. Ideally, one.

Proving out a brand new product requires cutting corners. You make the prototype using off the shelf hobbyist electronics. You make the next ten units with the same stuff, because there's no point in rewriting the entire codebase just for low rate initial production. You use the legacy code for the next thousand units because you're desperately busy putting out a hundred fires and hiring dozens of people to handle the tsunami of new customers. For the next ten thousand customers...

Rather by accident, my former employer found itself fulfilling the needs of the missing middle. We were an official distributor of PICAXE chips for North America. Our target market was schools, but as a sideline, we sold individual PICAXE chips, which were literally PIC chips flashed with a bootloader and a BASIC interpreter at a 200% markup. As a gag, we offered volume discounts on the chips up to a thousand units. Shortly after, we found ourselves filling multi-thousand unit orders.

We had blundered into a market niche too stupid for anyone else to fill. Our customers were tiny companies who sold prototypes hacked together from dev boards. And every time I cashed a ten thousand dollar check from these guys, I was consumed with guilt. We were selling to willing buyers at the current fair market price, but they shouldn't have been buying these products at all! Since they were using bootloaders, they had to hand program each chip individually, all while PIC would sell you programmed chips at the volume we were selling them for just ten cents extra per unit! We shouldn't have been involved at all!

But they were stuck. Translating a program from the soft and cuddly memory-managed education-oriented languages to the hardcore embedded byte counting low level languages was a rather esoteric skill. If everyone in-house is just barely keeping their heads above water responding to customer emails, and there's no budget to spend $50,000 on a consultant to rewrite your program, what do you do? Well, you keep buying hobbyist chips, that's what you do.

And I talked to these guys. All the time! They were real, functional, profitable businesses, who were giving thousands of dollars to us for no real reason. And the worst thing. The worst thing was... they didn't really care? Once every few months they would talk to their chip guy, who would make vague noises about "bootloaders" and "programming services", while they were busy solving actual problems. (How to more accurately detect deer using a trail camera with 44 cents of onboard compute) What I considered the scandal of the century was barely even perceived by my customers.

In the end my employer was killed by the pandemic, and my customers seamlessly switched to buying overpriced chips straight from the source. The end! No moral.

[d-z20]

Rivals part 2 (NSFW)

Pairing: Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: After getting fucked in a supply closet you can't get Rio out of your head so when you discover she's staying at the same hotel as you an Agatha you know it's impossible to try and ignore her.

-OR-

You upgrade from a stoage closet to a meeting room

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, top Rio, fingering (R recv), kinda semi-public sex, orgasm denial

Words: 3k

A/N: One is a centuries-old witch and the other's age is just yes in canon so it makes just as much sense that I've put them as the same age in this AU 😂😂

AO3 | Part 1 | Masterlist

You step into the hotel lobby, the cool air of the evening clinging to your skin as you adjust the collar of your coat. Tonight, you’re checking both yourself and Agatha in—just another part of the job you’ve come to accept, the silent, invisible support that keeps her world in motion. Agatha’s already at the bar, as usual, casting an air of aloofness and superiority as she takes her seat, eyes scanning the crowd with a disinterested air. You can almost feel the weight of her gaze, even from here.

The receptionist is an older man with an unremarkable face, his fingers tapping the keys on his computer in slow, deliberate movements. You hand over your ID with the same practiced, neutral expression you’ve worn countless times as he enters your information into the system. The sound of the keys clicks like a metronome, each tap reminding you of the odd stillness before everything changes.

Your gaze flickers to the lobby, noticing the soft hum of the busy space, the flow of people moving in and out of the hotel, and the quiet buzz of an upcoming event. And then, like a sudden jolt, you catch a glimpse of her.

Rio.

She stands in front of the elevator, looking as effortlessly stunning as ever, dressed in a navy suit that hugs her frame just right. The moment your eyes meet, she grins—a slow, knowing curve of her lips that sends a sharp pulse through your chest. She doesn’t even need to speak to make the connection clear. And then, just as the doors begin to close, she winks at you.

