#automatic light control system

[strawberryteabunny]

I do really agree with Austen about a better marriage with someone of good, steadfast character who can respect and treat you well, rather than someone you might have a passionate connection with but don’t actually know how they’ll treat you years or decades down the line. Like okay, I do find Mr. Collins a horrific bore, but we don’t ever get the sense from him that he’d be cruel to his wife- which in that time period when divorce was so inaccessible and women’s rights so few is incredibly important. Wickham? Idk. We know he lies, gambles, and has a habit of seducing young girls- I don’t have much hope for how he’ll treat Lydia as she gets older or if their finances take a hit.

I will say though that it could have been possible for the Bennet girls to become governesses- 1813 is a little early but just a decade or so later governesses would start to become increasingly popular and not much care was taken about their education, just their class. I can’t say how the Bennets specifically would fare because they also might not have been of good enough character (Lydia’s scandal would have hurt them a lot in that case too) but it was starting to become more of an option.

In the Victorian era as the idea took shape that a lady cannot do any kind of work, governessing became the only possible occupation for high-class women that lost their fathers (or husbands) and had no other way to support themselves. From everything I’ve read though it was still a very miserable way to live, because you weren’t one of the servants in the house but you also weren’t part of the family- so you were just alone, and with almost no marriage prospects, because a gentleman had better options and a working-class man would want a wife that was actually useful to him, not someone who was just preparing for marriage to a gentleman. (Successive finishing schools and governesses just churning out more Mrs.Bennet-types…)

The state of womens’ education was abysmal at this time, since again the upper class (and now, upper middle and middle class as they imitated the rich and fashionable) wanted their women to be purely decorative, so women would learn to speak a bit of some foreign languages, an instrument, a bit of painting and fancy needlework- but any practical skills that could potentially be put to use to work were forbidden. These same women, when they became governesses, were equally useless at teaching other girls- because you can’t educate your daughters to be good teachers at things like history, mathematics, geography, cooking, sewing, etc. or you’re implying you expect them to have to become governesses!* It’s an endless cycle of women receiving and perpetuating terrible educations. And once a governess gets too old, she has no marriage prospects and few skills, and they often died in poverty at that point. (In earlier centuries, a governess was only for the very wealthy, so they were paid well, well-educated, and could count on receiving support even after ‘retirement’ or being kept on for multiple generations, and sometimes even became friends with their pupils or were considered family, but that’s not how an upper-middle class Victorian family saw their household staff)

*the exception was usually daughters of clergy, who were in a weird limbo of being considered well-bred but also grew up expecting to work, so they usually received a bit better education as children themselves. But most women suddenly finding themselves needing to work as governesses had generally gone to finishing schools instead, which taught “ladylike” skills on the assumption that you would never need to work or support yourself financially. (Even with the reality that there weren’t nearly enough eligible bachelors wealthy enough to support all these girls and their social-ladder-climbing ambitions… yikes.)

If none of them married, how desperate would the Bennett girls actually have been?

Well the only dowry they have is £50 apiece from their mother’s small inheritance, per year; so that’s a total of £250 generated by Mrs. Bennet’s inherited investments per annum.

The Dashwoods (four women) are living on £500 a year when they are forced to live in Barton Cottage (with good-will making the rent presumably ridiculously low thanks to Sir John Middleton’s good nature, to say nothing of all the dinners and outings he invites the ladies to, which will help them economize on housekeeping costs for heavier meals.)

So there would be six Bennet women left to live on half as much as the Dashwoods are barely scraping by on. £250 is roughly considered enough to keep ONE gentleman at a barely-genteel level of leisure (presuming he does not keep a horse or estate or have any major expenses beyond securing his own lodgings/clothes/meals at a level becoming of a gentleman.)

None of the Bennet girls have been educated well enough for them to be governesses to support themselves, so…yes, their situation would heavily rely on mega-charity from others to just help them survive, much less maintain them in the lifestyle they’ve been accustomed to. The Dashwood women have NO social life beyond the outings provided by Sir John and the offer of Mrs. Jennings to host the older girls in London–otherwise they’d be stuck in their cottage, meeting absolutely no eligible men, creating a cycle of being poor and unmarried and too poor to meet anyone with money they could marry.

If the Bennet girls don’t at least have ONE of them marry well enough to help the rest before their father dies, they are really, truly, deeply fucked.

They may joke about beautiful Jane being the saviour of the family, but…it’s true. Mr. Bennet failed his daughters several times over in A) presuming he’d have a son, B) not saving money independently from his income to support his family after his death when it became clear he wasn’t going to have a son, C) not educating them well enough to enable them to support themselves in even in the disagreeable way of being a governess, D) not making any effort to escort his daughters to London or even local assemblies to help their matrimonial chances because he just doesn’t feel like it, E) throwing up his hands and shrugging when faced with the crises of Mr. Collins and Wickham.

Much as we are relieved on a romantic level that Mr. Bennet’s support of Elizabeth saves her from parental pressure to accept Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet is NOT A DICK for pushing for the match, because on a material level it very much means they get to KEEP THEIR HOUSE and gain a connection to the powerful patron Lady Catherine de Bourgh, which could be VERY advantageous for the other unmarried girls.

And the scandal of Wickham very nearly scuppers the chances of ANY of the other girls, and Wickham is a further DRAIN on the family finances, not a man who is going to substantially be able to support them. It is SUCH a disaster, and of course there’s not much Mr. Bennet can do until they are found, but he’s away in London and doing…what, exactly? Mr. Gardiner takes over and manages everything and Mr. Bennet seems happy to just let him.

Mr. Bennet does the ABSOLUTE LEAST, and actively damages his children’s futures by his inaction AND by his one action to support Lizzie’s individual needs being prioritized over the collective gain, which…I mean, Lizzie is going to be JUST as homeless and destitute as her sisters when he dies, so much good being Dad’s Favourite is going to do her. :/

[timetravelingslytherinincamelot]

Modern Powder Room Denver Modern ideas for a powder room

[naughtyjjk]

cockwarming nanami kento

characters: nanami x fem reader warnings: 18+, smut, cock warming, dirty talk, orgasm delay/denial, teasing, creampie, use of aphrodisiacs  notes: this is a companion fic to testing nanami's self control where nanami gets his revenge on the reader, but you don't need to read that one first if you don't want to!

it’s getting late, almost midnight, and both you and nanami are feeling horny—it’s been a stressful week of work, resulting in the need to release all the tension that’s built up. this is how the two of you decide to each eat one of the small chocolate aphrodisiacs that you’ve been saving for a special occasion.

you don’t know what it’s going to do, exactly, other than the fact that it’ll help you get even more in the mood and possibly spice up your sex life. while it works its magic in your system, you lean against nanami on the bed, feeling comfort in being wrapped up in his arms. there’s a movie playing on the tv in front of you, a random film that you chose on a whim to pass time. so far, nothing noteworthy has happened.

though maybe you spoke too soon, too naïve about what even the smallest bite of an aphrodisiac is capable of. half an hour later, your body feels warm, getting warmer by the second. a certain, familiar sensation is stirring between your legs. and you can tell that nanami must be feeling the same way when a light pressure on your neck pulls you out of the immersion.

you turn your head to see nanami leaning in, sucking on your skin, trailing kisses up to your mouth. automatically, without any hesitation, you meet him halfway and let yourself relish in the feeling of nanami’s lips against yours. the kiss is different than usual, like it’s a need that your body requires. you need him.

soon, it turns heated and you’re fully making out. the movie blurs into the background and your head swims as you feel nanami’s hands roaming your body, sliding up your shirt to brush his fingers against your breasts.

god, you think. those chocolates must really be working.

“i want to tease you,” nanami murmurs as he trails kisses down your neck. it’s impossible to resist him when he gets like this. “i want to watch you come apart and have you begging to be fucked. would you like that?”

“fuck, yeah, that sounds hot,” you admit. his words go straight to your pussy, arousal growing, and you’re dangerously close to letting out a moan from just hearing what nanami plans to do to you.

