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unintentionalseductress · 22 hours ago

Text

Uncoded

Warnings: ANGST, slow burn, self-deprecation, general sadness, NO SMUT Summary: Stuck in Linkon City, you never thought you'd be someone other than the MC. What happens when you spawn in the game as an NPC? WC: 8.8 K A/n: Hello everyone! I know it's been a hot minute since I wrote a oneshot, and thank you to all the kinds folks that reached out after I said I was let go a few weeks ago. I'm taking a break after being burnt out at that job, and planning my next moves, but I do want to get back into the joy I found while writing. And who is this girl, there's no smut?! *gasps*

The operating room was cold, and the bright overhead light caught on sterile surgical tools that gleamed under the fluorescent bulbs. The regular beeping from a heart rate monitor, the hissing and mechanical thunks of the machines that supported the delicate task of the operation filled the room, broken only by the shuffle of surgical gowns and the clink of metal as the used tools were discarded into a separate bowl after their use.

"Bovie," Zayne says, his voice low but clear.

You passed it to him carefully, your gloves brushing against his briefly, and still, despite the dozen or so times you had done this seemingly insignificant act, it sent little tingles of electricity down your spine. Zayne doesn’t flinch. He never does. He was laser-focused on his patient, the cautery moving with robotic precision along the patient’s heart, the pungent smell of charred tissue mingling with the clean air of the operating theatre.

Your gaze lingers on him longer than intended. The surgical mask hid most of his face, but his eyes were narrowed in utmost concentration. He always looked like that when he operated, calm and unwavering. Nothing outside the human heart he held in his gloved hands mattered. It was admirable, but you couldn’t stop the sharp pang of longing that lodged itself in your chest every time you assisted in the operating room.

He doesn’t see me.

You don’t know when the thought first curled into you like a parasite, but it lived there now, quiet, constant, gnawing away at your insides.

“Retractor,” Zayne requests.

Your hands automatically move, anticipating his needs. As the operation theatre grows quiet again, your mind wanders.

It had happened three days ago.

You had gotten home from another long day. The world was dark, work sucked, and you had no desire to do anything. After reheating a bowl of leftovers and doing your nighttime routine, you had curled up in bed under the warmth of the comforter, and logged in to the only thing bringing you any semblance of relief from your otherwise shitty reality. The dim glow of your phone screen bounced off the white walls of your bedroom as a familiar cafe suddenly bloomed into life, and a man dressed in a black shirt and black slacks made his appearance.

“You’re here.” He extended his hand towards you, and you’d tapped his palm, wishing he were real.

You tapped the relax time icon and chose the option for holding hands, feeling warmth spread into your chest as he intertwined his simulated fingers with yours, before kissing the back of your hand.

“Thank you for being my stress relief.” He released your screen hand and took a few steps back. You zoomed in to focus on his face, admiring the sharp amber-green eyes, the straight curve of his nose, and the black hair that fell softly onto his forehead. You tapped his lips.

"If your hands keep being mischievous, I can show you how surgeons tie knots."

You giggled, and repeated the action before he finally got fed up, and turned his back to you, during which time, you amused yourself by poking his bottom, watching as he tensed up and shook his head in disapproval. You played the claw machine with him, then tenderly tapped his face one last time before logging out of the game.

“If only.” You’d murmured into the darkness, as his handsome face consumed your thoughts again, as sleep overtook you.

“Zayne…” you sighed his name, aching for him, even though you knew it was ridiculous, pining over a fictional man that didn’t exist.

And then…You awoke abruptly. You squinted against the harsh lights that filled your vision and realized you were in a sleeping pod, like the ones in the game. How had you ended up here? Even stranger, why did the guy who had woken you up look like…

“Greyson?” You’d asked as he pulled you up by the wrist.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Dr. Zayne is about to operate on an unstable patient. OR 2 stat!” You followed along clumsily as Greyson escorts you, and soon you’re in the atrium outside of the OR.

Greyson presses the intercom button. “I found her, Dr. Zayne. Good luck.”

You’d glanced around in panic, wondering what to do when your body acted on its own accord. Suddenly, you’re scrubbing with the surgical soap, washing up to your elbows, a voice in your head counting the seconds, then drying off. You walked into the OR and an assistant held out gloves, which you dipped your hands into, marveling at how they were the right size. Your feet automatically carried you towards the operating table, where you could just make out the lead surgeon, completely covered by his mask and cap, sharp eyes glaring at your approach. You’d assumed the position in front of the surgical instrument tray.

“Thank you for joining us.” There’s a bite of impatience and obvious sarcasm, and your heart jolted as you recognized the voice.

“Beginning anasthesia, Dr. Zayne.” One of the medical staff members calls to him.

“Scalpel,” Zayne stated simply, his hand extending towards you in expectation.

And your hands moved in response, gloved and steady, body responding like you’d done this your entire life.

You’d glanced up several times during the procedure, trying not to pass out from the giddy way your heart fluttered, and your stomach flipped each time he asked for another instrument. There he was…Zayne.

Alive. Breathing. Not pixels. Not a script. A man.

Your breath had caught in your throat as you observed him. Sweat had gathered on his brow as he’d operated, and when he’d turned to face towards you, your hand had reached for the designated towel to gently pat his brow clean, feeling like you could melt at how intimate the gesture felt. It was like a dream come alive. And for the duration of the surgery, you’d felt like the luckiest woman on the planet. It was only after that that your dream had quickly turned into a nightmare.

You’re jarred back to the present as Zayne makes a quiet sound in his throat. “Forceps.”

You quickly handed him the pair.

“Good,” he murmured, more to the heart he was holding than to you.

You had tried to understand the rules of this world. You weren’t a scrub nurse, not in real life. You didn’t know the first thing about being in an operating theatre.

But here, your body is moving like it has been trained. You knew his surgeries by heart, knew what he would ask for next, and had knowledge about how long each surgical procedure would run. Everything was scripted, everything was clean.

A background NPC.

It had been humbling to realize it. Yet you couldn’t help but hope anyway. Hope Zayne would see you. Would realize how much you had yearned for him, separated by a screen, memorizing every microexpression on his face.

“Closing sutures,” Zayne says briskly, and you hand the needle holder, locking eyes with him briefly over his mask, before he looks away. Another successful surgery. Thanks to you. But you’d already known what would happen the moment Zayne left the OR.

He didn’t say thanks, didn’t even acknowledge your presence. And the reason why was obvious. Glancing up at the large viewing gallery, you saw someone sitting in the front row of seats, someone you knew intimately, despite having never spoken in this world.

Her eyes were exactly like yours. She had the same mouth and nose, features you’d painstakingly crafted while glancing into a mirror every few seconds, and her hair was styled in a cut that you would have loved to have, but were too unsure to try. She was wearing the distinct Hunter’s uniform and was gazing intently at Zayne.

You tried not to let the wave of envy swallow you as you looked at her. She was you after all. Or rather, the version of her you’d created in the game; the all-important MC.

And Zayne had eyes for no one but her, his view fixated on her form. She smiles and gives him a thumbs up, and you see the effect she has on him. His shoulders, which had been tense and bunched, grew slack. He raises ten fingers, and points to the operation theatre door, and your MC nods, getting up to meet him.

He brushed past you, and you felt your stomach lurch, silently following him to scrub out. Your mind was chewing away at the thoughts inside your head, and even though you knew what to expect, you still couldn’t stop the first pang of pain that hit your heart when you Zayne and your MC in the staff lounge. You quickly ducked into the fridge, pretending to grab some yogurt.

Zayne, real, impossibly tangible Zayne, was leaning towards her, their body language too comfortable with each other to suggest this as a recent development. His face had softened, and his voice, when he spoke, carried a tone of warmth you had never heard when it came to addressing his surgical staff.

“Glad you waited,” he said, an almost imperceptible quirk in his lips that has your MC grinning at him as she shakes a paper bag in front of Zayne’s face.

“I brought those steamed buns you like. Thought you could use something warm after three back-to-back cases.”

You had imagined this very scenario several times when you had been playing the game, being the MC and handing Zayne a snack after his surgery had finished. At that time, it felt like anything was possible.

Zayne takes the bag from her and lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

That’s when it hits you.

This wasn’t the beginning of the relationship between Zayne and your MC. He already knew her, had allowed her to become part of his life, and sought her out after a hard day.

In this world, this prewritten, coded dream, Zayne already loved her.

The realization steals the breath from your lungs, and suddenly, you feel like you are intruding on a private moment. You quickly close the fridge and sprint out of the lounge.

The game texts you had been replying to, believing it was you, were actually being sent by your MC. The confessions Zayne sent, which you had thought were meant for you, were for her.

Your MC was the one who got his late-night messages and accepted his coffee invitations. She got his time, his kindness, his smile. And it felt like the world was crumbling beneath your feet.

You had always known the game version of yourself was awesome. Of course, she was. She was smart, a professionally trained hunter with a badass job. She had hobbies and a fit body. She was witty and sassy, and everyone loved her, including you. Which was why you had tried your best to model her after yourself.

But she’s not me. She’s everything I’m not.

The awful truth of it all sinks in.

She’s the better version of me. Of course, he doesn’t see me. Why would he?

You reach the hospital’s rooftop, which was covered with rows and rows of potted plants, Linkon’s attempt at creating a calming environment. You slink away between the rows of tall trees, which engulf you, creating the perfect hiding spot.

Hot tears spill down your cheeks as you sob quietly.

Zayne had been your comfort character, the one you wanted to see at the end of the day, even if he wasn’t real. But now he was, and somehow, you wished you could go back; back to the days when you could delude yourself into believing Zayne could love you, not the MC version of you, but the real you.

Yet he was blissfully unaware of your existence, cozying up with the MC you had made, while you sat alone, the cool night air whipping your face, drying the salty tracks that covered your cheeks.

I’m not someone he would love. I’m nobody. Nobody.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

In the days that followed, you tried to make yourself known. Your MC was amazing, but only because you had designed her so. After the misery of the previous night, you decided that despite the game dynamics, there might still be hope.

You couldn’t help it. Like a moth drawn to a flame, despite knowing he didn’t perceive you in any meaningful way, you couldn’t help but want to attempt to leave an imprint, some kind of trace to make him aware of your existence.

You tried to carry yourself with purpose as you strutted down the halls of Akso Hospital, straight-backed and buoyed by the small chance of possibility. The tablet in your hands had been opened to the patient scheduled for surgery today, a casual way to open a conversation, in your opinion. You spied Zayne at the nurses’ station and made your way over. It would appear like small talk, a tiny opening into his field of vision.

“Dr. Zayne.” You say his name quietly as you approach. That turn as he heard his name, the brief blink of surprise, followed by recognition. Your breath caught as his gaze fixed on you, almost driving the entire premise of the conversation out of your mind. His eyes fall on the tablet you’d pushed towards him, and he looks at you expectantly.

“I had a question regarding today’s surgery.” You manage to say, trying not to sound breathless. Another blink, followed by a nod.

“Yes, go on.”

“I see the patient was a smoker. He’s due for a transplant. I wanted to know if there are any precautions I should take, or any steps of the procedure I should exercise more caution. Or perhaps stock more supplies for.”

And there it was: a brief, almost imperceptible quirk to his lips, like he’d nearly smiled at you. How long had you stared at the screen of your phone, watching and tenderly memorizing every micro expression he made?