Crap . She must be staying here too.

A wave of heat sweeps over you, flushing your skin. Your mind drifts back to the storage closet, to the feel of her hands and the intensity of her touch. You swallow hard, trying to push the thoughts aside, but the memory lingers, tantalising. The butterflies in your stomach are different now, sharper—less from nerves, more from a dark, hungry anticipation.

You catch yourself before you get too lost in the memory, forcing your focus back to the present, back to the receptionist. He’s handing you the keys—two of them. One for you, one for Agatha’s room. You mumble your thanks, feeling the weight of the cards in your hand, and force yourself to walk toward the bar where Agatha is seated.

—

A little while later, you’re in Agatha’s suite preparing her materials for tomorrow as she sits at the table, papers spread out in front of her, her sharp pen gliding across them with practiced precision. Her presence is cold, controlled—exactly how she likes it.

You’ve been through this routine countless times: taking care of the small tasks, getting everything in order, making sure she’s ready for whatever’s coming next. It’s the usual drill, only tonight it feels heavier somehow. Maybe it’s because of Rio. The thought of her, so close, almost makes your skin itch.

“Is everything ready?” Agatha’s voice cuts through the silence, her tone low and sharp.

“Yeah,” you reply, setting the keys on the desk in front of her. “I—uh, I think I saw Rio in the hotel. She must be staying here too.”

At that, Agatha’s gaze snaps to yours. Her eyes narrow, her lip curling in distaste. “Of all the places she could’ve chosen..." Her voice is low, but the venom behind it is unmistakable. You know better than to push her when she’s like this, but you’re curious about why Rio makes Agatha so... angry.

You take a breath, trying to sound casual. “You two... you’ve had history, right? Why do you hate her so much?”

For a moment, Agatha doesn’t speak. Her gaze shifts somewhere distant, her mind clearly working through something you can’t see. Then, with a sharp exhale, she leans back in her chair, her voice low, almost bitter.

“Rio Vidal…” Agatha’s tone is heavy with disdain. “We were inseparable back in school. Best friends. But it was always a competition—always. Top of the class, Model UN, class president races. We were always neck and neck. She was brilliant, you know. Almost annoyingly so. I liked it at first. But the closer we got, the more I realised we weren’t just competing for grades. We were competing for each other's attention.”

She leans forward now, eyes burning with the intensity of the memory. “We started dating when we were seniors in high school. I thought it would be perfect. Both of us at the top, together. But the moment we graduated, everything fell apart. She got the job I wanted. The one that had my name written all over it. I even tried to dig up dirt on her during the hiring process—anything to tilt the scales. But she came out spotless, like she always does.” Agatha’s hands tighten around her pen, her knuckles white. “She didn’t even want it, not really. She just applied for the experience. But she got it. And I…”

She stops, biting down on her lip, and when she speaks again, it’s through gritted teeth. “She sabotaged me; I don’t know how but she did. So, I did what anyone would do in that situation. I pushed her away. And we both took turns throwing everything away, hurting each other over and over again. It was a mess. We were constantly fighting; but god, the hate sex was phenomenal.”

A long breath. “Then, after that year, we both went our separate ways. Until the world of politics brought us back together. I will never forgive her. She’s always there. Just waiting for me to fall. And if I have to break a few rules to make sure she’s the one who stumbles, so be it. It’s survival.”

You watch her, her eyes burning with the intensity of old wounds. There’s no mistaking it: Agatha Harkness and Rio Vidal share a history that’s anything but simple.

“So,” Agatha finishes with a dry laugh, her voice colder than ice, “I’m not about to let her win. Ever.”

You can feel the weight of her words settle in the room, thick and heavy. And for a moment, you almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

But you know better than to feel sympathy. You’ve seen firsthand what happens when something gets in the way of what Agatha wants.