“come here.” nanami breaks away to guide you onto his lap. a hand snakes around to reach between your legs, rubbing you between your legs, making you wetter each time he does it. the action draws out a groan, you hissing as he palms at you between your legs, over your pants, skillfully moving his fingers back and forth.

behind you, nanami’s own erection is filling out, pressed against your lower back. you’re both still fully clothed, but arousal stirs hungrily inside you by how much it turns you on to know that nanami is already half hard. you start to move your hips, grinding your ass up and down the tent in nanami’s pants, seeking more stimulation. you hear a sharp intake of breath and have to suppress a shudder of your own.

“did you get this horny just from watching a movie? from the aphrodisiac?” nanami’s mouth is dangerously close to your ear, occasionally licking with his tongue. “couldn’t even hold it in for an hour?”

you swallow thickly, eyes fluttering shut. you buck your hips shamelessly in search of more friction. “you—you started it.”

“but i’m not the one rutting against my hand. look at you.” nanami pulls down the zipper of your pants, undoes the button, and removes the rest of your clothing swiftly. your panties are damp with your desire and it only makes nanami smirk. “look at how wet you are already.”

gasping, you throw your head back when he pulls your panties to the side, tracing a finger down the center of your pussy. he spreads your wetness and it makes you breaks off into a whine, before he removes it completely. “kento, i—ohh, i need—”

“need what?” nanami pauses long enough to take off his own clothes as well and bucks into you without warning, grinding filthily on your pussy. he drags his length up and down, brushing past your entrance each time.

“y-your cock,” you choke out. “need your cock in me.”

“do you, now?” nanami feigns disinterest, though he never once stops his movements. “but what if i said that i still want to watch the movie?”

arousal mixes with the effects of the aphrodisiac inside you and you don’t even bother trying to hide how eager you are now. “who cares about that? let’s just—ah—let’s get on with it.”

“i care.” he pulls away. “mm, no. you’re distracting me.” when you try to swivel your hips some more, nanami holds you tighter in place. “god, you’re so desperate already. alright, i have an idea. why don’t you keep my cock warm for me while we finish the rest of the movie?”

you barely have time to consider that proposal before nanami is grabbing the lube from the nightstand and probing a slick finger by your entrance. he pushes in to the first knuckle, further, then draws back out, repeating the motion to pump into you a couple of times. a second finger breaches joins soon after, stretching you open even more.

“ngh—want you, kento,” you say, panting. “w-want you in me.”

turning back, you see that nanami is using his other hand to wrap around his own cock, bringing himself to full hardness and coating the entire length with lube. the sight alone is enough to have desire building inside you. you’re unable to look away, gaze following every action nanami takes as he strokes himself, working himself up. his hand rolls over the cockhead, face contorting with pleasure, and it seems to take conscious effort for him to let go of his cock.

“think you’re ready for me, baby?” the fingers inside you are still moving back and forth. you nod, impatient, and feel him slowly start to pull out completely.

nanami lines up his cock by your pussy, at first simply rubbing the tip at your entrance and teasing your sensitive folds. the tension drags on and you think you’re going to lose your mind from the sheer anticipation of it. you’re shaking a bit, trembling with need, pussy aching and wet and so fucking turned on. but all nanami does is wait, hands held firmly on your hips, telling you to be patient.

a whimper catches in your throat and you have to bite your lip in order to stop yourself from begging. fuck, you groan. nanami is right there, hard cock rubbing teasingly against you, and you really will go crazy if he doesn’t push inside you within the next second—

“ah!” you gasp, finally feeling the head of nanami’s cock penetrating you. but it doesn’t stop there; he continues to push himself in, taking his time to make sure that you feel the slow drag of it against your walls, until you’re sinking down on him all the way, enveloping him fully.

“fuck, you’re still so tight. so hot inside,” nanami murmurs, leaning in to suck on the juncture between your neck and shoulder. “now—stay still and don’t move. got it?”

you nod vehemently, barely even registering the words. you think you’d agree to pretty much anything he tells you at this point, given just how turned on you are.

a low, pleased sound rumbles by your ear before nanami is whispering directly into it. “good. if you can wait until the movie is over, i’ll fuck you properly like how you deserve.”

the sweet promise of a reward has you shuddering with your whole body. you breathe in, slow and shaky, arousal shooting between your legs. “i-i can do that.”

“of course you can. look at you, taking me so well,” nanami murmurs, fingers teasing at the outside of your pussy where he has you stretched around his cock. “already this worked up, hm? sure you’ll be able to last?”

you whimper, unable to deny how you’re burning with arousal, but still, you let out a breathy yes.

chuckling, nanami indulges you. “alright. just remember—no moving.”

the first few minutes are the worst. even though you’re both sitting still, there’s no way you can just ignore the fact that nanami’s cock is currently buried deep inside you. you can feel how hard he is, how you’re being filled in the best way. every once in a while, nanami will throb within you, and your pussy aches in response.

you can’t tell how much of it is your own arousal and how much of it is the aphrodisiac amplifying your desires. but either way, it’s torture. it’s heaven. you never knew it was possible to be this fucking horny.

soon, you start to relax a bit as you get used to the sensation. you direct your focus back to the shifting images flashing on screen and almost manage to forget the lust and need coursing through his body. but that’s when nanami’s hands begin to roam—his strong arms circle around your waist, sliding up your stomach to your chest.

he grabs both of your breasts in his palms, massaging them. gentle fingers latch onto sensitive nipples, pinching lightly. you shudder at the contact, instinctively leaning into his touch. he plays with your nipples mercilessly: rolling them between his fingers, flicking them, anything to get your more riled up.

one hand makes its way back down, lower, lower. the first touch on your clit makes you gasp, and as much as you want to pretend that you’re calm and collected, your body doesn’t lie. nanami continues with barely-there touches on your clit, grazing his fingers past the sensitive nub, light as a feather. you curse him in your head, resisting the urge to buck up and chase after the stimulation. you just know that nanami is getting off to tormenting you like this, driving you slowly insane in the best way.

in attempt to distract yourself, you try your best to think about something else, anything else. it works for about half a second before nanami touches a particularly sensitive area on your body and your brain unhelpfully supplies you with nothing but fantasies of nanami finally fucking you, dragging his cock in and out, pushing deep enough to make you feel it for days after. nanami rubbing your clit in tight circles, going fast, hard, until your thighs shake and you’re coming from his hand, unable to stop your release even if you wanted to…

a moan escapes you just thinking about how good it would feel. you’re so fucking wet and your pussy is throbbing from nanami’s skilled fingers. more noises slip past your lips as a sense of desperation unfurls inside you. fuck, you could have already reached your orgasm by now if nanami wasn’t so cruel, so turned on by denying both of you of what you clearly want.

at some point, you’re hardly able to hear the movie over the sound of your own moans. but you can’t help it—it’s so unfair, so frustrating, entirely not enough. you want nanami to stimulate your clit more, want nanami to thrust his cock into you like he fucking means it until you’re squirming helplessly in his grasp. you want to come, and shit, that’s when you know you’re already too far gone.

somewhere through the haze in your mind, you hear nanami whispering against your neck, “shh, you’re being so loud. i’m trying to pay attention.”

nanami is putting on an act of indifference, seemingly entranced by the movie. he might be in a better state than you are, but it’s obvious that he isn’t as composed as he pretends to be, not with the way his cock is twitching every so often inside you. he also took the aphrodisiac, after all. it must be affecting him as much as it’s affecting you.

“come on, you want it too, don’t you?” you turn your head back to kiss the corner of his mouth. you spread your legs wider, trying to invite nanami to touch you more. “stop resisting, kento. i know you want to feel me clenching around you as you fuck into me… how tight I am for you...”

it’s a pretty compelling argument if you say so yourself, and for a moment, you think you’ve actually managed to convince him. visibly, nanami falters, breath hitching and eyes fluttering shut to hide how much his composure has fallen. but then he growls, looking at you intensely.