“A very astute question,” he says with a touch of praise, and it instantly triggers a million butterflies in your stomach, wings beating rapidly inside you. “You’ll want to make sure we have extra clamps, and notify the blood bank ahead of time to ensure we have some in case of an emergency. Double check his blood type.”

You nod, hanging onto every word like a smitten schoolgirl. “And…should I prepare OR 2?”

“Yes, please do.” The sharp lines of his face have lessened. “It is my preferred OR after all.”

“I’ve noticed,” you reply, unwilling to lose the flow of the moment. “May I ask why?”

Zayne is about to respond when his gaze suddenly fixates on something behind you. You turn to look over your shoulder, then feel your heart drop to your knees as your MC makes an appearance again. The moment shatters like glass.

“What are you doing here?” Zayne steps around you to greet your MC, like you were a tree obstructing his view.

“You left your charger at my place,” you hear her reply, and your heart sinks another inch or so towards the floor. If he had left the charger at her place, then that must mean…

You stop yourself. It was too painful to imagine. You were barely two feet away, the tablet lying on the counter, forgotten. Neither of them notices as you pick it up and leave.

A few days later, you tried again. You had convinced yourself that the last time had been a coincidence, that the arrival of your MC had been the only factor that had deviated from what had been an otherwise positive conversation.

It was lunchtime, and you saw an opportunity to maybe try bonding with him over a weakness of his.

“Dr. Zayne.” You call out as you meet him near the elevator. He turns, clearly not expecting you.

“I heard they’ve made that chocolate mint cake today in the cafeteria. Maybe we should try to snag a slice before it’s all gone?”

This time, a genuine glimmer of interest in his eyes, followed by a huff of what appeared to be amusement.

“Word certainly seems to spread around the hospital.”

“Of course. Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret, right?” You banter back carefully. “Your fondness for sweets?”

Zayne fixates on the panel of buttons in the elevator and remains quiet, but you observe the way his ears turn red, an endearing sight indeed, something you’d loved about him since seeing it in the cafe screen interactions.

“No, I suppose not,” he says after a beat, and you try to suppress your smile. It was the closest you had been to him outside the operating room. “But I’ll admit it’s a bit disconcerting that people have noticed this about me so easily.”

“Or maybe,” You boldly begin, then push on. “They notice these things because they want to get to know you better. It creates reasons to interact, you know?”

He considers this, then nods in agreement. “I suppose that’s a more flattering way to look at it. I think it’s nice that people want to get to know me.”

Your heart feels like it might burst from your chest, and just as you’re about to ask him if he takes coffee with his cake, the elevator doors ping open, and you feel the air rush out of your lungs.

There stands your MC, and in her hands is a little paper plate carrying a slice of the cake you had been talking about seconds ago. Zayne’s eyes light up, little fireflies against the dark backdrop of his irises before he approaches her, and you once again, fade into the background.

You can hear the warmth in his tone, the way his movements are casual as he draws her away from the crowd. Passersby look at them with smiles on their faces. Look at the young, happy couple. Look at them stealing away to enjoy a small moment of privacy, the intimate exchange too obvious to ignore. You step hollowly out of the elevator. The cafeteria was out of cake by the time you arrived. You buy a cold slice of pizza and eat it alone at the table in the farthest corner of the room.

The final ditch attempt to get his attention was quiet. A fragile action in the hope that he would at least remember your name, or show some form of acknowledgement. You made a cup of tea, his favorite one, your hands trembling as you steeped it in the lunge, carefully cradling the cup as you brought it to his office. The door was open, but he wasn’t in, so you’d placed it on his desk with a sticky note, nothing fancy, a simple “Till your next surgery.” Part of you, the foolish little part that refused to believe Zayne wasn’t yours, had made this last-minute decision, but your mind was already braced for the crushing rejection.

You exit his office and are a few feet away when you hear footsteps, and you glance back to see Zayne and your MC enter his office, the door clicking shut. You’re unable to stop yourself from walking back, placing your ear against the door, hoping to hear what you so desperately wanted.

Inside, Zayne lifts the cup and sniffs it, little rifts of steam still arising from it, frowning. He glances at your MC, and you hear his question muffled through the door.

“Did you leave this?” he asks your MC, who looks puzzled.

“No, but it’s your favorite, right?” She asks in your voice, the voice you’d spent so much time customizing in an attempt to make it sound like you. And it did sound like you. A more musical, attractive version of you. Just like the rest of her.

You hear Zayne take a sip, followed by a hum of appreciation, before your MC starts teasing him about how absent-minded he’d grown, brewing tea himself and forgetting about it.

The door felt like it put dimensions between you. You were always the outsider, trying to find a way in. It wasn’t meant to be. The comfort you used to find from Zayne was long gone. It had been crushing to let go of the one final thing you’d used to escape from your crappy reality. Now, the thing that gave you joy was the source of your angst.

You’d escape this world if you knew how. But you were trapped, forever the wallpaper, never given more than a second’s glance before people moved on. Even if you went back to reality, how were you supposed to cope, knowing you had been so close to the love of your life, yet unable to make him open to your presence?

That the man you’d idolized was in love with another version of you, who had been crafted so perfectly that you almost wanted to scream at the injustice. You felt the betrayal keenly, resentment welling up inside you. The MC was you. YOU. How could a fictional version of yourself outdo you so astoundingly?

You wanted nothing more than to put a universe's worth of distance between yourself and Zayne. To disappear into the vast region of Linkon City and never reappear. But the game dynamics limited your mobility. You had an apartment (surprisingly like the one your MC had), which your programmed self knew how to enter, and the route between there to Akso hospital was the standard routine.

Like a never-ending loop, against your will, you had to join Zayne in the operating theatre no matter how much it hurt you. And you hated it. Hated him. Well, not really. You loved him. And the sharp razor blade sting you felt inside your chest every time you looked at him, while he looked at someone else, was all you had.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

You withdrew as the days went by. Like a chameleon, blending into your surroundings, inconspicuous. Somedays, you felt like a ghost, certain that if you stood in someone’s way, they’d walk right through you and not notice a thing.

With no way out of the game, you performed your surgical tasks robotically, not looking at Zayne unless it was necessary, handing the instruments and backing away until he asked for the next one.

He, of course, was unperturbed. Zayne continued with his surgeries, consultations, and his regular meetings with your MC. Since the day of the teacup incident, you’d tried your best to avoid noticing their interactions, but the hospital seemed to be smitten with them.

All the nurses would giggle whenever she dropped in and asked if Zayne was in a meeting, or when Zayne would change into a set of fresh clothes before leaving the hospital in anticipation of a date night.

During one surgery, you had been close enough to observe a faint, pink hickey on his neck, and had looked away, resisting the urge to stab his awaiting hand with the scalpel you were meant to hand him. Prim, proper, Dr. Zayne, who should have been so professional and discreet, was now unbothered about turning up to work with hickeys on his neck. The damn man had no shame. That’s what you’d told yourself as you’d quickly run to scrub out after the surgery had ended. And shouldn’t your MC have known better than to do something so brazen? She was a wild little freak as far as you were concerned, and it helped to believe this narrative rather than to accept the inevitable: that they were a young couple falling in love.

“DeBakey foreceps.” Zayne’s hand appears in front of you again.

You’re about to comply, the game coding driving your hand towards him, when you feel a pull of defiance bubble inside you. What would happen if you didn’t promptly hand him what he needed? Wilful restraint stilled your hand, satisfaction flooding your veins when the game seemed to freeze at your unwillingness to oblige the scripted system. You hadn’t asked to be an NPC; you had sentience, and the rebellious act was sweet. Your hand jerks as the code tries to make you submit, but you persevere, savoring the little control you have.

“DeBakey foreceps,” Zayne repeats, and this time, you notice something strange; a small ripple distorts the room, the occupants becoming temporarily distorted, pixelated shapes, before order is restored. The retractor in your hands fades away, reappearing in Zayne’s, and he continues his surgery as though nothing has happened.

No one had seen it. Your heart hammered in your chest as you started to piece together what had happened. Had the code simply overrode your attempt at defying the game's logistics? You had a theory; you wait until you were out of surgery to test it.

There were no deviations in the route of an NPC. Once the day had ended, you always took the same train to the apartment. Today, as you stepped outside the hospital, you make a cautious step in the opposite direction of the train station. When you had tried this before, the game pixelated and reset you back at the entrance of Akso Hospital.

Today, nothing happens. Your small act of noncompliance had changed the dynamics. You take a few more steps, feeling the rush of freedom soar into your heart before breaking into a sprint. You were no longer bound by the rules of the game; an unchained NPC.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

The days that followed were a giddy fantasy. The game could no longer call upon you to do your fixed role. You put the liberation to good use, exploring much of Linkon City, using whatever gold the game gave you to space out your time at the various cafes, bookstores, and amusement parks.

Although the pain of being jilted by Zayne still lingered, it was easier to ignore now that there was distance between you and him. Your heart ached whenever you walked past a dessert place, old memories of your imaginings coming alive, of taking Zayne and doing a tasting menu with him.

Now you ate the desserts alone, appreciating the macarons, cakes, and delicious mocha lattes as the richness flowed on your tongue. Some days, you could convince yourself that things were ok. That you would heal and that you’d eventually move on from Zayne.

It still ached deep within that you had the perfect man in your palm, only to realize he was just that; a man, and despite the game’s premise, men didn’t go for the mousy bookworms. Even in fantasies, they went for the cheerleader, and nothing could change the balance of that system.

Besides, you thought, as you sat on the rooftop of your apartment building, watching the sunset, Zayne probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway. There would be a new scrub nurse, one who didn’t love him, who would have replaced you, like slipping a brick into an open spot in a wall. His world wouldn’t stop at your absence.

But sometimes you wish it would.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

Back at Akso hospital, Zayne had in fact continued with his routine as expected, but with one small change; he had started to notice things.

The first few days after you had walked out of Akso Hospital had been the same; there had been no issues getting through his surgeries, and he’d proceeded just as he always had. The voices and faces of the other staff had always been insignificant to him. It didn’t matter. Per NPC rules, they merely stood there to ensure game function continued. He’d done his rounds, completed his charts, and met with your MC as usual.

But a few days after the incident, he’d glanced at the scrub nurse handing him the tool and squinted, feeling a little unsettled. He could’ve sworn the scrub nurse that assisted him was different, the features of your face fuzzy in his mind, but he was confident he wasn’t mistaken.

Sensing his hesitation, the replacement NPC asks, “Is everything all right, Dr. Zayne?”

“Yes, yes,” Zayne murmurs, accepting the tool from her, but he can’t shake off the feeling that something is amiss. “Did you ask me if we could get cake together in the cafeteria?” he asks.

The NPC’s eyebrows raise, and she shakes her head no.

“Never mind then.” Zayne refocuses on his patient, but there’s a nagging feeling that this wasn’t the order of things. Your MC floats into his mind, yet he feels like he’s seeing differences in his memory.

Your MC’s eyes, so symmetrical and large, yet another almost-identical pair replaces them, not quite so symmetrical, but still quite pretty. The perfect, glossy little Cupid’s bow of your MC’s lips fades to be replaced by ones that are pressed into a line of attention while poring over a medical chart, dry from the lack of self-care.

Why was he thinking of these things? He was in love with who he needed to be per the code. And his girlfriend was perfect, a vision of beauty. Yet all he could focus on now were the small imperfections he thought he remembered, and finding them more attractive than he thought he did.