And getting fucked by your boss’ long-term rival and ex-girlfriend has definitely put you in the way.

—

Later that night, the soft hum of the air conditioner is the only sound in your room as you scroll aimlessly through your phone, trying to unwind after the day’s whirlwind. The room is quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in your head. Agatha’s background with Rio has you reeling, the weight of their shared history settling heavily in your mind.

A sharp knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts. You groan, already anticipating the next round of demands. It’s late, but Agatha isn’t one for respecting boundaries, especially when she thinks something “needs” to be done.

“Coming,” you mutter, dragging yourself to the door. You yank it open, ready to fire off some excuse about needing sleep—but the words catch in your throat when you see who’s standing there.

Rio.

She leans casually against the doorframe, her devilish grin firmly in place. Her hair falls perfectly around her face, and the faint smell of her perfume wafts toward you, heady and intoxicating. She’s dressed down now—black jeans and a fitted shirt that still manage to look like they belong in a magazine spread.

“Miss me?” she asks, her voice low, playful.

Your pulse quickens, and your grip tightens on the door handle. “What are you doing here?”

“Relax,” she says, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “I just thought you might like a drink. You know, since we’re practically neighbours." She gestures down the hall. “I’m just a few doors down. Figured it’d be rude not to say hi.”

Your heart skips a beat. Agatha would absolutely lose it if she knew Rio was staying so close. The thought alone is enough to make you hesitate. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Rio tilts her head, her smirk widening. “Come on, don’t be shy. It’s just a drink. I promise to behave.” The way her eyes linger on yours suggests otherwise, but before you can overthink it, you find yourself nodding.

“Fine,” you say, stepping into the hallway. “But just one drink.”

—

Her room is nearly identical to yours—same generic hotel furniture, same muted colour scheme. Yet somehow, it feels different. Maybe it’s the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air or the way she moves through the space, effortlessly commanding it.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she says, gesturing to the small seating area by the window. She picks up the room service menu, scanning it quickly before glancing at you. “What’s your poison?”

You hesitate, torn between wanting to play it safe and giving in to the pull of her presence. “Surprise me.”

Rio raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased with your answer. She picks up the phone and orders a bottle of wine and a few small plates—cheese, fruit, nothing too heavy. As she hangs up, she turns back to you, her expression casual but her eyes sharp.

“So,” she says, sitting across from you, “how’s life working for Agatha Harkness? She still a miserable old witch?.”

You laugh, a dry, nervous sound. “That’s one way to put it.”

She studies you for a moment, her smile softening. “Must be exhausting, though. Always running around, making sure everything’s perfect for her.”

You shrug, trying to downplay it. “It’s a job.”

“Need me to treat you right again?” She hums, leaning back in her chair.

Before you can respond, there’s a knock at the door. Rio gets up to answer it, returning with the wine and food. She pours two glasses, handing one to you before settling back into her seat. The wine is rich and smooth, warming you from the inside out.

The conversation flows easily, the tension between you both ebbing and flowing like a tide. You talk about everything and nothing—her travels, your work, the absurdities of life in politics. But every now and then, her hand brushes against yours, her eyes lingering just a moment too long.

By the time you finish your second glass, the room feels warmer, and the air is charged with something electric. You know you should leave; staying here could lead to more trouble if Agatha ever finds out. But when Rio leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper, you forget all the reasons you shouldn’t be here.

“Can I tell you something?” She asks, her breath warm against your skin.

You nod, your voice caught in your throat.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she admits, her lips curving into a sly smile.

Your heart pounds in your chest, and before you can second-guess yourself, she closes the distance between you. Her lips are soft but insistent, her hands sliding up your arms as she pulls you closer. The kiss is a slow burn at first, but it quickly intensifies, her hunger igniting something deep within you.