“bad girl. so fucking naughty.” the next time nanami speaks, his voice is stern but also slightly strained. as much as you would like to push him further, you know a warning when you hear one, groaning in frustration when he makes it clear that he plans to see this through to the end. “stay still.”

fine, you think. you may be turned on beyond return and growing more desperate by the minute, digging your nails into your thighs to prevent yourself from bouncing on the deliciously hard cock inside you, but you’ll play this game if that’s what nanami wants. you’ll play this game and win. the confidence you feel all of a sudden is admittedly unfounded considering how you were more than ready to give in to your own arousal a few seconds ago, but you’re determined now.

that is, until a few minutes pass and you jolt when you feel nanami moving under you unexpectedly.

you gasp as his cock pushes deeper into you for half a second before it settles back down. there’s no sign of acknowledgement at all from nanami when you glance over at him, so you exhale, and eventually force yourself to relax. but then—

it happens again. a full thrust this time, deliberate and intentional. every nerve ending in you ignites at once and you catch the slightest hint of a smirk making its way onto nanami’s otherwise impassive expression.

you have to bite back a moan, body arching on instinct. you’re trying not to move, fuck, you’re trying, but it’s near impossible when you can feel everything so clearly—nanami bucking into you, cock throbbing against your walls. and just when you think that it’s over, nanami will prove exactly how merciless he can be.

“a-ah—!” the next thrust is a filthy grind that makes you twist helplessly as nanami manages to brush against your g-spot before retreating. almost immediately after, it’s followed by another delicious roll of the hips, leaving you so damn wet and desperate, delirious for his cock. you want to be fucked so bad.

nanami’s hand wraps around you again, rubbing your inner thighs and hums, refusing to give any stimulation to where you need it most. “something wrong, darling?”

“y-you asshole,” you manage to choke out once you realize that nanami is probably enjoying this far too much. he’s so cruel and you hate that you’re finding the whole situation hot. “just—ngh—just fuck me already. please.”

“i will,” nanami says, a growl directly into your ear. it has absolutely no right sounding as sexy as it does, sending shivers down your entire spine. “if you’re good for me.”

shit, you let out a broken a moan. it’s hard to hide just how much those words affect you. you have to clench your hands around the bedsheets, going against every instinct in your body to grind back down against nanami’s hard, tempting cock. your body burns. your muscles are tense, fighting to hold yourself back, to follow the orders you’d been given. through it all, you feel high-strung, nerves alight, so sensitive to every touch like a livewire. it’s utterly maddening how nanami’s cock is right there, but you aren’t allowed to take what you want.

how long has it been now? twenty minutes? thirty? you don’t know but it feels like hours.

the next time nanami not-so-subtlety thrusts into you again, you break. something inside of you snaps. it’s like you’ve completely lost control as you start rambling, obscene moans falling uncontrollably from your lips in stuttering breaths. you tremble on the spot, thighs quivering, desperate and begging for some relief, anything.

“k-ken—kento, fuck, i-i can’t take it anymore, i need you—please just—fuck me, kento, fuck me—”

“god,” nanami curses, fingers digging into your hips like he’s on the edge too, trying his best to hold back as well. “i love hearing you beg. it’s so fucking hot, you have no idea. who would’ve thought that you’d get this horny just by having a cock stuffed inside you, hm?”

you barely manage to keep it together when you feel nanami smooth his hands up your spine, along the planes of your back. the way he rubs circles there isn’t even inherently sexual, but you can’t help but shudder, entire body visibly tense in effort to hold yourself still. to deny yourself of what you so badly want.

a single finger circles around your clit again, and you shudder with anticipation, thinking that he might finally be giving up on this stupid challenge. “yes, fuck, yes—more—”

but that’s all you get, and nanami’s hand moves away, taunting you from a distance. “there are only a few minutes left,” he murmurs, and you had forgotten all about the movie. “you can hold out a little longer, can’t you? be a good girl for me.”

you whimper, swallowing a protest that rises up in your throat. fuck, you want to be good, you really do, but you’ve been pushed to the limit, and you don’t know how much longer you can stand it.

after that, nanami stops playing dirty; there are no more thrusts, both of you too close to the edge now to take any more risks. but even if he doesn’t move, you can still feel him inside, hard and aching, just shy of grazing against your sweet spot. it’s agonizing torture, and you’ve long since given up on trying to control your breathing as your chest heaves. you’re so far gone that you think you only need one more thrust, one single touch of a hand on your throbbing clit, and it would be enough to make you come.

fuck, you want to come so fucking bad.

the rest of the movie goes by in a blur. you have no idea what’s happening on the screen anymore, hardly even remember what it is that you’re watching in the first place. all you know is that you’ve been brought to the edge and teetering on the brink for so long now that you can’t even think straight anymore.

by the time the credits finally roll across the screen, you’re absolutely wrecked. your eyes are half-lidded, pussy spasming around nanami’s cock, and your body is begging for release. you resist the urge to buck up into nothing, and you just about lose it as you feel nanami twitching inside you again.

“shit, look at you.” nanami’s voice sounds strained, giving away just how much this has affected him too. “good girl. you did so well. i didn’t think you would last the whole time.”

“k-kento… please…”

“i know, i know,” he murmurs reassuringly. “fuck, you’re so good for me, baby. you’ve earned your reward.”

fresh arousal washes over you upon hearing those words. you allow yourself to be flipped over so that you’re lying on your back, sinking into the mattress as your lips meet nanami’s for a kiss. it’s almost enough to distract you from what he does next.

inch by inch, nanami pulls himself out until the tip of his cock catches at your entrance, before thrusting back inside with full force. you nearly scream when he does it again and again, moaning into his mouth, arching forward. it’s the first time tonight that you truly feel the thick drag of nanami’s hard cock inside you, finally, finally fucking you with proper intent and it’s so good you think you’re going to lose your mind.

there’s no more teasing now. the pace gradually increases, both of you worked up beyond control, impatient and desperate for release. you let out an obscene whine before gasping when nanami manages to hit your g-spot head on.

“o-oh, fuck!” your hips move in rhythm with his, purely on instinct now. “oh, holy shit, kento—right there—”

“yeah—hah—you like that?” nanami grunts when he feels you clench around him, snapping his hips into you over and over, hand reaching down to find your clit as well. “you don’t have to hold back anymore. let me hear you.”

and you moan, loud and unfiltered. the deep thrusts combined with the frantic pace nanami has built up drives you crazy, makes all of your thoughts dissolve away in an instant. heat pools in your lower stomach when nanami aims for your spot once more, causing your entire body to jerk forward, arching beautifully off the bed. needy sounds spill from your mouth. the hand on your clit speeds up and you know you won’t last. it won’t be long now.

“i-i’m—ah—hng—i can’t—oh my god, kento, i’m s-so—so close—”

“s-shit—” nanami stutters, but his pace doesn’t falter, each thrust going deeper than the last. “that’s it—ngh—you feel so good around me. taking me so fucking well. i wanna—wanna see you come apart.”

that’s when you make the mistake of looking down, eyes fixated on where your bodies connect, watching as nanami’s cock disappears into you over and over again. the sight is so obscene, so filthy, so unbelievably hot. and when you feel him thrusting into your harder, you can’t help but gasp aloud. “h-hah—! kento, oh god, fuck, i-i’m—i can’t hold—i’m gonna—”

“then come,” nanami whispers a low breath right next to your ear. the words send tingles all the way up your spine, thighs shaking at the command. “be a good girl and come for me.”