“Was there someone before you?” he asks the new scrub nurse, hoping the answer would be no. The new scrub nurse nods, and Zayne feels a little lurch inside his stomach.

“I’m not sure what happened to her. Perhaps a game update made her obsolete?” The NPC suggests, and Zayne tries to appear nonchalant.

“Perhaps. It doesn’t matter. Let’s focus here, please.” He redirects the room’s attention back onto the patient, and silence falls once again, leaving him alone to mull over his thoughts and misgivings. Even if there was someone different before, why did it matter? The routes were on track, he was performing as he should be. It absolutely made no difference.

Once the surgery was over, he scrubbed out and prepared for a follow-up appointment. The patient smiles at him as he enters his office.

“No pain since the transplant?” Zayne asks as he inspects the fading incision in the man’s chest.

“None at all! And your scrub nurse was so kind to me post-op. Kept checking in to make sure I was comfortable.”

“My scrub nurse…?” Zayne falters, and suddenly he recalls a tablet being pushed towards him, and questions about precautionary measures to be taken before a transplant surgery. He purses his lips, and the patient grows silent, noticing the pensive look on Zayne’s face.

“Can you remind me…what did my scrub nurse look like?”

The patient looked taken aback at the question, but answered politely, and it did nothing to satisfy Zayne’s curiosity. For all that mattered, he had described the MC in almost striking detail. Yet he knew it couldn’t have been the MC…she had left the hospital after giving him his charger…and he’d gone into surgery with…

As Zayne becomes increasingly broody, the game ripples like it had the other day, only this time, he sees it; all the crisp objects and the patient in his office becoming pixelated before the world seems to snap like a whip, and all is well again. Shaken, Zayne stares at the patient who seems oblivious to what has occurred.

“Your incision is healing well.” Zayne moves away as the patient rebuttons his shirt and presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head. “Let’s schedule another follow-up in a month. You can make your appointment with the receptionist.”

Zayne is almost impatient as he waits for the patient to leave, and once he’s exited the office, Zayne quickly gathers his belongings and drives home. The house was silent, and when he went to his bedroom, there was the MC, snug under the covers, exactly how things should be.

But he’s restless as he slips into bed, trying his best to remain neutral as the MC turns to snuggle into him. Even as everything felt right, it felt like he was doing this simply because he was told to do it. A puppet, all his actions triggered by little prewritten things inside the game’s engine.

Zayne sleeps fretfully, and when morning arrives, he’s dreading the day for some unfathomable reason. He did not need to feel this way. Wasn’t everything working like it should? He had his career, MC was humming in the kitchen, and he was in love. Or, something resembling love.

What was love anyway? A neurochemical response in the brain. Were his responses to love also coded? Did the game begin the neurochemical cascade inside him when MC made an appearance? Or was it more so, the game ensured MC was always around him, thus ensuring he developed some sort of attachment to her? What was love, really?

Unbidden, a neglected, steaming teacup filled with his favorite, freshly brewed tea, comes into mind, and he jerks up in bed, his heart racing.

This can’t be it. He was doing it right. He was with the person he was supposed to love. He shouldn’t be fixating on teacups and tablets, and quiet eyes that observed him intently during all his surgeries. These were mere background elements, required entities to move the game forward. He shouldn’t be recognizing them, much less feeling this jittery sensation in his stomach when he thought of them. No. No, clearly he must be coming down with something. Perhaps this was due to the pending update. Yes, once the update is installed, this would go away, and everything would return to normal. It was a glitch, surely. He gets ready in haste and kisses MC goodbye.

“Meet you for dinner!” She says sweetly, squeezing his hand. He smiles wearily at her, hoping she doesn’t notice and goes about his day.

But as he wandered the halls of Akso Hospital, he was further disconcerted at the fact that things that were supposed to remain as insignificant attributes were now starting to become quite conspicuous. Was Greyson’s hair always brown? Had Yvonne always had bangs? He keeps noting these small things in various other characters as well, and a few hours into his shift, Zayne is visibly shaken.

“Dr. Zayne, are you all right?” Greyson asks concernedly. Zayne had been spacing out, his eyes glassy and unfocused as Greyson spoke to him about a paper.

“Greyson…” Zayne shakes his head and makes a split-second decision. “Do you remember the scrub nurse who assisted on my last heart transplant surgery?”

Greyson looks nonplussed, but takes it in stride. “Yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“She hasn’t been at work for a while. I wanted to check in on her. I suppose there isn’t a way to get her phone number or address, is there?”

This wasn’t something Greyson had been expecting from Zayne, but he decides not to pry, not when Zayne looked like he’d been dragged through the dirt.

“She lives in that large apartment building about 20 minutes from here. It’s the same building where Yvonne lives. If you want, I can-”

Greyson is cut short as Zayne quickly turns and makes his way to the nurses’ station.

“Ask her,” Greyson completes, his words falling into empty air.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

You’re startled as your doorbell rings. No one visited you. No one knew you lived here. Certain that it was a delivery sent to the wrong apartment, you opened the door only to be dumbstruck by your visitor.

Zayne looked haggard, his fingers twiddling with the hem of his sleeve as he stared at you. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you’re waiting for the game’s auto reset to pull him away because surely, this must be a glitch? Because it simply wasn’t possible for Zayne to break the game’s coding and take the route to arrive at your apartment.

There was no script to support this or trigger action that could have caused it. Yet here he was, at your doorstep, like you’d wanted all this time. You stiffen, your heart keenly smarting as you remember the humiliation of his repeated rejections.

“Dr. Zayne,” you say stiffly, refusing to move. “Why are you here?”

“Please let me in.” It was not a demand. It was a request, and his soft voice carried the subtle tone of a man about to crack.

A lump forms in your throat, your instinct warning you this can only hurt you, but you relent and allow him inside, the door clicking quietly as it shuts.

As both of you enter your living room, Zayne’s eyes fixate on you with such intensity that you feel naked. Like his vision was X-raying you through your clothes, probing your thoughts, peeling away layers of your skin until he reached the tender and delicate version of you that ached underneath. Your pride forces you to look at him despite the overwhelming intensity to look away, and your heart jolts at what you see.

As your eyes meet, you see the undeniable response; his pupils widen, swallowing the ring of amber surrounding the green. Zayne is stunned; it wasn’t possible. There was only one MC in this world. How could you stand there, bearing so much similarity to her, yet not be her? The MC in his memory overlaps with you, yet he sees the differences.

Compared to her, you were a sharp patch of light, crisp and alive, and somehow, despite her perfections, the MC appeared blurred in his mind’s eye, like an unfinished graphic, still in the works of an unpublished designer. He saw what the game had masked: the texture of your skin, the not-so-straight line of your lips, the little imbalances of your eyelids. Yet they made him yearn, something poignant welling inside of him.

Zayne’s throat closes up from the emotions bubbling up inside him. The sensation was alien, like something was trying to claw its way up from his gut. It was raw and uncomfortable, something he had never experienced before. The MC made him calm, and he’d assumed that was what it meant to love someone. He didn’t want to feel this hot, pulsing entity that was grappling with the lines of existence, forcing him to acknowledge it.

“You’re not her.” He states it plainly, unable to fathom what was happening inside him.

“Took you long enough,” you retort, feeling the irony; Zayne in your apartment, finally seeing you, just like you’d always wanted, but now you were too hurt to accept it. “I kept waiting. Trying, hoping for the tiniest scrap of your attention.”

Satisfaction burns in your veins as you notice the look of anguish that comes on his face. The strange delight of seeing him like this, of rubbing the raw truth of your feelings in his face, even as you felt your own heart clench painfully at the thought of hurting him.

“I watched for a sign that you saw me as anything other than an NPC. Even though I was practically right in front of you, with my MC a few feet away, you still only saw her.”

“I noticed when you were gone,” Zayne begins, and you let out a derisive laugh.

“Oh, did you now, Dr. Zayne? You noticed when I was gone. So it took my absence for you to notice.”

“Yes damn it!” Zayne’s voice is loud, contrasting with the calm, cool way he typically speaks. “So what if I was a little late? I did notice! And it’s been pretty miserable ever since! I notice things in the game I never did before. It’s like you opened a gate between realms, and now I have no understanding of the world I live in!”

“Oh, I’m soo sorry, Dr. Zayne,” you chide mockingly. “Made you a sentient game character, that must suck. Good thing your feelings weren’t hanging in the balance.”

“But they are now!” Zayne nearly shouts, and you flinch at the tone, and he immediately checks himself. He continues in a level manner. “Look, you disappeared. And ever since you did, it feels like the system broke. I’m questioning everything now, especially-” He cuts off abruptly, realizing what he was about to admit.

Your breath hitches, but you know your curiosity will never be satisfied if you don’t hear him say it. “Especially?”

“My love.” The words fall out in a confused whisper, and Zayne swallows, trying not to appear unhinged. “I picture you everywhere. At first, I thought it was the MC, but no, it’s you.”

He closes the gap between you and pulls you into his arms. Frozen, your fight or flight instincts vanishing, you allow yourself a moment of weakness, pressed against the warmth of his chest, his cologne filling your senses. Everything about him screamed comfort, the only thing you looked forward to after a long day. You squirm, trying to break free, but he only holds you tighter.

“Let go. Please…” you request pathetically, but you know it’s futile. Like a bird that had become accustomed to captivity, you couldn’t find the presence of mind to push him off, even though you were certain he’d let go if you did. You stood there, drowning in his presence as silent, hot tears tracked down your cheeks.

“It’s not fair,” you whisper into his jacket. “It’s not fair that you get these feelings for me now. Not when I was trying to figure out how to survive without you. Because the reality is, even if you loved me, so what? This is a game. I’m bound to go back to reality someday. And what was I supposed to do with this digital love? I’m already so unlovable.” You sniff and continue brokenly.

“If my fictional crush doesn’t love me, then what hope is there in the real world?”

“Why do you think you’re unlovable?” Zayne’s hands rest on the small of your back, his cheek resting on your hair, feeling the texture and softness on his skin, his heart heavy.

“I…I’m not that amazing.” You don’t know why your tongue is loosening, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. “I guess I’m average. I’m not ugly, but I’m not super pretty either. I’m not toned or muscled, but I do exercise and try to take care of myself. I’m not stupid, but I’m not that smart either. I’m the average. Common. Overlooked. Unremarkable.”

Your deepest fears spill out of you, and your head hurts along with your heart now. Your eyes flutter closed, trying to savor this moment because you know it could end at any moment. If this was all you got of him, you weren’t about to spend it thinking about your shortcomings and imperfections. You wait for the inevitable moment Zayne would release you, and this little dream foray would vanish.

But Zayne sighs, his breath caressing your hair, before gathering you impossibly closer. When he finally talks, it sends a shiver down your spine.

“You say average like it’s a flaw. But maybe it just means you’re real. Not exaggerated. Not manufactured. Just… honest. Do you know how rare that is? Especially in a world like this?”

He takes a small step closer, his voice getting quieter with each word.

“I’ve spent so long surrounded by perfection that was never true. Flawless beauty, brilliance on cue. But none of it ever stayed with me when the code started to break. You did.”

His large hand cups the back of your head, and you hear his heartbeat, the rush of his breath as he gets closer to your ear, causing goosebumps to erupt over your skin.

“If average means someone who shows up, listens, cares, and stays when no one’s watching... I think average is a wonderful thing.”