She stands, pulling you with her toward the bed. Her hands move with practiced ease, unbuttoning your shirt and sliding it off your shoulders. You reciprocate, your fingers fumbling slightly as you work to undress her, the heat of her skin beneath your fingertips making it hard to think straight.

You let yourself get lost in her for a while—the press of her lips, the warmth of her hands, the way her body moves against yours. But as her hand trails lower, sliding beneath the waistband of your underwear, a flash of Agatha’s searing glare cuts through your haze of desire.

“Wait,” you blurt out, your hand catching hers before she can go any further.

Rio pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. You gently extricate yourself from her hold, slipping off the bed and gathering your clothes. Rio watches you, her expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, avoiding her gaze.

She doesn’t stop you; she only tilts her head as you open the door and practically sprint out of the room.

When you finally make it back to your room, the tension in your chest eases slightly, but your mind is still racing. You don’t know where this path will lead, but one thing is clear: you’re already in way too deep.

—

The morning dawns bright and early, but you’re already awake—the events of the night before playing on a loop in your mind. Every time you close your eyes, you feel Rio’s lips on yours, her hands on your skin. It’s thrilling, and yet you can’t shake the unease settling in your chest.

You push the thoughts aside as you straighten your outfit in the mirror, steeling yourself for the day ahead. Agatha’s schedule is packed, and you don’t have time to let personal distractions cloud your mind.

By the time you join Agatha in the conference room, she’s already mid-rant about the inefficiency of the staff. You nod along, jotting down notes, doing your best to stay focused. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot Rio.

She’s standing across the room, deep in conversation with a group of attendees. Her presence is magnetic, and it feels impossible not to look. She catches your gaze and smirks, her eyes glinting with mischief.

You quickly turn back to your notepad, heat rising to your cheeks.

The day continues in a blur of meetings and logistical tasks, but Rio is everywhere—at the coffee station, in the hallway, even lingering near the stage. Every time your paths cross, she gives you that same knowing smirk, and it’s starting to feel less like coincidence and more like intention.

You try to push Rio from your mind, but it’s impossible. Every time you see her, and your heart races. Agatha would never forgive you if she found out, but there’s a part of you that can’t stop wanting Rio. You’re already tangled in her web, and you don’t know how to escape.

—

By the time lunch rolls around, you’re jittery with nerves and something else you don’t want to name. You excuse yourself, slipping out of the crowded room to catch your breath.

But as soon as you step into the quiet hallway, Rio is there.

“Funny seeing you here,” she says, her voice teasing.

You narrow your eyes at her, crossing your arms. “You’re following me.”

She grins, unapologetic. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s fate.”

You roll your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“Come on,” she says, leaning in closer. “Let’s find somewhere a little more private.”

Before you can protest, she’s taking your hand and pulling you down the hallway. You glance around nervously, hoping no one sees you as she leads you into an empty meeting room.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the air between you shifts instantly. Rio steps closer, her hands finding your waist as she presses you against the wall.

“I’ve been thinking about last night,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your ear. “About how good you felt.”

Your breath catches and before you can respond, her mouth is on yours. The kiss is hungry, desperate, and it sets your skin alight.

Her hands roam over your body, tugging at your clothes as she deepens the kiss. You melt into her, your own hands tangling in her hair as a moan escapes your lips. 

Her hand dips and she cups your heat through your underwear making you gasp, your hips instinctively rolling against her palm. The arousal from last night springs back to the forefront, hitting you like a wave, and it doesn’t take long before you’re keening into her touch, your body responding to her every movement.

“Fuck, you’re so needy for me,” Rio whispers against your neck, her fingers slipping beneath the fabric to find you slick and wanting.

She teases you at first, circling in maddeningly slow strokes. Your knees go weak, and you clutch at her shoulders for support as a soft whimper escapes your lips.

“Do you want me to stop?” She murmurs, her tone dripping with mock innocence.

You shake your head frantically, unable to form words. She chuckles, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before thrusting her fingers inside you.