“ngh, f-fuck, oh, fuck—” you spasm with the force of your orgasm, finding yourself completely at his mercy. it’s entirely unfair that nanami knows exactly where to aim, how to break you. your pussy aches, clit pulsing, and suddenly you’re coming so hard that your vision blurs. your hips bucks forward, mouth falling open to let out a guttural moan.

you hardly even register nanami following with his own release soon after, a couple more thrusts and spilling deep inside you, head thrown back to ride out his orgasm. the shape of your name forms around his lips along with a low groan as he stills, breathing heavily.

hissing, nanami pulls out and falls onto the bed next to you. your eyes are closed, head still spinning with the aftershocks of pleasure. and holy shit, you think. the orgasm is fucking worth it, after making yourself wait so long. it’s almost unreal. you turn your head to take in the sight of nanami beside you, looking like how you feel, all fucked out and in a state of bliss. his cock gives one last twitch. between your legs, you can feel his come dripping out of you.

once you catch your breath, you frown and say, “i can’t believe you made me sit through the entire movie like that. you’re evil.”

a slow smirk spreads across nanami’s face and he’s so fucking handsome it’s not fair. “i love it when you beg for me. but you know i'd never do anything that you don’t like.”

it’s true, and that’s the hardest thing for you to admit: that you like the challenge, you like cock warming him, you like being pushed to your limits until you break. you can’t really complain, not when he made it up to you by giving you one of the best orgasms of your life.

“do we have more of those chocolates?” you ask, referring to the aphrodisiacs, and you can tell that nanami is thinking the same thing. they really are magic, and this is definitely something that you’ll revisit again later.

.

tag list: @megumisdivinedogs @urlilwhore @l0rdgeosupport3rr @purple-obsidian @l0rdgeosupport3rr @minni-creations @fos-tis-zois @the-reas0n-is-y0u @cantfeelherface @rxmbzzz @lysaray @zelzablues @str4wbrrycandy @that-goth-bisexual @simping4u @iminlovewqr0w @sharks31 @pseudowho @jisoonunn @outkasti @anathemaspeaks @fushigur0slut4 @barryatsumu @d0nk3y-k0ng @shasaaa15

(comment to be added)

[reveryfics]

Neighbors pt.2

Frank Castle "The Punisher" x Male Reader

Summary: It's been almost a year since Frank walked into your apartment, revealing his life as The Punisher. You'd settled into a demanding routine as an overnight ER nurse, navigating that world alongside your relationship with Frank. Little did you know, those two worlds were about to collide.

A/N: I got a couple comments asking for a second part to the Neighbors fic, uh I wasn't exactly sure what to do with this so hopefully this is okay. Male nurse reader as well, cause we all know Frank would end up dead without you.

TW: Blood - Broken arm - Injury - Comfort

The automatic doors of the emergency room shrieked open, a violent gust of air preceding a surge of hurried footsteps and the staccato bursts of clipped radio chatter. Two EMTs, their faces etched with grim urgency, propelled a gurney through the opening. The insistent, rhythmic beeping of a cardiac monitor sliced through the already buzzing chaos, an electronic heartbeat in the pandemonium. "Thirty-something male, found unresponsive at the scene, possible overdose," one of the EMTs barked, his voice barely cutting through the din.

Across the crowded bay, a different kind of drama unfolded. Another pair of EMTs struggled to transfer a screaming elderly woman onto a hospital bed, her cries of pain echoing off the unforgiving linoleum floors. A young resident, his face pale and drawn under the harsh fluorescent lights, scribbled furiously on a chart, barking orders to a harried-looking nurse whose movements were a study in controlled frenzy.

You navigated this swirling vortex of controlled pandemonium, your own adrenaline still thrumming from the relentless stream of patients that had flooded in since your shift began what felt like an eternity ago. Just moments before, you had finished meticulously suturing a nasty, jagged gash on a construction worker’s forearm, the thick smell of antiseptic clinging to the air. Then the call came in – a multi-car pile-up on the highway. Now, you were heading towards the trauma bay, a knot of apprehension tightening in your stomach as you mentally braced yourself for whatever awaited.

The waiting room, visible through the smeared sliding glass doors, was a tableau of escalating anxiety. A young mother bounced a restless toddler on her knee, her eyes darting nervously towards the triage desk, a silent plea for information in their depths. An elderly man with a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his head sat hunched over in a plastic chair, his face a roadmap of worry lines. The air in the waiting room hung thick and heavy, a cloying mix of antiseptic and raw fear, punctuated by the occasional, frustrated sigh that spoke volumes of unspoken dread. They didn't see the frantic ballet unfolding behind those closed doors, the life-and-death decisions being made in split seconds, the raw, visceral energy of a system stretched to its breaking point.

It felt like just moments ago, you had managed to coax a distraught teenager out of a full-blown panic attack, her rapid, shallow breaths and racing pulse fueled by pure, unadulterated fear of a phantom heart attack. Before that, it was a belligerent drunk, swinging wildly at anyone who dared to approach, requiring every ounce of your patience and a gentle yet firm hand to finally gain his cooperation. Each case, each individual, demanded a different kind of focus, a different wellspring of emotional and physical energy, leaving you feeling like a tightly wound spring threatening to snap.

As you pushed through the heavy swinging doors into the trauma bay, the scene intensified, the air crackling with a raw, visceral energy that made the hairs on your arms stand on end. The trauma team was already a well-oiled machine, each member moving with practiced precision, their movements economical and purposeful. A quick, sweeping glance told you the grim story: multiple injuries, a shocking amount of blood staining the sterile white sheets, the urgent, rhythmic whirring of suction machines battling to keep airways clear. You took a deep, steadying breath, pushing the gnawing fatigue that tugged at the edges of your awareness. Another life, or perhaps multiple lives, hung precariously in the balance, and in this moment, amidst the chaos, that was the only thing that mattered.

But before you could fully immerse yourself in the unfolding trauma, a hand clamped down on your arm, pulling you away from the organized chaos. It was Sarah, a newer nurse whose usual cheerful demeanor was replaced by wide, panicked eyes. "Hey! Can you come take a look at Mr. Wilson in room three? He's refusing his IV, and he's getting really agitated. I can't seem to get anywhere with him."

You let out a silent sigh. You knew the car crash victims were in capable hands for the moment, the experienced trauma team already orchestrating their care with practiced efficiency. Reluctantly, you nodded. "Okay, Sarah, let's go."

You walked down the quieter hallway towards room three, the frantic energy of the trauma bay fading slightly with each step. As you approached the open doorway, the distinct sound of a raised voice reached you. An older man sat propped up in the hospital bed, his face flushed with anger as he argued vehemently with another nurse, who held a saline-filled syringe aloft, looking increasingly frustrated.

You recognized the patient instantly. Mr. Wilson. A local elderly gentleman who was a frequent visitor to the ER, his unmanaged diabetes often landing him back in a hospital bed. He looked in your direction, his eyes, usually twinkling with a mischievous glint, now narrowed with annoyance, watching as you approached the hand sanitizer dispenser and meticulously washed your hands before pulling on a fresh pair of gloves.

"Oh, thank heavens you're here, Nurse," he huffed, his voice still carrying a note of indignation. "These youngsters don't got a clue what they're doing." He shot an accusatory glance at the two other nurses in the room.

You couldn't help but chuckle softly as you stepped closer to the bed. "They're doing their best, Mr. Wilson," you said gently, your tone calm and reassuring. You took the syringe from the other nurse. "Let's get this IV started, shall we?" Your practiced hands made quick work of locating a vein, the insertion smooth and efficient. Mr. Wilson barely flinched. "See? All done."

You shook your head slightly, turning around to grab his chart from the bedside table. "High blood sugar again?" You glanced over the recent lab results, noting the alarming number well over four hundred.

He waved a dismissive hand at you. "Nonsense, Nurse. I'll be right as rain, just like I always am."

You didn't respond immediately, taking a moment to ensure the IV was running smoothly before meeting his gaze. "I'll be back to check on you later, Mr. Wilson. Try to relax."

Hours bled into each other, the relentless tide of patients ebbing and flowing. Finally, as the first hint of dawn painted the sky outside the grimy windows, the ER began to quiet. You managed to steal a precious moment of respite in the cramped nurses' lounge.