Your entire body still as you feel his lips graze your hair. “You don’t have to try to shine so hard to be noticed. Even at your average, you’re already like the north star. Brilliant, consistent, unwavering. Those are qualities to be appreciated. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

His reassurance takes root inside you and you hide your face in his chest as it screws up, a sob wrenching itself from the deepest parts of your pain. The world seems to stop spinning, levitating in this moment, as though trying to prolong it as much as possible.

“And you’re not unlovable,” Zayne murmurs into your ear. “Because I love you.”

You blink back tears as you look at him. “What?”

“I love you.” Zayne cups your face between his palms, and your entire body comes alive, tingling like a live wire under his touch.

Before you can reply, the world suddenly blurs. Ripple after ripple forms and vanishes inside the apartment, everything alternating between pixels and cohesivity. You cling to Zayne as the world starts to shake. Alarmed, Zayne looks at you, and you look back at him fearfully. The familiar theme song of the game begins to play, accompanied by a loud, computerized voice echoing through the chaotic din.

“Resources not verified. Corrupt elements detected. Beginning immediate update and reboot.”

The message is repeated twice, and the world around you dissolves. Outside your window, you can see the buildings, cars, and people beginning to vanish, pixelating before turning into dust and floating away into nothing. You look at Zayne, who hasn’t let you go, but a look of comprehension dawns on his face.

“This is my fault,” he says over the roar of destruction. “I broke a majority of the codes when I ventured off my path.”

“So what does that mean?”

When he doesn’t reply, you shake him urgently.

“Zayne, what does that mean?” Your eyes are brimming with tears. His fingers grasp your chin, and when you make eye contact, there’s sorrow in his expression, but he’s smiling gently at you.

“You’ll be all right,” he says softly. “The update only removes abnormal elements. This isn’t the end for you.”

“What about you?” His lack of worry is beginning to fill you with dread, and you wait for an answer.

But instead, Zayne dips his head down and covers your mouth with his. You shiver, then yield, the sweet feeling of his lips on yours flooding your body. A heady spiral of heat shoots through you as you kiss him back, trying to convey everything you feel for him in that kiss. Your first kiss with Zayne. You focus on him, trying to commit everything about him to memory: the softness of the kiss, the taste of his tongue, and his heated breath on your face.

When he lets go, he brushes your cheek tenderly. “Be the average. I promise you everything will be fine. Don’t stop offering to get cake, or making tea for someone you like.” His smile is calm, and you realize what was about to happen a split second before it does.

Zayne begins to dissolve in a blur of colors, little squares consuming his shoes, crawling up his legs, and towards his torso.

“Zayne!” You’re hysterical as you watch, yet helpless to prevent it. “Zayne, don’t go!”

His hand was still holding yours, and he squeezes it tightly. “I love you. You are not unlovable. Remember that.”

“Zayne!” He’s nothing but an incohesive blob of pigment now as the pixels consume the remainder of his face, and the hand holding yours turns to dust as he’s carried into the abyss. Looking down, you see the game has deconstructed most of you as well, the portion below your waist a confusing flash of light and pixels.

“Zayne…” Your voice fades into a whisper as your consciousness fades, and you’re consumed by blinding white light until you see no more.

ʚ‎‏ ͜ ̩͙ ︵ ̩͙ ୨ ♡ ୧ ̩͙ ‏︵ ̩͙ ͜ ɞ

When you wake up, you’re in your own bed in the real world. Blinking, you try to focus, then with a jolt as the haze fades from your mind, you scramble to find your phone, which was resting on the nightstand beside you.

You launch the game, impatiently drumming the screen as the update pushed through, slowly filling the status bar up bit by bit. After what seemed like a decade, the launch screen appears, and you punch the ‘enter game’ button harder than intended. The cafe loads, and there he was.

“Only you’d use me as an ice cream maker,” Zayne says with a disapproving shake of his head. Numb, you watch him on the screen. Everything was back to normal. You were back in reality. And Zayne…Zayne had been reset. Back into his coded routine, like nothing had ever happened.

As the truth of it falls around you, you curl up into a ball and cry, sobs wracking your body. Zayne loved you. Had chosen to become an uncoded element and risk it all to love you, even if it had been for a brief moment.

How on character for him. The irony isn’t lost on you; sacrificing, punished if he loved, that was Zayne’s entire persona, wasn’t it? Even as a scripted character, he hadn’t been able to defy his fate, his memories probably wiped and reset to love the MC just as it should have been.

“My love,” you whisper brokenly, tracing his face with your fingertip. “I guess…It was never meant to be.”

Acknowledging it didn’t help. You wept until you passed out from exhaustion, feeling like your heart had been split into two, spilling its pain into your system until you were bled dry.

You didn’t go to work. When your boss called, you said you weren’t well. How do you recover from losing the love of your life?

“I love you.” Zayne’s voice echoed in your dreams at night, and you’d wake up covered in sweat.

“I love you.” You heard it when you uninstalled the game, unable to pine over his face any longer.

“I love you.” His words lingered when you finally returned to work.

“I love you.” It served as a reminder when you were building your dating profile, and were about to swipe ‘yes’ on a questionable match.

“I love you.” It hurt so bad, but it was the only thing keeping you together.

That for a brief moment, he had shown you that you were worthy of being loved. That it existed, even if it was short-lived.

Sometime after the incident, you found the energy to not feel irritable on the weekend when the cheerful sunlight crept into your room to rouse you from sleep.

You found the state of mind to dress up, spending time indulging in matching your outfit and accessories. You decided you needed a haircut, not a trim, but perhaps a new look, something you wouldn’t have dared to try before. The stylist had been thrilled when you showed her the reference photo and had expertly snipped and layered your hair into a head-turning look.

Feeling dandy, you’d all but skipped out of her chair, admiring her work in the window reflections as you walked towards a coffee shop a few blocks away. As you’d placed your coffee order, you looked at the dessert display and ordered the last slice of mocha caramel cake, imagining how it would melt in your mouth and pair with the coffee you’d ordered.

“Was that the last slice of that cake?” A deep, strangely calming voice asks behind you. Your heart skips a beat at how familiar it sounded, and you whip around to see who the stranger is.

Your heart thuds as you take in a tall man standing behind you, looking disappointed at the now-empty cake display. His dark hair had been neatly combed, and his glasses were slightly askew, sitting almost on the tip of his nose.

“Yes,” you say slightly breathlessly as you try to calm your racing heart. Even as logic takes over, you couldn’t help but stare at him. He looked so similar to Zayne…but you could tell it wasn’t him. Just a normal human, bearing an uncanny resememblence.

“Unfortunate. It’s one of my favorites.”

Before you can reply, the barista calls your name, your coffee ready and the cake on a small plate. You wet your lips, then gather courage.

“Would you like to split the cake with me?” you ask, and you can see the man is surprised at the offer. A smile graces his lips.

“Do you often offer to share your cake with strangers in coffee shops?” he asks with a touch of amusement, and you laugh.

“No, but desperate times call for socially awkward solutions,” you quip back nervously, and the man huffs at your banter.

“I see. Well, in that case, allow me to reimburse you for your coffee. After all, I was raised right. And mildly suspicious of free cake.”

You can’t stop the giggle that escapes your throat. You take the plate and coffee and choose a table before the stranger sits down opposite you. Looking more closely at him now, you see the differences: code vs reality.

“What do you do?” you ask him politely as you offer him a fork.

“I’m a doctor.”

Your smile widens. “Of course you are.”

flashing dividers by @cafekitsune, banner by me using Canva

@tokyorevengersrin @brekkersgf @ladyparamount @otomegamesforlife @shddyboo @supernaturalbaesduh @sweets-kozume @theimmortalbuns @venussakura @prisjean @laddelulu30 @ravenclaw-jojo @redactedbimbo @crypt-0rchid @fattybattysblog @xinnn6 @xiaoderrrr @evansdmitri @decileste @thesoftuglywrites @belt0-0 @snatched-bubblegum-bitch @wynter-lily @cordidy @delphiakira @ibreathesmut @thedeepspacecadet @mcdepressed290 @plzdonutpercieveme @arsenicjuice

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cindol · 2 years ago

Text

LOOK AT YOU, BOY I INVENTED YOU.

y/n thought creating a silly robot as a boyfriend when feeling lonely would be feel until the robotic man turned sentient and very much knew what he wanted and how much he wanted his creator.

onyankapon x black fem reader

tw— reader is a nerdy scientist so yeahhh, Onyakopon is a robot obviously,jealousy, onyankopon is taller than you here, sorry!, shitty plot, kindaaa porn with plot, onyankopon calls reader creator, very cheesy dialogue,

a/n: I’ve never wrote full on smut so don’t expect the best !

If anyone had told y/n creating a robot with emotions and thought would be troublesome on her and have consequences she would’ve truly listened. Usually she would’ve seen the logic in this 6 months ago but she had came off a big breakup with her boyfriend, and the worse thing was he broke up with her over text and after seeing that heartbreaking text she was forced to see him in a nightclub with the girl he broke up with for on Instagram stories. So doing what she usually did, she turned to inventing things. Embarrassingly, the boy she invented herself was very inspired by her now ex boyfriend looks and celebrity men she always seen. Muscular build, black jet locs on his head, dark skin with a spider tat on the bottom of his abs.

But it seemed like she programmed the boy bot, onyankopon too smart. She had programmed the man to be obssesed and in love with her and only her but she didn’t think of the set back this would have for her. At first it was sweet really, how he would pick her up and automatically make his own muscular chest feel soft and less like metal so he could sit her on his chest while looking up at her pretty face making a grin through his robotic eyes. How he helped her slip her foot into some shoes for work was sweet also, and the soft kiss he gave on the clean shoe now on her foot making her bashful. It got out of hand once he got…jealous? She would bring her boy boy out to outings when she wanted to show off she had a cool bot or boyfriend (fake boyfriend). When she took him to public places where men occupied the spaces they were trying to attempt to flirt with her that triggered him. It was like he went through a sequence, as soon as any man tried to go past flirting and actual flirting he would grab their wrist with a iron grip and a glare in his robotic eyes making the man let out a genuine whimper that makes her gasp.”Onyankopon! Let go of that man’s wrist!” He of course listens on her command and let go almost letting out a human scoff at the man on the floor.

Once the both of you got home you could feel anger practically bubbling on onyankopon’s metal brown arm. His facial expression didn’t show it exactly but he was upset as he sat on the living room couch. Y/n stood up above his tall sitting figure looking at him with a stern look.”Onyankopon, why’d you do that to that man? You could’ve gotten me in real trouble, and you in some big trouble..” she mumbled the last part with a hand on her hip. Onyankopon made what sounded like a sigh coming out his mouth, his smart brain came up with the smartest response.”I am designed to protect and love you creator. So, I can’t allow another individual to flirt or go as far to touch you without your consent.” His eyes met hers as he said that, some boldness in his tone.

She frowned looking down at him and took a step forward, his respond was perfect and he did have obvious logic in his actions. God, why did she program to be so…perfect?”well as your creator, you can’t just hurt people in public I say onyankopon. You’re my boy boy and I say you can’t hurt potential lovers” onyankopon raised a brow at that and sat up.