Your moan is loud and unrestrained, echoing in the empty room. Her movements are confident and precise, driving you closer and closer to the edge with every thrust and curl of her fingers.

The tension coils tighter in your stomach, your body arching into her as you chase that blinding release. But just as you’re about to tip over, the door bursts open.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Your stomach drops as Agatha storms into the room, her face a mask of fury.

“Get your hands off her!” she snaps, striding over and grabbing you by the ear. You yelp in surprise as she pulls you away from Rio, who just withdraws her hand and leans against the wall, utterly unbothered.

“Ms Harkness, I—” you start, but she cuts you off with a glare that could freeze fire.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she says sharply. She turns her attention to Rio, her voice dripping with venom. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Rio shrugs, her smirk widening. “What can I say? Old habits die hard.”

You glance back at her, your face burning with embarrassment and frustration. She meets your gaze, her eyes glinting with amusement as she slowly lifts her fingers to her mouth. She licks them clean, her tongue curling around them provocatively, and your breath catches.

Agatha doesn’t miss the exchange. “We’re leaving. Now.” Agatha’s fingers tighten around your wrist as she pulls you into the hallway. She’s angry, but there’s something more beneath that rage. She doesn’t want to lose you.

You try to pull away from Agatha's grip, your heart pounding in your chest, but the heat of the kiss is still fresh in your mind. Guilt claws at you, but there's something else, something dangerous, urging you to give in to the chaos.

-----

idk how I feel about this, I had all the ideas and then I lost them all trying to tie up the ending 😭

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @lostbutlovely33 @sunshine-makes-flowers-grow @dont-blame-me-she-made-me-crazy @seaoflittlefires @sapphic-murder

[luv4arinn]

I Just Wanna Feel

Author’s Note: So—sorry for not posting in weeks, but I had a massive writer’s block, and well… I’m back! I was heavily inspired by THAT Robbie Williams song. Yes, I watched his biopic. Yes, I cried. Yes, I recommend it. And… surprise?! There will be a whole chronology with the others, all themed around Robbie’s songs! Yayy <3!! Consider it a gift? from me for taking so long 🥺. Love you all.

Pairing: Bayverse!Donnie x female reader

Tags: Intense fluff, nerd having an emotional crisis, extreme overthinking, unexpected kisses, Donatello’s mental breakdown, romantic panic, “oh no I messed up” but in HD, happy ending.

The sound of the keyboard echoed through the room—a rhythmic, steady tapping that blended with the low hum of the monitors. The bluish glow from the screens cast irregular shadows across his face, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses with every line of code appearing and disappearing on the monitor.

Donatello was there, as always.

The work was easy. Thinking was easy.

It was like a well-structured algorithm: receive information, process it, execute a plan of action. The world had rules, patterns, probabilities—formulas that predicted outcomes with near-absolute precision. No matter how chaotic a situation seemed, there was always a logical solution waiting to be uncovered.

Computers don’t lie.

Data has no biases, no whims. It doesn’t suffer irrational fluctuations. It doesn’t beat faster without reason. It doesn’t have to remind itself to breathe.

But then…

There’s you.

And everything falls apart.

Not immediately. Not like a fatal error shutting down the system in the blink of an eye. It’s more subtle. Like an unexpected variable in an equation that had, until now, been perfect. Something that doesn’t fit into the rigid structure of his world—but something he can’t ignore either.

He thinks about it often. About how his brain operates like a well-calibrated machine, each thought clicking into the next like the teeth of a moving gear. Logic is his native language. Reason, his compass.

And yet, when it comes to you, all that logic becomes blurred.

The gears grind.

The code becomes erratic.

The equation fills with unknowns.

Because when you step into his space, when your voice disrupts the steady rhythm of his keyboard, when you lean over his desk without a second thought for the scattered circuits and switch off his monitor without warning…

His first instinct is to think. Analyze. Quantify.

What does this mean?

Why does his heart react this way?