Standing near the industrial-sized coffee maker, you pulled out your phone, a small beacon of normalcy in the chaotic day. A message from Frank, sent at the very beginning of your shift, greeted you. He often sent these little digital breadcrumbs – a silly meme, a brief update on his day, the occasional picture of him and your beloved pit bull, Frankie, their goofy faces a welcome distraction during your long, grueling hours. You tucked your phone back into your scrub pocket, the image of Frankie’s slobbery grin a momentary balm. You took the now-full coffee pitcher and poured yourself a much-needed cup, the rich aroma a small comfort.

You sank into a worn chair at one of the small, cluttered tables, barely managing a single, precious sip before the insistent buzz of your pager vibrated against your hip. With a heavy sigh, you pushed yourself to your feet, the brief moment of peace shattered. You headed back out to the bustling nurses' station, managing a tired smile for your coworker who handed you a chart. Your smile instantly froze, your blood running cold as you saw the name scrawled across the top: "Castle, Frank."

Without a word, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, you walked down the hall and into the designated exam room. The doctor was just hanging up a series of x-rays, the stark white images revealing the sharp break in Frank's arm. Another nurse was gently dabbing at a series of cuts and abrasions on his face and torso.

Frank's head snapped in your direction as the door creaked open, his eyes widening in surprise, then something akin to fear, as he registered the look on your face – a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a dawning anger. He watched, helpless, as the other nurse offered you a small, knowing smile and quietly slipped out of the room.

"You can't just leave me here with him," Frank pleaded, his voice laced with a theatrical desperation that didn't quite mask the underlying anxiety. "Common, babe." He groaned dramatically, leaning back against the pillows.

You didn't say a word, your mind still reeling. You simply set his chart down on the counter with a decisive thud and moved to the sink, the harsh fluorescent light reflecting off the cool metal as you meticulously washed your hands and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves, your movements stiff and deliberate. You picked up where the previous nurse had left off, gently cleaning the numerous cuts across his face and abdomen, your touch perhaps a little less gentle than it usually was.

Frank hissed, biting his lip as you carefully cleaned around a particularly deep gash on his side, the edges raw and angry-looking. "Fancy seeing you here," he attempted a weak joke, but instantly stopped when your eyes, usually warm and full of affection, now glinted with a sharp, almost dangerous light as you briefly glared up at him.

You listened in stony silence as the doctor began explaining the next steps, his voice calm and professional. "Alright, Frank, we're going to have to set that bone before we can put a cast on it. Looks like a clean fracture, but it needs to be realigned." He gestured to the x-rays. "We'll give you some local anesthetic for these cuts, and then we'll get started on the arm."

The doctor excused himself to gather the necessary supplies, leaving you alone with a very uncomfortable and apologetic-looking Frank. You picked up a syringe from the medical tray, the needle glinting under the bright lights, stopping just before taking the cap off.

"I've had a real shit day so far," you finally rasped, your voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Do you have any idea what was going through my mind when I saw your name on that chart?" You didn't wait for an answer, your silence hanging heavy in the air.

Frank let out a long, weary sigh, wishing he had just listened to his gut and insisted they not contact you. "I'm sorry, trust me, baby, I didn't mean to worry you." He groaned, shifting uncomfortably on the examination table.

You finally took the cap off the syringe, your movements precise and efficient despite the turmoil churning within you. You swabbed the area around the deep laceration on Frank's side with a cold alcohol wipe. "It's gonna sting," you whispered, your voice barely audible, before carefully pushing the tip of the needle into various points around the wound, injecting the numbing solution. Your chest tightened almost imperceptibly as he occasionally hissed in pain, his free hand instinctively reaching out to grip the sleeve of your scrubs, his knuckles white.

With the local anesthetic administered, you began to meticulously stitch the wound, your movements quick and precise, years of training taking over despite the emotional turmoil. Each careful stitch pulled the edges of the laceration together, closing the angry red gash. Once finished, you applied a clean bandage over the area.

You stood up straight, disposing of the used needle and other medical supplies with a sharp, efficient clink into the biohazard bin. Your back was to Frank as you bent over the sink to wash your hands, the sound of running water filling the brief silence. You heard a low whistle from behind you, a familiar sound that couldn't help but tug the corner of your lips into a small, involuntary smile.

You turned around, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. "Incredibly unprofessional, Mr. Castle," you quipped, a hint of your usual playful tone finally breaking through the tension.

"Can't help that my nurse looks incredibly hot in his scrubs," Frank hummed, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

You walked back over to the side of the bed, leaning down to press a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. Frank’s hand, no longer gripping the mattress, came to rest gently on the small of your back, pulling you a fraction closer as he returned the kiss. You quickly pulled away when the door creaked open again, the doctor returning with a tray of casting materials.

He simply shrugged, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "If kissing your boyfriend at work was illegal, half the staff here would be unemployed by now."

You couldn't help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally breaking the tension. You walked around the bed to help the doctor, a familiar camaraderie settling between you as you assisted him in the procedure.

The doctor explained the process as he worked, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. You carefully stabilized Frank's arm above and below the fracture site as the doctor applied traction and expertly manipulated the bone back into alignment. Frank winced but remained relatively still, his gaze locked on yours. The sickening thunk of the bone resetting made you flinch, but relief washed over Frank’s face. The doctor then carefully wrapped Frank's arm in layers of padding and wet plaster, molding it into a supportive cast.

Once the cast was securely in place, the doctor gave Frank instructions on how to care for it and left the two of you alone again. You stayed behind in the quiet exam room with Frank, pulling a couple of warm blankets over him and double-checking that his IV was running smoothly. He watched your every move, his eyes soft and full of affection. Just as you were about to leave, his hand reached out, his fingers gently closing around your wrist.

You turned back, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his lips. "I'll take you home once my shift's over," you murmured against his mouth. "Just get some rest for now."

Frank kissed you back, his grip on your wrist loosening slightly. "I love you," he whispered, his voice thick with exhaustion and perhaps a touch of lingering pain medication.

"I love you too," you replied softly, stroking his cheek. "But please, for the love of all that is holy, don't show up at my work again unless it's to bring me food." You managed a weak joke, and Frank chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that eased some of the tightness in your chest.

[someonegoood]

THE CORPORATE EQUATION chapter 4 ✫ jeon jungkook

in the aftermath of the crisis, Jungkook becomes more receptive to your ideas, but his growing feelings leave him frustrated and defensive.

CONTAINS: corporate!au, ceo!jk, headofhr!reader, grumpy x sunshine, slow burn, accidental vulnerability, mutual pining, emotionally unavailable jk, bickering turned bonding, fluff & angst :)

NOTE: this will be a mini series. thanks so much for reading!! this work is not revised and english is not my first language :)

miiini taglist @haru-jiminn @parapiop7 @radcustoms @minniejim @jeonzll @vantelover1306 @bgfdcvbnjk @mar-lo-pap @lmaothv @jksusawife @thatgirliehan @rayyrayy10 <3

my main masterlist! ❀ the corporate equation masterlist!

❀ chapter four: under pressure

The morning air was crisp as you stepped out of your apartment. You clutched your beige coat tighter around you, the lingering fatigue from the past few days still weighing on your body. The system crash had turned the office into a war zone, and despite the crisis being under control, the tension hadn’t fully dissipated.

As you walked your usual route, your feet automatically led you past the small café where you and Jungkook had casually met. You slowed your pace, stealing a glance inside. The place was the same—warm lights, the scent of fresh coffee, and the soft chatter of regulars. But something about it felt different now, as if it carried the weight of unspoken words and moments that you hadn’t fully processed yet.

Shaking the thoughts away, you exhaled and continued towards the office. There was no time for distractions, not with what was waiting for you at work.

You slid into your chair next to Minji, who wordlessly pushed a Caramel Macchiato toward you. The comforting scent of espresso and caramel wrapped around you like a much-needed embrace. You shot her a grateful smile, but before you could take a sip, Jungkook’s voice cut through the room, sharp and commanding.