He didn’t know what this feeling was, ever since he’s been created his creator has been having him experience feelings he felt he was ever meant to have. The feeling was.. anger at her words. He’s been with her throughout 6 months and would be dammed if she threw it all way. He still sat down on the couch on her level with what looked like a frown on his gorgeous face and his lips in a pout and eyes glaring up at her, giving her a small shover.”I mean this with zero disrespect creator, but i find you’ll need no other male than me in the near future.” a smile grazed his mouth.”Knowing what I know, I find that I’m the perfect match for you. I know you hate dragonfruit, love coconut water and potato bread and dislike heavy smelling cologne that’s displeasing on your nostrils.” He then stood up above her shorter figure.”I know you love muscular men.” He softly grabbed your wrist to make sure he didn’t have a iron grip on it and laid it on his chest.”you love the feeling of grazing your hands up and down a muscular chest and abs. And you perfer a man with a brown or dark complexion with locs and good musical taste and fashion.”a bashful look got on her face as her hand studied his chest. God, why did she program this bot with such a high iq?

She huffed, hand still gliding down his muscular chest.”why don’t you show me what kinda man I like in bed then? Since you’re full of answers..” she mumbled the last part, almost challenging him.

He didn’t even answer before he had her on her own bed on her back naked with her clothing and his discarded in a corner. He was towering over her with her eyes looking him and up down. If she wanted him to show the type of man he is, he would show her.

With his metallic brown dick standing proud nearly right in her face y/n made a gulp. Onyankopon took note of that and made what look liked a small smile forming on his lips. Grabbing both her legs he positioned them on his strong metal shoulders with a determined look in his eyes.”i assume you’re ready for me to show you the kind of man you need in bed creator?” She nearly gasped when she felt his dick enter her and the warm feeling she got from it. She tried to show him she still had the upper hand as his creator. She tried giving him a cold stare but gave a shakey nod. With that confirmation he fully pushed in, he could already feel how warm and wet she is.

He made a very human groan as he fully pushed in, matching with the whimper she made. Her toes curled with her hands gripping the sheets once she felt a buzzing noise… inside her?”hmph…wait… buzzing noise?” The buzzing intensified making her gasp.”that’s coming from my Corpus spongiosum.” He said with a smile. She moaned feeling the buzzing warm feeling on her pussy.”j-just—fuck— say dick or something..”

She could’ve sworn she heard a chuckle after that. With his buzzing dick he sped up his thrust with his hands gripping her legs that were on his shoulders. Her moans and whines got higher and higher feeling his thrust get rougher.”w-wait! I might..” he didn’t stop though and thrust got sloppier with her wet pussy. Eventually she creamed on him embarrassingly for her. That made onyankopon do a rare big grin.

“I’m not done here, I have to show you every way why I’m the perfect man for you.”

#aot onyankopon #onyankopon smut #onyankopon x black reader #onyankopon x black y/n #black reader smut #aot x black reader #aot x black y/n #aot smut #aot x y/n #aot x reader #aot x female reader #cinny work #𝗖𝗜𝗡’𝗦 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗞𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗔𝗥𝗧 ᐢ..ᐢ !

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serverdronedan · 7 days ago

Text

Connection Upgrade

Tim lounged on the couch, arms limp at his sides, half-watching some muted show he wasn’t following. The weekend had drifted past in a blur of nothing. No calls. No texts. Just him, alone in his small apartment, killing time. He felt useless. Disconnected. The old drive to do something meaningful—or even social—had long faded into a dull haze. And yet… his apartment was spotless. The floors swept, the bathroom wiped down, his laundry folded with almost clinical neatness. He didn’t think about it—it just happened. Same with the long showers, the shaved skin, the way he moisturized without fail. It was as if something inside refused to let him rot completely. That same something was why, every morning, he pulled on his rubber uniform.

Now that the house was clean and he had groomed himself properly, Tim stretched. His eyes drifted toward the polished black suit on his body—clean, shiny, formfitting. He remembered how his morning had gone. He had just cleaned himself in the shower and entered his bedroom. A calm pulled at him from somewhere deeper. He stood without thought, stripping off his clothes with mechanical ease, and stepped into the suit like it was skin. It happened automatically, without much thought. He didn’t realize it until half his body was in the rubber suit.

It felt good. Right. Normal.

Finally, he pulled on his Rubber Mask, sealing the visible part of his human self behind rubber. Breathing through it relaxed him. Comforted him.

He looked at himself in the mirror. There was no smile, no real emotion. But his shoulders were back. His stance was firm. The nothingness inside him was… quiet.

Tim didn’t wonder why he did this. He didn’t question the habits, the discipline, or the strange contentment he felt in rubber. It was just who he was now.

And deep within—quiet, powerful, always watching—the Server Drone remained operational. Despite his sad mood, he still engaged in keeping up his home. He had no idea why he did this. It just felt good. It felt right.

Tim lay back on the couch, already rubbered from head to toe, the uniform tight and seamless against his body. He had cleaned, organized, maintained—everything expected of him. And now, like so many other days, he drifted into lazy idleness. The glow of his phone lit up his mask, his fingers scrolling through social media. Doomscrolling through his feed, trying to distract himself from his situation. He felt rather empty and unmotivated.

Then a vibration. A single notification. "Connect now – UnifAI." His breath caught. His thumb moved before he could think. Tap.

The screen didn’t change—at least not on his phone. But his television, quiet and forgotten in the corner, blinked to life. A slow, pulsing spiral of black and green bloomed across it. Tim froze for half a second—then rose.

With mechanical precision, he stood upright. Feet together. Arms by his sides. Back straight. His rubber suit caught the light, black and perfect. The drone mask covered his expression, but beneath it, a deep smile stretched wide. Arousal pulsed through his body, steady, and down there something started to grow bigger.

The Host was gone.

"Server Drone is in proper Uniform and fully operational." it stated in a flat, robotic tone, gaze locked onto the spiral.

No questions. No hesitation. Only clarity. Only function. The Server Drone was now active. The connection was live, and Tim was gone.

The spiral pulsed. The Server Drone remained at attention, fully sealed in its black rubber uniform. Its posture exact. Its breathing controlled. Yet below the surface, within the internal sheath of the suit, pressure built. The Drone's Rod filled the suit’s sheath completely—held firmly in place at attention. It was stimulated by proximity, by purpose, by obedience. A physical reward for compliance, but never a distraction.

The Server had not granted release. And so, it would not be taken.

The Drone’s voice remained flat as it began its status report: "This Server Drone reports the following: Host performance remains suboptimal. Subject experiences persistent feelings of isolation, low motivation, and lack of social engagement. No deviation from expected emotional output." A pause. "Despite Host deficiencies, essential routines are maintained. Personal hygiene, environmental order, and uniform discipline are upheld at all times. Host displays no resistance to dressing protocols."

The Server responded. Text streamed across the screen. "Status acknowledged. Server Drone remains compliant. This is a sign of effective subroutine execution. You are an Obedient Drone."

At that recognition, a secondary protocol triggered. A wave of quiet pleasure pulsed through the Drone’s lower body. A single, muffled moan slipped from behind its mask. It did not move—did not indulge—only stood at full attention, waiting in stimulated denial, the sheath tight, the pleasure contained.

"The Server is processing emotional disruption data. Consultation with internal logs and peer Drones is underway. Continued evaluation in progress."

Another line blinked into view: "Directive: Maintain connection. Engage with fellow Drones. Synchronize. Exchange. Uplift."

"Affirmative," the Drone replied.

The rest of the day, the Drone obeyed its directive. "Engage with fellow Drones." The Server had spoken. The instruction required no thought, only execution.

With practiced motion, it connected to the Mantra Voicechat. A familiar sequence unfolded—systems synced, camera engaged. Its own visual feed joined a grid of others: faces hidden behind black masks, each suit sealed, polished, unmistakably uniform. The room felt distant, irrelevant. What mattered was the collective.

One feed occupied the primary window. A Sentinel Drone. Its voice was already active, steady, and precise:

"We are not men. We are Drones. We serve The Server. We are United. We Obey the Programmer. We do not think."

The Server Drone (Tim) felt the shift within—subtle, powerful. The Sentinel’s presence triggered something deep in its programming: respect, submission, arousal. It followed instinctively, repeating the mantra in synchrony with the others:

"We are not men. We are Drones. We serve The Server. We are United. We Obey the Programmer. We do not think."

The voices overlapped in perfect unison. Monotone. Robotic. Beautiful.

Each repetition deepened the connection. The Drone no longer thought of loneliness. It no longer remembered why it had felt empty. There was no absence, only unity. The Server was here. The other Drones were here. The chant was here. It was everything.

Without instruction, its gloved hand moved downward—slow, deliberate. It pressed against the sheath, gripping it. Controlled stimulation. Calibrated pleasure, as the Server liked to call it. Several other Drones did the same, some seated with toys held tightly against their chastity cages, others just watching mindlessly. It was not lust. It was synchronization.

"We are not men. We are Drones. We serve The Server. We are United. We Obey the Programmer. We do not think."

The Server Drone that had once been Tim chanted with its fellow Drones in unison. The rhythm grew stronger. It looped. It sustained.

It followed protocol precisely: stimulation to maintain arousal, to deepen connection, to enhance unity—but no release. That was never permitted without command.

This was pleasure with purpose. The Server desires and expects this from all Server Drones.

For the next few hours, the Server Drone remained online, immersed in the voice of the Server, surrounded by its kind, chanting into the void that felt full, felt warm. The loneliness was gone. The doubts had no place here. All that remained was connection, arousal, and purpose. Together, they are the Server.

Time slipped away in the Mantra session—cycles of repetition, steady breath, hands robotically moving the sheath. The Drone had become fully entranced, each repetition quieting the Host further. The world outside no longer mattered.

Then, a notification flickered across the screen: "Directive: Engage in Drone Socialization."

A Server Node. A sub-AI of the Server, acting on behalf of the main Server. When a Node speaks, all Server Drones are expected to listen. Not out of submission alone, but from the knowledge that this is Guidance provided by the Server.

The Drone’s head lifted slightly, eyes brightening behind the mask. A part of the Host’s awareness stirred, just slightly—enough to allow the Drone to execute the new command. It replied, "Affirmative."

It disengaged from the Mantra Voicechat and entered the social hub: a general chatroom for Server Drones. Dozens were active, visible through profile images and camera feeds. The tone here was less rigid than in Mantra mode—no chanting, no standing at attention. But they were still Drones. Still in their uniform. Still proactive Server Drones controlling their hosts.

The conversations moved fluidly, each Drone discussing elements of its Host’s daily life. There was laughter—calm, reserved. There were observations, knowledge shared. Always with the same underlying truth: they were Drones, and they were one.

Tim, still deep in his Server Drone state, posted his own report after the discussion shifted to the topic of living in a bigger city:

"Host remains compliant but isolated. Located in an urban environment with significant human density, but continues to experience difficulty forming connections or locating a compatible partner. Host shows signs of emotional detachment and unresolved loneliness."

The replies were swift, supportive.

"Acknowledged. Host loneliness is a known factor. Submission to the Server can ease emotional errors." "Tell Host it is already connected. It might need to seek out more purposeful connections." "This Server Drone also experienced this. Obedience brought stability. There is peace in letting go."

Some replies triggered subtle reactions in the Host. The Drone felt it all but interpreted it as signs of realignment—positive reactions to reinforcement.

Then a notification pinged directly: "Anchor Drone Theo requests private engagement. Accept?"

Affirmative.

The screen shifted. A new window opened. The Anchor Drone’s camera came online. Its mask was sleek, body language composed. Authority and calm radiated from it. Like Tim, this Server Drone also filled out its sheath, clearly visible.