Why does his skin register the shift in temperature more intensely when you’re near?

But thinking doesn’t give him answers.

Feeling does.

And that is terrifying.

Because feeling isn’t predictable. Feeling has no neatly arranged lines of code, no graphs to chart behavioral patterns, no equations with exact solutions.

Emotions, in themselves, are a chaotic system.

And you…

You are the anomaly he still doesn’t know how to decode.

Nights shouldn’t feel this short when spent alone in front of a screen. And yet, when his mind drifts to the memory of a laugh, the fleeting image of a glance, the echo of an accidental touch… time dissolves in a way not even quantum physics could explain.

When he feels the weight of his name on your tongue. Like an access key to a system he never thought anyone would try to hack.

And he watches you from the corner of his eye as you lean closer, and in that instant, every variable in his mind shifts. Every equation rewrites itself.

A shiver runs down his shell.

Feeling.

He knows because his chest tightens with an undefined pressure, a sensation he can’t attribute to any specific physiological variable. His heart rate isn’t elevated from exertion. He’s not under attack. He’s not in danger.

So why does his body react as if he is?

There’s no equation to explain this.

Because if there were, he would have solved it long ago. He would have identified the problem, broken it down into its components, eliminated any errors. But every time he thinks he’s close to an answer, another unknown appears, shifting all previous solutions out of place.

Music filters through his headphones, slow and melancholic.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

A shiver runs down his spine.

His body reacts to the sound before his mind does. It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous. There is no logical reason why a progression of chords and a set of words arranged in a certain way should have this effect on him.

And yet, here he is.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, motionless—caught between the instinct to keep working and the strange, undeniable realization that… he can’t.

Not because he’s tired.

Not because he lacks information.

Not because there’s a problem that requires more processing.

But because, for the first time in a long time, the data isn’t the most important thing.

The screen flickers with information he should be absorbing, but he isn’t. His glasses reflect numbers and graphs that would normally hold his full attention, but his gaze is empty, unfocused.

The room remains unchanged—draped in shadows, illuminated only by the bluish glow of his monitors and the faint blinking of LED lights from his equipment.

The mission had been difficult. The margin of error had been higher than he liked to admit.

It wasn’t often that his calculations failed.

But sometimes, calculations weren’t enough.

Sometimes, reality simply… refused to adhere to logic.

“Feel the home that I live in…”

His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t know how that song ended up on his playlist.

But he has a reasonable theory.

One that involves Mikey, his blatant disregard for personal privacy, and his insistent need to “help him connect with his emotions.”

(Sure. Right.)

And yet…

The lyrics hit him harder than he’d like to admit.

It’s not the melody itself. It’s not the chords or the rhythm. It’s the way the words seem to slip through the cracks in his mind, seeping into the spaces that logic has never quite managed to seal shut.

“I just wanna feel, real love…”

Donnie exhales slowly, his fingers still hovering over the keyboard, motionless.

He thinks about the battle.

The mistakes.

The risks they took.

Numbers flash through his mind like a simulation running in reverse—impact probability, the margin of error in his calculations, the reaction speed needed to avoid damage. Fractions of a second where the difference between victory and absolute disaster depended on decisions made under pressure.

But more than anything—he thinks about you.

He thinks about the way, at the end of the fight, you rushed to check if he was okay.

About how, without even thinking, your hands—warm, alive—ran along his arm, searching for injuries he had already identified and dismissed milliseconds before with his visor.

He could have told you it wasn’t necessary.

That he was unharmed.

That he had concrete data to prove it.

But he didn’t.

Because logic dictates that worry should be extinguished by facts.

But feeling…

Feeling dictates that your touch lingers, even after you’ve gone.

That the sensation of your skin against his stays beyond his capacity for reasoning.

That the light pressure of your fingers on his forearm still burns in his memory, like an unsolved equation looping endlessly in his mind.