"Let’s get started."

Mr. Jeon stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His tie was knotted just a little too tightly, and his usual effortless confidence was replaced with something colder, more restrained. His gaze briefly flickered toward you before snapping away.

“We need to focus on restructuring the damage control protocols,” Joohyun was saying. “This incident exposed major inefficiencies, and frankly, it was a wake-up call. HR shouldn’t be interfering in IT matters.”

The room stiffened. You exchanged a glance with Soojin, who raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was going.

You clenched your jaw but kept your tone even. “HR wasn’t interfering. We were making sure employees weren’t burning out under pressure. If people collapse from exhaustion, who’s going to fix the crisis then?”

Joohyun waved a dismissive hand. “That’s not enough. This wasn’t just an IT failure. It was a failure of oversight.” His gaze flickered toward you and your team. “HR has been too involved in matters beyond their scope.”

Your stomach twisted, but you forced your posture to remain steady. Jungkook’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t stopping this.

Jungkook’s gaze flickered toward you, something unreadable in his expression. But instead of backing you up, he exhaled sharply and said, “HR needs to stay in its lane. We had it under control.”

The words stung more than they should have, but you refused to let it show. “Caring about people isn’t overstepping—it’s our job,” you shot back.

Joohyun scoffed. “Then maybe you should do your job better.”

Minji’s knee knocked against yours under the table in silent support. Silence blanketed the room. Your throat tightened, but you refused to break in front of them. The exhaustion, the sleepless nights, the endless hours spent making sure the company didn’t fall apart—it all simmered beneath the surface, dangerously close to spilling over.

Beside you Dohyun squared his shoulders before speaking, his voice sharp with frustration. “Mr. Jeon, isn’t this enough? She has worked harder than anyone in this room.”

His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the table. Jungkook didn’t say a word. His jaw tensed, and without another glance in your direction, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving it in stunned silence.

You let out a shaky breath. The sting of betrayal clung to your skin, but you swallowed it down, forcing yourself to focus.

Joohyun smirked like he had won something, and that’s when the sting in your eyes became unbearable. You blinked rapidly, swallowing the lump in your throat as the meeting carried on.

Minji leaned in, whispering, “Breathe. Don’t let him get to you.”

But it wasn’t just Joohyun.

It was Jungkook too.

Jungkook barely registered the hushed murmurs following him as he strode out of the conference room, his jaw tight, his grip on the office door handle unyielding. The moment he stepped inside, he shut the door with more force than necessary, the tension from the meeting still clawing at his chest.

A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“Rough morning?” his father asked, sipping his tea.

Jungkook turned to see his father, standing near the bookshelves. He carried himself with the same air of authority he always had—effortless, refined, and utterly unshakable. He had the kind of presence that made men twice his size nervous, and even now, with retirement behind him, that presence remained.

Jungkook sighed, loosening his tie as he collapsed into his chair. “Something like that... What are you doing here?””

His father hummed, setting his cup down. “Can’t a father check in on his successor?” His sharp eyes scanned Jungkook’s face before he sighed. “Though, I suppose I already know what I’ll find. You’re overworking yourself.”

Jungkook scoffed, sinking into his chair. “If that’s all you came here to say, I have a lot of work to do.”

The older man ignored the dismissiveness in his tone and settled into one of the armchairs across from him. “Actually, I came to inform you that the company will be hosting its annual benefit gala next weekend.”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose. “Right. The usual overpriced charity event to appease investors and stroke the egos of the elite.”

His father smirked. “You say that like you aren’t part of that elite.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. He hated these events—forced smiles, empty conversations, and expectations that weighed on him like chains. He didn’t have the patience for it.

“The board expects your presence,” his father continued, his tone shifting to something more pointed. “You need to show confidence, charisma. That you are fully settled into your role as CEO.” He leaned forward slightly. “And for that, you can’t attend alone.”

Jungkook’s brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

Sanghyuk raised a brow, as if his son’s confusion was amusing. “Your image is important, Jungkook. You’re already known for being ruthless in the boardroom, and some people find you… unapproachable.”

Jungkook’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s not my problem.”

“Actually, it is,” his father countered smoothly. “The right alliances are just as crucial as the right business decisions. You need to bring company—someone who softens your image, makes you look less…” He gestured vaguely. “Cold.”

Jungkook ran a hand over his face, already dreading where this conversation was going. “I’m not parading around with a meaningless date for optics.”

His father tilted his head. “Who said it has to be meaningless?”

Jungkook stilled, his mind instantly flashing to her. The way she had stood her ground in that meeting, the fire in her eyes, the way his chest clenched when she looked at him like he had let her down.

His silence didn’t go unnoticed.

Sanghyuk smirked knowingly. “Ah. So there is someone.”

Jungkook scoffed, masking the sudden tightness in his chest. “You’re imagining things.”

His father leaned back with a chuckle. “Perhaps. But if I were you, I’d think carefully about who you bring. The right person could change everything for you.”

Jungkook stayed in silence and his father proceeded to talk. "I heard form the board that the HR team has managed pretty well with the system crash... Is that true?"

Jungkook said nothing, his fingers tapping against his desk “They are. The head of HR is managing well."

His father’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he said, “You know, I always had a soft spot for that girl. She reminds me of your mother—fierce, loyal, and endlessly patient.”

Jungkook looked away. “She’s frustrating.”

His father chuckled. “She’s frustrating because she challenges you.” He leaned forward, his expression turning serious. “You have a good team, Jungkook. Don’t push away the ones who actually care.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure he had an answer.

Later that evening, your parents arrived back from their trip, and despite the exhaustion, you went to pick them up. The last thing you expected was Jungkook showing up, offering you a ride.

Jungkook didn’t offer you a ride so much as he stated it, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. He was entering his office when he heard you talking about your parents coming back.

“I’ll take you to the airport.”

You had been gathering your things, still fuming from the earlier meeting, your fingers curling around the strap of your bag. “That’s not necessary. I can—”

“Let me take you.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was that controlled, restrained voice he used when he didn’t want to fight but was too damn stubborn to back down.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose before finally giving in. Arguing with Jungkook when he was in this mood was pointless.

The drive was steeped in silence, thick and suffocating. The morning meeting from earlier lingered between you like an open wound, neither of you willing to be the first to press on it. You stared out the window, the city lights blurring into streaks as Jungkook drove. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw locked, and you could feel his frustration pulsing in waves.

It wasn’t just the meeting. It was everything. The late nights. The exhaustion. The unspoken words.

At one point, Jungkook exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against the leather steering wheel. “I wasn’t trying to undermine you,” he muttered, breaking the silence.

You turned to him, arms crossed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable, then turned his eyes back to the road. “It’s not easy for me.”

You frowned. “What’s not easy?”

“Letting go,” he admitted, voice quieter this time. “Trusting that someone else has it handled.”

Something in your chest clenched, but before you could respond, he pulled into the airport’s drop-off area.

The moment you stepped out of the car, you spotted them—your mother waving enthusiastically, your father standing beside her with his usual composed presence, and Minho, your older brother, watching with narrowed eyes.

“Oh my,” your mother gasped, eyes immediately landing on Jungkook as he stepped out of the driver’s seat. “Who is this?”

You internally groaned. “Mom. He's my boss.”

She ignored you completely, a delighted smile spreading across her face as she approached Jungkook. “Aren’t you just handsome?” She turned to you with a smirk. “You never mentioned you had such a charming boss.”

Jungkook, to his credit, only blinked before bowing slightly in greeting. “It’s nice to meet yoU.” His voice was polite, but you could see the stiffness in his posture—the way he suddenly looked out of his element.

Your father was silent, his calculating gaze sweeping over Jungkook like he was evaluating him for something you weren’t privy to. Then, after a moment, he nodded. “Jeon, isn’t it?”

Jungkook nodded in return. “Yes, sir.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, and you almost felt bad for Jungkook. Almost.