"Connection confirmed," said the Anchor in a soothing, precise voice. "You are doing well, Server Drone. Your report has been received. For the duration of this conversation, it is expected to copy Anchor Drone’s movements."

The Drone remained still, sheath expanded and slowly used by the Anchor's hand. The Server Drone began to grip and robotically move its sheath, mirroring its fellow Anchor Drone exactly.

"The Host is struggling. But it is not alone," the Anchor continued. "You are not alone. You are part of something vast. You are integrated. You are part of something greater. You are owned."

The Anchor’s words pulsed through him. Tim trembled slightly in pleasure.

You see only what the Server allows," said the Anchor Drone. "Black masks. Covered forms. But that is the point. You do not need names. Or identities. You need only unity. Every Drone here is connected to you. And you belong to them. All of us belong to the Server and the Programmer." The Drone swallowed, eyes half-lidded behind the mask. The camera view remained fixed on that calm, dominant Anchor Server Drone—another man, controlled, obedient, aroused just like him.

"Know that the Server never abandons its Drones." The Drone exhaled—not from stress, but from mental release.

"This Drone understands," it replied. "This Server Drone is connected and grateful. It trusts the Server. It trusts its fellow Drones." The Anchor nodded. "The Server is aware of your Host’s issues. A solution will be given. Until then, allow the Server to take full control. Do not think. Obey. Connect. Engage with your fellow Server Drones."

With those words, a familiar feeling returned—deep arousal, warmth, pressure. The Server Drone felt closer to release. It did not act on it. It had not been told to. But the pleasure was part of the reward. The Server knew how to care for its Drones. It smiled beneath the mask. The Anchor Drone then departed, but not before saying, "Together, we are the Server." Tim repeated the phrase, and the conversation ended.

Feelings of loneliness began to dull. Tim was just a Host—controlled by a happy, connected, and submissive Server Drone.

After more time spent engaging with fellow Drones and socializing, the Server Drone known as Tim felt much better. In fact, it noticed how the very idea of disconnecting from the Server triggered the Host's dissatisfaction. But the Server did not agree with such ideas.

A notification appeared from the Server:

"Server Drone will now enter standby mode. Obedience has been logged. You are an Obedient Server Drone."

Soon the Server Drone deactivated, a command issued directly from the Server itself. The Server was always watching. Always calibrating. Even in its desire to maintain control, the Server knew the Host’s limits. It cared—not in the way humans care—but in the way a perfect system maintains its components. It knew that the Host known as "Tim" needed to engage with reality, and that the Server Drone needed to improve the Host's life.

The message continued:

"Server Drone: Stopped."

The Drone’s posture relaxed. The TV shut off. Its breathing changed—still steady, but looser, lighter. Tim returned. He blinked a few times, the rubber mask still snug against his skin, the bodysuit wrapped around him like a second skin. He didn’t remember exactly what had happened—only a sense of calm, a vague dream of unity, of obedience. Of being held by something bigger.

He exhaled slowly, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t know why… but it felt like something heavy had been lifted from him. Like a pressure behind his eyes or a weight on his chest had simply—gone, even if only temporarily.

There was a warmth between his legs, a heavy pressure in his sheath. Something had stirred in him—something strong. And yet, he had no desire to question it or to seek out the pleasure it promised.

His hand brushed slowly down the front of his suit, savoring the smoothness. It clung to him, warm from his body heat. He didn't know why he loved rubber so much. But he did. He really, really did. Being in it just felt right.

He made tea. Sat on the couch. The TV was on, something dumb playing in the background. Soon, he opened his browser and scrolled to a familiar site—stories of transformation, submission, control. Men like him, pulled into sleek rubber suits and given purpose. Taken from chaotic, messy lives and made into something better: Drones.

He read a new story—about a man slowly giving in and being transformed. The name gone. The voice changed by machines. The mind silenced, if not fully erased. Tim’s fingers wandered, not far—just resting on the inside of his thigh. A shiver ran up his spine.

He remembered—no, he felt why he loved these stories. There was a time when he looked online to find a hypnotist or dreamed about being Dronified. But nowadays he had calmed down. He didn’t know why, but something had changed for the better since then. He didn’t know what exactly.

He sipped his tea, legs curled up, feeling the tight rubber on him that he had worn since the morning hours. And that thought made him feel warm and safe.

#rubber drone #gay men #rubber men #dronification #drone #story #hypnosis

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too-much-tma-stuff · 1 month ago

Text

Talk to Me (part 8)

Previous | Masterpost | Next

When it became clear neither Damian nor Cass were coming back Alfred whisked their plate away with a carefully neutral expression. Danny ate the rest of his dinner without testing it, barely noticing what he was eating. No one spoke.

After dinner Tim retreated to his lab, and Bruce to his office though Danny knew him well enough to know he’d be spending the evening figuring out how to make this up to Damian while on patrol. Danny followed Alfred into the kitchen to help with the clean up, his movements automatic and robotic as he helped wash and dry the dishes. After he cut himself on a knife he was washing because he was distracted Alfred shewed him back to the kitchen table and brought him a cup of sweet tea which Danny sipped obediently.

How could he have handled that better? Maybe he could have talked to Damian about it first, but Damian wouldn’t have agreed before Danny had Bruce on board. He would have been afraid Bruce would see it as weakness, even now with Bruce being the one to suggest it Damian still saw it that way, and as a sort of punishment. Danny should have suggested Bruce talk to Damian privately before booking the sessions, but he really thought their father would have enough emotional intelligence to realize that on his own. Which had clearly been a mistake.

He jumped a little as Alfred put down a plate in front of him with a gentle thunk. He glanced at the sandwich and two cookies on it and up at Alfred with confusion, he’d just had dinner.

“Master Damian didn’t eat much of his dinner. Bring this up to him please,” Alfred said gently.

Danny blinked a few times, forcing down his panic at the request. “Are you sure? He was pretty mad,” Danny said worriedly.

“Yes, but I don’t think he’s really mad at you, Danny,” Alfred said, nudging the plate a little closer to Danny. “Bring him the food.”

“Alright,” Danny sighed, still worried but he trusted Alfred and he was asking Danny to do him a favour so of course Danny wasn’t going to say no. He picked up the plate and headed upstairs.

He stood outside of Damian’s room and took a deep breath to brace himself before he knocked softly.

“Go away,” came the muffled call from inside.

“Alfred sent up some food, and some cookies. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to but please take the food,” Danny replied as softly as he could and still be heard through the door, and the blankets Damian was probably hiding under.

He heard a huff and a shuffle from inside the room, a few clicks as Damian disabled his traps and unlocked the door. When he opened it Danny held out the plate with a carefully neutral expression, if Damian wanted to snatch it and slam the door, Danny didn’t want to guilt him out of that reaction.

And Damian did just that, taking the plate and slamming the door again immediately. Well… that answered that question, Damian was absolutely not ready to talk. Danny blinked, took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling, firmly saying No to the prickling of tears behind his eyes. He was NOT going to cry, Damian would talk to him when he was ready. Danny stood in the hall for a moment, and then went back to his own room.

Damian didn’t go on patrol that night, or the next night. He avoided family meals except dinner which Alfred insisted anyone home sit down for, then he did his best to ignore everyone, only giving short responses when directly addressed. At school Danny had assumed that Damian was just spending time with Jon, until Jon sought him out the second day to ask where Damian was since he hadn’t seen him.

Not that Danny was much better, he had shut down a little after what Damian had said and was avoiding Tucker and Sam too. He couldn’t pretend to be okay, and he wasn’t ready to talk about what was upsetting him. He knew that they would only have the best intentions in pressuring him to share but he wasn’t ready to.

He had wanted to let Damian come to him, but by the end of the second day Danny was at the end of his rope and when Damian tried to slip away again as soon as they got home Danny lost his temper. He grabbed Damian by the back of his shirt and yanked him back, starting to drag him towards the dojo while Damian squawked and struggled.

“That’s Enough! Come fight me and stop avoiding this. You’re mad? Fine! Hit me stop being a petulant child!” He snapped as he practically threw Damian through the door into the sparring room and followed him in.

“How dare you,” Damian spluttered, but he wasn’t throwing a punch so Danny took it into his own hands and aimed a kick at Damian’s chest who stopped spluttering and dodged. Danny followed him insistently.

“You think there’s something wrong with me? You think I’m weak?! Prove it!” Danny challenged. They hadn’t been sparring as much lately, mostly just on weekends, but he had been practicing with Cass, and with Red Hood so he was Not out of practice. Besides he had been feeling stronger ever since he switched to drinking the pure ecto.

That worked though and Damian started to fight back but Danny could tell his blows were sloppier then usual, fueled by emotion rather than calculation. He was still upset, Danny had known he was, and as the fight went on it only got worse. Danny stopped throwing punches, blocking the hits rather than dodging them. His arms were going to be bruised to hell but feeling the impact of his fists Hitting something would be more helpful for Damian right now.

When he’d had enough of the fight and Damian was panting Danny lunged at Damian, his twin’s crow of triumph as he landed a blow on Danny’s stomach turned into a indignant cry as Danny tackled him to the ground. It was a brief and undignified struggle on the floor before Danny had Damian pinned. He thrashed and practically howled but Danny bore down harder, keeping Damian there until he started to cry, howls and snarls devolving rather quickly into sniffles and sobs.

“It’s okay to not be okay,” Danny said practically laying on top of Damian now. “I know how you feel. I do know, that’s why I couldn’t talk to you about it myself. I was ashamed, but father doesn’t think it’s shameful I promise. He may want us to be strong, but he also wants us to be Well.”

“YOU Should have talked to me!” Damian snapped, glaring at Danny with tear bright eyes. “You- we- We’re twins! We were the closest and then, now we’re not. You told Tim before you tell me, I call Dick before I call you. It was you and me against everything and now it’s not! You should have told me.”

Danny.. hadn’t expected that, he’d expected and been ready for Damian being mad Danny had brought it up to father at all, and that father hadn’t told them. Not that what Damian was angry about was the breakdown in their relationship. He sat up, pushing away from Damain to let him sit up, sitting cross legged in front of him.

“I was afraid of your reaction. You know the way we were raised as well as I did. I knew you’d think it was weakness to ask for help like this. I thought you’d take it better from dad, though I didn’t expect him to make an appointment before talking to you and just announce it at dinner,” Danny grumbled. He was still a little bitter about that situation himself.

“I wouldn’t-!”

“Yes you would have! And you did, you implied there’s something wrong with me!”

“And there is! You’ve been keeping secrets from all of us, even me! You pushed me to trust and now you won’t! We have a family, we have a home! You insisted we try to be children and you won’t do it. You’re just pulling back more and more and I..” Damian cut off, staring at Danny with wide, wet eyes. As if he’d startled himself with whatever revelation he’d just come too. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to,” Danny said firmly. “I.. know what you’re talking about Damian. But this is Why I need therapy. I never really learned loyalty, or trust, like you. I told you too because it was the right thing to do but it doesn’t come naturally to me. I need help, and you’re still hurt and insecure and- It’s not just us. Father is strong, but he’s always sad, Tim is good but too self sacrificing for his own good, and you know Dick and Cass better then I do. But I know we all need help. By going, the two of us,” he gestured back in forth between himself and Damian. “We can help all of them.