“Come and hold my hand…”

Donnie closes his eyes.

He could turn the song off.

He could erase the anomaly from his system.

He could rewrite the equation, adjust the variables, find a way to rationalize what he feels.

But… he doesn’t want to.

Because for the first time in his life, the result of a problem doesn’t matter as much as the unknown.

He doesn’t just want to think.

He wants to feel.

He wants to understand why being with you feels like the only constant that truly matters.

And then—you arrive.

Without warning, without fanfare, without the slightest idea that the world inside Donatello’s mind is teetering on the edge of a collapse even he can’t explain.

The lab door slides open smoothly—barely a whisper against the silence, thick with static electricity and the faint murmur of music in his headphones.

He notices everything.

The shift in air pressure.

The sound of your footsteps, softened against the floor.

The faint scent of shampoo and fabric laced with the chill of the night.

The way the temperature in the room rises by just a fraction of a degree when you step inside.

But he doesn’t turn around immediately.

Because he doesn’t know what to do with the anomaly that you are in his equation.

He doesn’t know where to place you within the rigid parameters of his logical, structured world.

His operating system slows, his brain—so used to processing information with the precision of a surgeon—stalls in an endless loop, searching for a resolution that refuses to exist.

And then—your voice.

“Donnie?”

Soft. Not because you’re hesitant, but because you know him. Because somehow—through a method he can’t quantify—you can read the tension in his shoulders. You can see the way his fingers have stopped typing, even though the screen is still waiting for input.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, as if that alone might be enough to reboot him, to restore the control that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

He knows he should say something.

He knows he should act normal.

But his normal means efficiency, speed, precise answers delivered at the exact right moment.

And right now, every command in his mind is failing.

You watch him with quiet curiosity, tilting just slightly toward him—just enough for the air between you to feel heavier, more tangible.

“Everything okay?” you ask, voice soft in that way that completely disarms him. Then your gaze sharpens slightly, scanning him with quiet scrutiny. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at you.

His mind runs an automatic analysis of your expression—eyes slightly narrowed, lips barely pressed together, the faintest crease in your right brow, as if you’re already calculating the probability that he’s lying.

Logic dictates that he should reassure you with data. That he should tell you his visor has already run a full diagnostic scan and that his physical condition is optimal. That there is no rational reason for concern.

But then his gaze drops.

And he sees his own hand, still resting on the desk—still tense.

And for the first time in a long time, he chooses to do something without overthinking it.

He looks at you again.

His throat feels dry. Without realizing it, he wets his lips—a quick flick of his tongue over skin cracked from hours without proper hydration.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely sounds like his own, he asks:

“Can I… hold your hand?”

It’s not the kind of question anyone would expect from him.

And he knows it.

Because it doesn’t fit his usual patterns. It’s not something that makes sense in any logical context.

But right now, logic is utterly useless to him.

Your lashes flutter in subtle surprise, as if the words take a few extra seconds to fully register.

“What?”

His instincts scream at him to backtrack, to rephrase, to find a way to explain what even he doesn’t fully understand.

But he doesn’t.

“I want to…” He inhales, trying to reorganize his thoughts. “I mean, just—”

He shuts his eyes for a second, frustration flickering across his face. He has never felt this clumsy with words before.

When he opens them again, you’re still there. You haven’t moved. You haven’t looked away.

And somehow, that alone gives him the courage he’s lacking.

“I just… want to feel it.”

The truth escapes him so easily, so quietly, that it almost embarrasses him.

Your expression shifts.

It’s not amusement.

It’s not rejection.

It’s something softer. More intimate.

And without questioning it—without hesitation or unnecessary words—you let your hand slide over his.

Not hurriedly.

Not hesitantly.

Just with the quiet certainty of someone who understands exactly what he’s asking for.

And when your fingers intertwine with his, Donnie feels every equation, every algorithm, every carefully structured rule in his mind… simply dissolve.

As if they had never really mattered in the first place.