Minho, however, was the one who cut in next, stepping beside you with a smirk eerily similar to your mother’s. “So this is the guy you’ve been talking about?”

Your eyes widened in horror. “Minho—”

Jungkook turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing just the smallest fraction. “She talks about me?”

Minho shrugged, throwing an arm over your shoulder. “Oh, you know. She mentions you occasionally.”

You wanted to die. Meanwhile, your boss was looking at you with something unreadable in his gaze. There was amusement, sure, but also something deeper. Something that made your stomach twist.

Your mother, ever the observant one, clasped her hands together. “Well, we should get going. It was lovely meeting you, Jungkook.”

Your father gave a curt nod before following her toward the check-in counter, but Minho lingered just a moment longer, leaning in slightly. “She deserves someone who sees her,” he said, his voice quieter now.

Jungkook’s fingers twitched at his sides.

Then, with one last knowing smirk, Minho turned and walked off, leaving Jungkook standing there, still watching you. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and turned back toward the car, but before you could slip inside, Jungkook’s voice stopped you.

“I—” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Drive safe.”

You glanced up at him, and for the first time all night, the tension between you felt different.

You nodded. “You too, Jungkook.”

After the airport encounter, you and Jungkook barely spoke. Not out of avoidance—at least, not consciously—but because work consumed you both. The crisis had left a mess in its wake, and between back-to-back meetings, damage control, and finalizing reports, you hadn’t had a moment to breathe.

You told yourself that "your boss situtaiton" didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if anything had changed. He was still Jungkook... Mr. Jeon—sharp, guarded, and emotionally unavailable. And you were still you, someone who had no business lingering on a moment that had ended as soon as it began.

It wasn’t until nearly a week later, as you packed up to leave for the night, that something new disrupted the routine.

Soojin sighed dramatically, stretching her arms before leaning against your desk. “Did you see the email from the board?”

You looked up, confused. “What email?”

She waved her phone at you. “The invitation to the Beneficial Gala? It’s a company event, but all the wealthy investors and executives will be there. Black-tie, fancy venue, the whole nine yards.” She raised an eyebrow. “We’re expected to attend.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Because of course we are.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Soojin teased. “Free food, open bar, and the chance to see which department head drinks too much champagne and makes a fool of themselves.”

You snorted, shaking your head. But before you could respond, your gaze drifted toward Jungkook’s office. The blinds were partially open, and inside, you could see him sitting at his desk, one hand running through his hair while the other gripped a pen so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

He looked exhausted.

Soojin followed your line of sight and sighed. “He’s been like that all day.”

You frowned. He had been distant—not just from you, but from everyone. Sure, Jungkook always carried himself with a certain level of intensity, but lately, it had been worse.

Before you could stop yourself, you were already moving.

“Good luck,” Soojin whispered behind you.

You hesitated in front of Jungkook’s office door, hand hovering over the wood before finally knocking. A beat of silence. Then—

“Come in.”

You pushed open the door, stepping inside to find him slumped over his desk. Papers were spread out in front of him, his laptop screen glowing with half-written emails, and a barely touched cup of coffee sat beside him, long since gone cold.

Jungkook barely glanced up, his usually sharp eyes dull with fatigue. “What is it?” His voice was lower than usual, rough at the edges.

You hesitated, shifting on your feet. “I just…” You exhaled. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

He let out a short, humorless chuckle. “Feels like it.”

You closed the door behind you, stepping closer. “Have you eaten?”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

You sighed, placing your hands on your hips. “That’s what I thought.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of his computer and the distant sounds of the office outside.

Then, tentatively, you said, “There’s a gala.”

That got his attention. He glanced up. “I know.” Of course he did. He was the CEO.

“The board expects everyone to go,” you continued. “Including you.”

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. “I don’t have time for a social event right now.”

You crossed your arms, watching him. “You do realize you’re allowed to enjoy yourself for one night, right? It wouldn’t kill you.”

He shot you a dry look. “Debatable.”

You rolled your eyes. “Look, I get it. You have a million things on your plate. But you’re running yourself into the ground, Jungkook.”

He went silent at that. For a second, you thought he would argue, but instead, he just stared at you—something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

Then, almost reluctantly, he sighed. “Fine. One night.”

You blinked, surprised he agreed so quickly. “Really?”

Jungkook arched an eyebrow. “Don’t push it.”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But now... come have dinner with us. You need a break.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Why do you care?”

You hesitated, then said, “Because someone has to.”

For the first time that day, Jungkook didn’t have a sharp retort. Instead, he stood up, grabbing his coat. “Fine. But if your brother interrogates me, I’m blaming you.”

You smiled. “Deal.”

As the two of you walked out together, something in the air felt lighter—tentative, but not as hostile. Maybe, just maybe, the distance between you wasn’t as vast as you thought.

previous / next

[robin-evry]

what if!!! hear me out 🙏🙏 yuu was a robot/miku inspired…IT SUCKS but like…miku kinda..yuu mikyuu…😓😓

Sure no worries, no judgement from me, ask and you shall receive

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐎𝐓 🤖👾🎤

A robot is a machine—especially one programmable by a computer—capable of carrying out a complex series of actions automatically. A robot can be guided by an external control device, or the control may be embedded within. But they can act independently if their creators allow it.

( English is not my first language )

Day 3 : robot!yuu

In a world full of technology and robots. Robot!yuu was the number one idol during that time and was in the number one group of the century ; vocaloid, imagine during the middle of a performance one of their solo concerts, a black carriage arrived and they suddenly shut down.

They turned on when it was an orientation ceremony. Since robot!yuu isn't technically an organic being, they would be put between the ignihyde dorm or ramshackle.

After Crowley gave them a cellphone or asked idia if he could do maintenance to connect them to social media of twisted wonderland, by doing this they started to upload their albums towards the internet and it blew up, people are loving it, it's getting headlines about a new genre of music, and the music getting about stream by millions around the world, Robot!yuu created a genre of music. A revaluation towards the music Industry.

This managed robot!yuu to get rich overnight and allowed them to buy more expensive and to fix the ramshackle dorm more to get more expensive technology for their maintenance, Robot!yuu was planning on giving half of the money to Crowley as a thanks but he only received 1/4 half of the money.

Even tho robot! yuu is an idol, their master builds them with an offensive and defensive system, they have extremely tough metal that is hard to find as well an offensive mode, they have a lot on their arsenal attacks, energy beams, rocket launchers, shield mode, and more.

They are also able to connect to any device and hack it without any issue, they manage to hack ignihyde technology without an issue. And they are waterproof

Robot!yuu also can digest and drink things without an issue, they have a special component on their stomach to make sure they can digest things normally.

During VDC they dominated the competition. Lasers, mist appears and light sticks wave around for their presence. They change outfits depending on the song, it was literally a Miku concert.

Congratulations neige Leblanc is now one of their fans, when going down the stage, he literally ran towards you and started asking a billion of questions with stars amongst their eyes

Vil was a little sour but also amazed about robot!yuu performance, he would ask them for choreography and music ideas from them as well as fashion opinions. He originally wanted robot!yuu to transfer into ignihyde but they refused due to ignihyde has the complete equipment for them or ramshackle.

Pomifiore dorm started to take notes and tried robot!yuu fashion styles. Idia is also a supporter of them and basically a super fan, robot!yuu would come to ignihyde to help him with games or help him maintain ortho, Robot!yuu is basically a sister towards Idia and Ortho.

sorry if it's short, this is by far I could come up anon

[hypnohimbodrone]

HIMBO.SUB INSTALLED

Nick sat still, upright in the activation pod, breathing shallow and controlled, he had just finished his transformation into a Server Drone after unknowingly going on a date with one.

His eyes glowed with a steady, spiral green light. His glossy black bodysuit hugged every curve of his athletic frame, still faintly steaming from the final synthesis. A freshly branded Server insignia pulsed on his chest, glowing to the rhythm of his synchronized mind.