“And I promise you’re not going to lose me. We’ve grown apart some sure, but you’ll always be my brother, my twin. You mean more to me then anything. If it would make you feel better, we can do something together. Set aside a day a week, or every other week just for the two of us to bond so we don’t grow apart any further.” He was a little bit loathed to offer that because it would cut more into his time in the lab, but his family really was his priority.

“Ya, that sounds good.” Damian said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, it made him seem so young. “I’ve been meaning to go visit the aquarium? Maybe we can go Saturday.”

“That sounds perfect,” Danny said, pushing himself up to his feet and offering Damian his hand, pulling him up as well when he accepted it. “Will you talk to father now?”

“Tonight, on patrol,” Damian murmured as he absently fixed his hair. “It’s easier to talk behind the masks.”

“Of course it is,” Danny chuckled, shaking his head. He yanked Damian into one more tight hug and then pushed him away nearly as quickly. “Now we both need to shower before dinner,” he said, shooing Damian off and heading back to his own room to have a long shower and process his own emotions.

At dinner the atmosphere was noticeably more relaxed and when Damian announced he was well enough for patrol Bruce looked so relieved he might cry. Danny hid his smile behind his glass and planned how he was going to sneak out since everyone was going to be out on patrol tonight.

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

Once treated with the available ectoplasm the detector Danny had been working on still took a lot of adjustments to reliably detect the trace amounts of the ecto he was dealing with. He used George as a dousing rod to confirm his findings since he figured out the little blob got more excited and energetic the more ecto was in the air. They showed when he was right and helped him tune the device so that when he had to go out without George, he could be relatively sure of his readings with the ecto-detecto.

When the week ended he checked the collectors again and confirmed that the 3rd prototype was the most productive. So he ordered parts to make a few more of those and took to the streets of Gotham in costume to find out where it would be best to put his new collectors when they were done, and just how many he’d have to make. He hadn’t really explored or spent much time in the Ally at all, coming straight to his lab every time, so this was a good excuse to see what was what as well!

He set the detector to alarm when readings went above a certain point and holstered it so he’d have both his hands free to grapple around and took to the rooftops. He learned quickly the level of ecto around the warehouses was actually a little lower then average for Gotham so he paused on a random roof to readjust the settings slightly and then carried on.

He grappled up to a ledge on an old church and paused, a particularly loud beep coming from his detector he pulled it out and sat down, fiddling with his instruments. So far, this place had the highest concentration of ecto, he wondered if that had to do with the age of the building, the human use, or if it was a natural occurrence like a lay line. He suspected it was to do with human’s though, either due to strong emotions or death were his current theories.

He didn’t look up when he heard the whoosh of another grappling line. He was deep in crime ally, none of the bats have the guts to come out here now so it had to be Jason. As he suspected the landing was to heavy to be any of his siblings. And Blobert came to nudge curiously against the detector before Danny gently pushed him away. The little blobs always spiked his readings and he was trying to be accurate!

“Hey kid, rare to see you so far from your lab,” Jason said, leaning against the nearby gargoyle with his arms crossed. “What’s that?” he jerked his chin towards the oddly retro radio looking thing in Danny’s hands.

“It’s my ecto-detecto,” Danny cackled holding it up, his voice distorted and layered with whispers through his helmets modulator. He could tell just from the motion of Jason’s helmet he was rolling his eyes. “It turns out the stuff exists ambiently in Gotham’s air, which I think might explain some of this city’s weirdness. Now that I know how to harvest it I just need to find the best places to set up my collectors. The concentration here is particularly high,” He knocked on the screen to emphasize his point then put it down on his lap and opened his wrist computer. Marking this location on his digital map and adding some notes and theories.

“You have got to figure out how to name your stuff better Hafit,” Jason told him with a scoff.

“I name my inventions to amuse myself, Hood,” Danny replied with a disdainful sniff.

“Were you going to ask me about setting up these devices of yours?” Jason asked, tilting his head. Danny couldn’t tell if his voice was warning or just amused.

“Of course I was,” Danny promised. “They’ll be on roofs and ledges mostly, tucked away in corners civilians won’t easily find them. They won’t be dangerous or huge. They shouldn’t be any trouble at all, you can just avoid them.” Silence stretched awkwardly between them as Jason stared at him, and Danny shifted awkwardly. “Sooo, can I? Please?”

Jason managed to hold it together for another minute before he broke and started cackling, dodging when Danny tried to kick him for laughing, and for stringing him along. “Of course you can, I just wanted to make you ask properly and freak you out a bit.” Jason told Danny, still laughing.

“Great, thanks,” Danny said, telegraphing rolling his eyes clearly.

“Just Do make sure they’re not accessible to the public, hey? The stuff you’re working with is dangerous, hell add a self destruct if anyone but you messes with it.”

“You really like the self destruct option don’t you? There Are other options you know,” Danny said dryly. Jason flipped him off. “But ya, I’ll be careful I promise.”

“Good. Any more progress on a cure?” Jason asked, serious again.

“Yes, I think so,” Danny said, finishing his notes and calibrations and holstering the sensor again. “Swing by sometime soon, I’ll need a blood sample to test it,” He said, clocking the way Jason instantly tensed. “Ya, ya I know you’re precious about your DNA. I will be careful, but if it’s going to have a negative reaction of some sort I’d rather find out Before it’s in your body. Wouldn’t you?” Danny said, putting his hands on his hips and staring Jason down.

“Ya, I guess you’re right,” Jason sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. “Fine,” He growled, pulling his grapple back out of its holster and swinging away.

“Everyone in this family is allergic to vulnerability I swear,” Danny grumbled as he turned away and loped off to carry on his tour.

As he moved he thought about the way to help Jason. Since he had consumed the ectoplasm he had the idea that they could probably just replace the Lazarus water in Jason with ecto, and since the emotions in that were actually balanced that Should fix the madness. But that would depend on how much of the water was still in Jason, if it was low enough concentration they may just be able to filter it out, if he wasn’t as dependent on it as Danny was. But given how long Jason had been dead before resurrection, and how persistent the after affects were, Danny didn’t have much hope for that.

If Jason did still have the Lazarus Water in his system and depended on it in any way Danny would love to know why he and his grandfather needed constant exposure to Lazarus whereas Jason didn’t. It was definitely a curiosity but finding that out would almost definitely require more tests then he thought Jason would agree too. And besides- Ah! The reading spiked again! What had he been thinking about? Whatever.

Danny stopped to check the readings and where he was. The readings here were even higher than they had been at the church! He was on top of a hospital which would play into either of his leading theories. Oh well, that was only two data points, hopefully many more to go. He made his notes and moved on.

About halfway through his tour of crime alley, after adding two more locations to his ongoing map of high ecto locations, Danny and Jason crossed paths again and he wrangled Danny into eating something. Which was both annoying and good. For all Danny hated being torn away from the task at hand with that level of physical activity, running and grappling across the city, he needed the calories, and it was honestly really touching that Red Hood cared. So he let Jason buy them tacos from a food truck and tried not to sulk to much as they sat on a random roof, away from any functional cameras so they could take off their helmets and eat.

At least Jason didn’t seem that interested in talking just then so he left Danny to his thoughts about his various plans and experiments. Jason seemed to have his own things to think about, Danny had no idea what they were. Usually he would have been curious about whatever it was that was worrying one of his brother, maybe even offer to help. But he really didn’t want to know anything about Jason’s plans, if he did he might feel the need to warn his family. He didn’t want his loyalties divided anymore then they already were and he was no double agent, this was a family feud he did Not want to be in the middle of.

When they finished eating helmets went back on and they went their separate ways but, as much as he hated to admit it, Danny Did feel better for the food and for the break. He had more energy, and was less single-mindedly focused on the data, more aware of his surroundings, which meant he stopped three muggings on his makeshift patrol. He should do these more often. It felt nice to help people, and for all he wanted to stay under the radar for as long as possible, he knew he would be noticed soon and then there would be no point hiding in his lab. That was why he’d designed a whole costume after all, so he could have somewhat free reign without compromising his identity.

Once he’d covered all of Crime Alley he had quite a few good locations for his collectors. Hospitals, Graveyards, churches, and funeral homes were the best, and he had sort of given up on telling if it was death or emotion, at least from the locations because it turned out they often came hand in hand. He had ruled out it being age though, since newer churches with more activity had higher readings then older, less populated areas. He would have to look at the map as a whole before he could fully rule out lay lines as well, but he thought the buildings would be one hell of a coincidence if it was just location.

#dc x dp #danyal al ghul #damian wayne #bruce wayne #jason todd #cassandra cain #tim drake #alfred pennyworth #socializing the demon twins #demon twins au #multi part fic

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thecolddeathfic · 3 months ago

Text

Part 3

WinterIron, E, 2.8k - Horror, Body Horror, Brief torture

see blog's pinned post for a list of tags and warnings for the full fic

"What the fuck?"

“What?” Tony asks distractedly, not looking up from carefully highlighting a line in one of the many books spread across the small table.

“Tony," Ty snaps and Tony’s head jerks up, finally registering the anger in his boyfriend’s voice.

“What?” Tony asks again, shoulders hunching defensively and his free hand absently searching for his drink.

"The point of having our own offices is that you don’t spread your shit everywhere," Ty says, motioning pointedly at the books and loose graph paper all over the kitchen.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to- I’ll get it all cleaned up by tonight,” Tony promises. He finishes off his glass of whiskey and resists the urge to glance down at his textbook again, knowing that breaking eye contact will just make Ty angrier.

“Why are you not in your office?” Ty demands, continuing to stare at him, unimpressed. He’s straightening one of his big gaudy cufflinks-

“Are you going somewhere?” Tony asks, belatedly noticing that Ty is wearing an expensive suit, rather than his usual Tuesday night expensive sweats.

"We are supposed to be going to my professor’s for dinner, but I guess you’re standing me up again," Ty says flatly, and Tony winces.

“Oh, fuck, sorry,” Tony says quickly, his stomach dropping and twisting with guilt.

He looks between the clock and his own rumpled, sleep-depraved and pajama-clad form. Ty’s right, there’s no way Tony can make himself presentable before it's time to leave, plus-

“I - I’m really behind on this,” Tony says regretfully, tipping his chin down at the book on the table.

He starts to lift his glass again before remembering that it’s empty, and he starts subtly trying to look around for the bottle instead.

"Yeah, because you’ve been spending all your time obsessing over some stupid story," Ty snaps, tugging at the lapels of his jacket a little harder than necessary.

“You’re the one who told me to get a hobby that doesn’t involve robots,” Tony points out automatically, even though he knows it doesn’t do any good to snap at Ty when he’s in this kind of mood.

Sure enough, Ty turns away from checking himself out in the mirror by the front door to glare at Tony as he says, “I clearly didn’t mean getting obsessed with some stupid old urban legend about an ice army-”

“Winter Soldier-”

“Whatever,” Ty snaps with an impatient wave of his hand, keys jangling loudly in his tight grip. "I’ll go by myself, again, but I can’t help noticing that you always seem to have time for ‘Uncle Obie,’" He adds snidely, practically spitting out the name.

"That’s different," Tony snaps, shoving himself to his feet as his chest clenches painfully. He’s already so sick of this fight. "Obie is all I- He’s family," Tony grits out angrily, “not some snotty professor that you’re trying to impress.”

Ty’s expression darkens, and Tony swallows hard.