“Well?” you ask, your voice carrying a faint attempt at lightness.

Donnie knows you’re trying to sound casual, that you’re masking your uncertainty behind a relaxed tone. But he notices.

He notices the delicate dusting of pink on your cheeks, the almost imperceptible tremor in your lower lip, the way your thumb brushes against the back of his hand—like you’re adjusting to the contact just as much as he is.

And something inside him… softens.

His lips curve, at first unconsciously—a smile, small and barely formed. Then, from deep in his chest, a quiet laugh escapes, unbidden and genuine, as weightless as the air after a storm.

It’s not mockery. It’s not disbelief.

It’s something purer. Something real.

—Nothing, —he murmurs, his thumb moving awkwardly against your skin— Just… this is nice.

The confession catches him off guard.

Because he hadn’t planned it.

Because he hadn’t filtered it through his logic before speaking.

Because it simply happened.

And then, you look at each other.

Maybe for too long.

Maybe just long enough for the world around you to blur into a distant murmur, as if nothing else exists except the space you occupy together.

He finds himself mesmerized by you.

Fascinated.

But not in the way he is fascinated by a new equation, by an unexpected pattern in the data, by the perfect symmetry of a well-designed structure.

This is different.

This is raw.

This is visceral.

This is feeling.

His other hand, trembling in a way he doesn’t understand, lifts with a slowness that borders on reverence.

And when his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch is so light it feels like an experiment in itself.

He feels.

He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips, the way it molds so effortlessly to his touch, the way your body leans ever so slightly toward him—responding to an equation he hasn’t yet written but, for the first time, doesn’t feel the need to solve.

He feels the erratic pounding of his own heart, too fast, too unsteady, as if it has forgotten its natural rhythm.

He feels the heat gathering in his chest, expanding outward like a shockwave, defying all logical explanation.

And then, he hears you sigh.

Small.

Soft.

Almost imperceptible.

But he feels it.

He feels the warmth of your breath against his skin, the subtle vibration of your exhale in the nonexistent space between you.

Feels,

feels,

feels.

As if every one of his senses—once so meticulously calibrated to process information—has now been repurposed for a single objective:

You.

Your warmth seeping into his skin.

Your quiet, rhythmic breathing.

The barely-there weight of your gaze resting on him.

The familiar scent of you, imprinting itself onto some hidden corner of his mind he never thought necessary.

Just you.

Only you.

Nothing else exists.

Nothing else matters.

And then—without thinking, without calculating, without rationalizing it into exhaustion like he always does—

he kisses you.

It’s brief. Just a brush of lips.

A moment suspended between doubt and need, between impulse and fear.

A single heartbeat contained in a single point of contact.

And then—

He hears you gasp.

His entire body locks up. Every muscle goes rigid with a tension so sharp it’s almost painful.

His brain—so efficient, so precise, so relentless in its ability to analyze every variable in a situation—enters a total shutdown.

He stares at you, eyes wide, pupils blown.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He misread everything.

What the hell was he thinking?

You don’t see him that way.

Why would you?

Why would you ever?

Shame crashes over him like an unstoppable wave. His stomach twists, his skin burns, his heart clenches into an invisible fist that threatens to crush it from the inside out.

He pulls back, his hands loosening, his voice catching in his throat.

—Oh, God, I didn’t mean to— —he stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of his own panic. His thoughts are a mess of unsolved equations, of probabilities collapsing into a singularity of pure dread— I just… I thought it was a good moment, I—

—Yes.

Your voice cuts through his spiral.

His brain short-circuits.

—It was.

…

What?

His breath halts.

The air thickens, pressing in from all sides, as if the entire universe has stopped—right here, right now, in these words, in this reality he never accounted for.

And then—

You close the distance.

You are the one to bring your lips back to his.

And his mind—his brilliant, overanalyzing mind—

for the first time in his life—goes completely silent.

And he simply—feels.