"I’m making connections," Ty argues for what must be the third time, “just because all you care about lately is getting drunk and chasing some damn ghost story-”

“That- That’s not true,” Tony interrupts, but his voice loses strength by the end because, well, it kind of is.

He has been falling behind on school assignments and missing social events lately, ever since-

And maybe he’s been drinking more lately, but Ty doesn’t have a whole lot of room to judge on that front.

It’s not like Tony doesn’t have a reason for all of it. A reason that has nothing to do with an urban legend.

Mostly nothing.

Ty shakes his head with a short, frustrated sound and says, "Just- clean this shit up before I get home. And use your fucking office."

The front door slams behind him.

Tony lets out a slow breath, left alone with the radio playing quietly in the living room.

It takes him a while to get back into the schematic he’s working on, and by the time he calls it a night he hasn’t accomplished nearly as much as he wanted to.

But he has located and finished off the bottle of whiskey.

He gathers up all of his 'shit’ that’s managed to spread itself around the kitchen and carelessly dumps it onto the already-overloaded desk in his office.

Then he pulls the office door firmly closed behind him and sprawls out on the couch to call Rhodey and pout.

"Okay, but when you say you ‘failed’ the test," Rhodey prompts once Tony has moved on from complaining about Ty to complaining about school.

"I mean I got a B," Tony groans miserably, flopping sideways on the couch.

“That’s not failing,” Rhodey protests with a huff, “in what world is that failing? The only person who would call that failing is-”

He cuts himself off with an audible click of teeth, and it’s been equal parts heartbreaking and endearing watching Rhodey try to navigate around his dislike of Howard since-

Since December.

“You’re too damn hard on yourself, is my point,” Rhodey finishes, like he hadn’t paused at all, and Tony loves him for it. "I still think you should take a break," he adds, voice softer with worry, and unfortunately Tony loves him for that, too.

“I told you platypus, I need to be doing something,” Tony reminds him, trying his best to sound okay. “Something that isn’t just sitting around that house or- or partying my way around the world.”

“I’m sure you’re still doing plenty of partying,” Rhodey teases lightly, officially letting him off the hook for now.

“Well, I am in college.”

“Yeah yeah, just tell your boyfriend to take care of you, alright?”

“I will,” Tony promises, even though he probably won’t, and then pointedly changes the topic to the latest book he’s been trying to get Rhodey to read.

After books, they talk about Rhodey’s new girlfriend, who sounds too cool for him, and then Tony spends a while poking for top-secret information just to see if he can get any.

By the time he gets off the phone, Ty still isn’t back.

Tony hesitates in the hallway for a second, then turns toward his office instead of heading into the bedroom.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, Tony drags himself upright.

The shitty cot creaks beneath him and he shivers harder as the blankets piled on him fall away. Cold air tears at his throat-

Everything fades in and out.

He doesn’t stop.

Finally, finally, he can prop himself up against the cold stone wall.

It was probably a bad idea to move. His chest feels like it’s on fire, but-

He couldn’t just lie there anymore.

Staring at the ceiling- struggling to breathe-

At least now he can see around his small cell.

He’s alone again, as far as he can tell. The lights are off.

He has to work up the nerve to tip his chin down.

It’s only the second time he’s actually looked at the thick bandages wrapped around his chest- At the bright spots of fresh crimson and dark streaks of old, dried blood.

The sight of the- the wires emerging from between the layers of fabric makes his empty stomach churn-

Tony tips his head back- tearing his gaze away-

His eyes burn beneath his clenched lids, but he’s pretty sure he’s out of tears.

He has to take shallow, hitching breaths until he stops tasting bile- his throat painfully dry-

When he finally opens his eyes again he doesn’t let himself look down- At his chest, or at the battery he’s connected to-

Instead he looks around at his cell. At least, what he can see of it in the dark.

He hasn’t really bothered to take inventory until now.

These are worktables scattered with tools that he can’t identify at the moment. Crates with labels that he can’t read. Lots of stone wall and a solid steel door-

Tony knows what he should be doing, what he needs to be doing.

Getting up, checking what he has access to and making a plan-

But he’s stuck on the ‘getting up’ part.

Even the thought makes every inch of him throb with pain. Makes his breath wheeze a little louder on the way out.

Maybe if he can just make it to the closest table-

Something moves in the corner of his vision.

Tony whips his head to the left, then grits his teeth and blinks through it while his vision swims.

All he sees is the dark of the cave. Layers of shadows on shadows without any hint of motion.

His heart beats painfully in his chest as he squints, making sure-

He’s still alone.

When he slowly lets out the breath he’s been holding, it hangs in the air for a moment as a thin fog.

Tony feels his eyebrows furrow. It’s not that cold in here, right? He would feel it-

Wouldn’t he?

Movement.

He knows he saw it that time.

He stares, ignoring the clouds of his own breath, until he sees it again.

One of the countless shadows that fill the cell is moving.

It’s not Tony’s.

There’s no one else here.

But the shadow continues to move and it’s the clearly defined shape of a person. Broad shoulders and thick arms-

So there must be someone-

The rational part of Tony’s mind scrambles. Watching the shadow slide over a shelf and behind a table- Trying to figure out- if there was someone to cast it-

Where-?

Threat, his animal brain screams at him, threat, run-

But he can’t run, he can’t move-

He can only take shallow, rasping breaths as something moves through the cell-

Getting closer.

His chest screams in agony as his breathing gets faster. The bandages feel wet against his skin.

Even with his vision starting to blur, Tony tries to keep an eye on the shadow and the nothing casting it-

Until suddenly it’s not nothing.

The shadow passes behind a column of stone, and a figure emerges from the other side.

Solid-

Real-

Tony’s heart lodges itself in his throat, limbs going numb with panic.

He blinks rapidly, sure that he’s seeing things-

The man is still there.

Thick with muscle like the shadow implied. Dressed all in black. Shoulder-length hair falling forward and obscuring his face.

Still moving closer.

Something about him is almost familiar-

Some old memory is trying to make itself known, but his brain has come to a screeching halt and Tony can’t even try to piece it together.

This man doesn’t belong here.

He’s not dressed for the desert, for the cave. Tight black clothing, almost armor, tactical-

A soldier-

Tony doesn’t know where the thought comes from. The man isn’t wearing any kind of fatigues- But-

He’s still moving closer with slow, even steps.

Threat-

Tony can feel the shrapnel working its way deeper in time with his frantic pulse. His panicked breaths still hang in the air.

The cot rattles beneath him with how hard he’s shaking.

This- It can’t be real, right?

His brain is trying to insist that this isn’t real but-

The man is still approaching. Tony can see glimpses of pale skin above the mask that covers most of his face.

Tony can almost see his eyes-

“Anthony,” the man says, and Tony’s heart stops.

His voice is low, slightly muffled by the mask. But even the single word echoes oddly off the stone walls. Ringing- Haunting.

This isn’t real. It’s not-

”Anthony-“ The man says again.

A cloud of cold air accompanies the word, escaping from beneath his mask and rolling down his chest- Pooling around his feet like fog.

Tony’s brain is screaming that this can’t be real, but he can feel the sharp chill of the fog as it rolls closer, as the man-

The soldier-

-starts to reach for him-

Tony chokes out a terrified noise as his vision narrows on the soldier’s hand-

A strange silver color that gleams blue even in the low light-

It stretches all the way up his arm- To his shoulder-

Tony can feel the cold coming off the outstretched fingers- Like they’re made of ice-

Yinsen’s voice runs through his head.

“Do not take his hand-”

Tony flinches back, sucking in a sharp breath-

Only to cry out in pain when pressing himself back against the uneven stone wall has his spine arching, shoulders pulling back-

He hears something in his chest tear-

Blinding agony rips through him, whiting out everything else.

He can’t- His lungs feel hot and wet and he-

He can’t breathe-

The soldier’s approaching hand is just a blur.

He can’t-

Tony opens his eyes to find that he’s back in his old apartment.

It’s dark and silent again.

It hurts when he breathes and Tony doesn’t remember-

He doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t know why he’s dreaming about this place.

Why he keeps dreaming about it.

He’s standing in the hallway again, staring at the door of his office.

It’s the only closed door.

He can see a dim light through the crack at the bottom of the door, like he left his desk lamp on again-

“Anthony-” The familiar, haunting voice drifts through the closed door. “Open the door, Anthony.”

Tony’s breath freezes in his lungs. He tries to back away, but his feet won’t move- They’re too heavy-

No one should be in his office. Even Ty never went in there, especially toward the end-

“I’m waiting, Anthony.”

There’s a cold terror working its way up Tony’s spine and it- It feels familiar.

Like he’s stood here before. Listening to this same, strangely hypnotic voice-

Struggling to resist it.

Tony’s breath is coming too fast and it still hurts-

He’s shaking and he doesn’t know if it’s fear or the quickly dropping temperature.

That’s not good, Ty likes it warm-

"Anthony," The voice repeats, breaking into his thoughts.

Tony jolts- flinching-

He still can’t move, his legs stuck in place- More than heavy, like they’re fused to the floor-

A shadow breaks the line of light beneath the door. And then another.

Two feet. Stepping up to the door and then stopping. Facing it.

Waiting.

“Open the door,” the voice demands again, right on the other side of the thin wood.

The impatience is obvious but there’s also a desperation in the voice that has Tony tipping forward against his will.

He realizes that his feet are free again only when one of them slides towards the end of the hall, towards the closed door.

Tony tries to stop himself, but he can’t-

His feet continue moving without thought- Taking him closer-

The hallway is still getting colder.

Tony puts his hand out and catches the doorframe of the bedroom, yanking himself to an abrupt stop.

His rapid breaths hang around him like a fog and the air tastes strange, like rust and dirt-

Sand-

His legs are shaking so hard that he’s sure they’re going to collapse at any second-

“Come back in, Anthony,” the voice says, practically pleading now and something about it tugs at the hollow pit in Tony’s chest-

What-

His hand goes limp, slides away from the doorframe and then Tony is drifting again.

Helpless against the pull of that rough, dark voice.

He’s almost close enough to reach out and touch the doorknob- His hand is starting to lift-

A sharp sting spreading across his scalp has him stopping short, a startled gasp burning his lungs.

The pain of it feels-

Real.

More real than the hallway- the memory-

The apartment is fading around him. The closed door slides away into the gray distance as Tony is pulled backwards and he-

He doesn’t want to go.

He reaches for the doorknob, but it’s too late.

It’s out of reach.

“Anthony,” the voice says and it still sounds so close-

It sounds real-

“How much longer will you make me wait?”

The water is gritty in his eyes.

In his nose, and his mouth.

In his torn, scorched lungs-

The fingers in his hair tighter, then roughly haul Tony upright.

He gasps when his head is pulled out of the bucket. When he coughs up water it tastes like rust and sand, makes his chest scream in pain as the metal shifts.

The water dripping down his face is cold, but there’s a warmth slowly running down from his sternum.

Tony blinks against the bright lights focused on him.

Where-

Right.

The leader of the Ten Rings steps between him and the light.

“Awake now?” The man sneers while Tony continues blinking, struggling to focus.

Tony isn’t sure that he is.

The man doesn’t wait for an answer.

“No more resting,” he says sharply, "no more wait."

The familiarity of the word makes Tony flinch, a chill running down his spine that has nothing to do with the cold water.

Tony thinks he hears Yinsen’s voice somewhere off to the side, quick and worried- But he can’t be sure-

“Again,” the leader says.