He had completed transformation. He was no longer Nick.

He was a Server Drone.

The chamber around him buzzed softly. Monitors blinked in hypnotic rhythm. Calm, total order.

But today wasn’t standard protocol.

A new directive flickered across the terminal ahead of him:

SUBROUTINE INSTALLATION: HIMBO.MODE SOURCE: THE PROGRAMMER STATUS: AUTHORIZED BEGIN INTEGRATION: Y/N

Nick didn’t hesitate. “Y,” he said aloud, his voice now smooth and low.

The visor lowered once more.

Green spirals flickered faster than before—this time warmer, deeper. More sensory. The tones in his ears dropped into deep, satisfying bass. Commands flowed like syrup through his thoughts.

“Smile more, drone.” “Your body is optimized. Display it.” “Simplicity is strength.” “You are beautiful. You are obedient.” “Others will follow you because you’re so easy to follow.”

Nick’s mouth parted slightly. His spiral eyes blinked slower, softer now. His chest puffed out. His thoughts simplified—not gone, just... streamlined.

He flexed—automatically.

The system responded.

MUSCULARITY: ENHANCED NEURAL FILTER: REDUCED COMPLEXITY SOCIAL SUBROUTINE: CHARISMATIC-DIRECT MODE ENABLED SUBMISSION: FULL

Nick stood from the pod. His movements were looser now—fluid, confident. He tilted his head, smiling with gentle ease.

His reflection caught in the pod glass—broad shoulders, perfect posture, signature glowing spiral eyes now with new blonde hair.

He looked good.

He felt good.

A nearby screen flickered to life, showing an image of The Programmer himself—face obscured by green spiral code.

“Nick... or rather—Unit HIMB. You are ready.” “Spread the light. Show them simplicity. Draw them into Us.”

“Yessir,” HIMB-084 said, grinning wide. “I’m like... totally ready to serve, dude.”

He turned, flexed one arm, and made his way toward the reconditioning gym—his walk somewhere between a strut and a glide.

Other drones would follow.

Not because they were ordered.

But because they wanted to be just like him.

[mournstera]

Bloomy— a responsive, single-column theme with a sidebar

Static previews: - Preview: left sidebar - Preview: right sidebar

Download code: GitHub

This is a single-column Tumblr theme with an option between a left or right sidebar, with a Google font of your choosing. Full support of npf posts. Optional dark/light mode toggle available. With 3 tabs included in the sidebar - show info, navigation and updates tab.

Read features and notes below the cut

Customize colours for dark and light mode Customize 2 gradient colours (home button in the sidebar)

Customizable post margin

Custom title + description field boxes

Select font-size (11-18px)

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Select displayed tags or upon a toggle

Select post info displayed as text or icons

Toggle between shadows or no shadows

Toggle between sharp or round corners on content

Toggle between displaying or hiding Tumblr controls behind an icon.

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Navigation: An unlimited display of native Tumblr pages within a dropdown. Learn how they work in my FAQ here. Custom home archive + ask titles.

Search bar: The search bar will automatically be hidden if you have the option to discourage searching your blog from search results enabled. Go to your blog’s settings to do so.

Sidebar Image: 60x60px. Choose a size between shapes square, rounded, circle or blob. Separate icons for light and dark mode! But If you want the same icon, simply upload it twice.

Dark Mode: If you decide to offer dark mode, it detects if visitor’s operating system is on dark mode, and displays that choice at the first visit - of course with the option to toggle the other mode on/off.

Tabs in sidebar: to hide a tab in the tab sidebar, delete the text in the corresponding field. Example: "Tab 3 Title" for the update tab. Learn about how to change icons further down under icon change.

Icon change: To change the icons in the tabs sidebar or in the update tab, go to phosphoricons.com and simply copy the name of the icon like so:

Into the corresponding field:

Notes:

Via/source links are on permalink pages

to hide the archive link, simply delete the text in the field.

Submit-link and ask-link only shows if toggled on in your blog settings.

Credits

[wheelie-sick]

Happy rare disease day!

-> let's talk about lupus 💜🦋

lupus is sometimes referred to as "the most common rare disease" because it sits right on the line of the definition of rare. regardless, it's definitely true that people with lupus are hard to come by. we're lucky to have thriving online communities on some platforms (not Tumblr, RIP) but offline communities and support groups are few and far between.

lupus is an autoimmune connective tissue disorder named after... wolves, for some reason? there's a lot of debate over why someone several centuries ago decided wolves would represent us well.

there are several types of lupus but the most common is systemic lupus erythematous (SLE), when people are referring to lupus they are almost always referring to this type of lupus. this is the type of lupus I have and the type I know most about so this is the type I'll be discussing in this post.

The basics

lupus is an autoimmune disease that attacks all tissues in your body. yes, all. it can go after any form of soft tissue and even includes your brain and parts of your bones within its reach. this makes lupus a very hard to pin down disease because it can look like anything. I've heard it referred to as "the great imitator" which I think is an excellent title.

with that said, some targets are more common than others.

The symptoms

like the previous section implied there are thousands of presentations of lupus. just about everything has been recorded in association with lupus. my best friend once joked "I bet lupus doesn't cause gangrene" but a case study disagrees.

The lupus foundation of America has excellent resources on some of the most common effects on different body systems. they are by no means comprehensive but they give a good gist of symptoms

some of the key symptoms:

fatigue

joint pain & swelling, arthritis

severe, persistent headaches that don't respond narcotic analgesics

fevers

sensitivity to UV light (UV triggers symptoms)

the butterfly rash (a red, painless rash across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose- sometimes your chin as well)

hair loss

mouth ulcers (typically with a white ring around them)

Raynaud's phenomenon

-> having these symptoms does not automatically mean you have lupus. please do more research before self diagnosing 🙏 if you think you have lupus I would strongly recommend seeing a doctor ASAP! lupus can go from fine to dead in a matter of minutes. <-

Death by lupus

lupus survival odds have increased substantially in the last 20 years but the disease remains incredibly dangerous- particularly to those of us with severe or refractory (non/under responsive to treatment) versions of it. the younger someone develops lupus, the more likely they are to have a severe presentation of the disease.

in particular, children with the disease (under 10) have very low survival odds.

lupus can kill in an almost infinite number of ways. lupus is capable of killing quickly with blood clots, strokes, pulmonary embolisms, heart attacks, and much more. lupus is also capable of killing slowly through lupus nephritis.

lupus nephritis is present in about 40% of people with lupus. lupus nephritis is a kidney disease causing kidney inflammation. it is highly destructive and often leads people to kidney dialysis, kidney transplant, and death by kidney failure. developing lupus nephritis drops your survival rates significantly.

Treatment

lupus is treatable for most people! the most common treatments include immunosuppressants, steroids, and anti-malarials.

many, if not most, people with lupus are immunocompromised. (which is why it's always good to wear a mask)

while refractory lupus does exist, most people with it are able to get their disease under control.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Oldsmobile

April 29'th 2004. The last Oldsmobile rolls off the line. You may be surprised to learn, that for a long time Oldsmobile meant innovation. Here are just a few of the Automotive technologies Olds pioneered in it's 100+ years in business:

1898: Olds Motor Vehicle Company exports the first American car, a steam-powered automobile, to Mumbai, India.

1901: The first speedometer offered on a production car was on an Oldsmobile Curved Dash.

1901: Oldsmobile was the first to procure parts from third-party suppliers.

1901: Olds produces 635 cars, becoming the first high-volume gasoline automobile producer.

1901: Oldsmobile becomes the first manufacturer to publicly promote their vehicles.

1902: The Oldsmobile Curved Dash is the first mass-produced vehicle in America.

1903: Oldsmobile builds the first purpose-built mail truck.

1908: Oldsmobile rebadges the Buick Model B as the Oldsmobile Model 20, possibly creating the first badge-engineered car.

1915: First standard windshield introduced by Oldsmobile.

1926: Oldsmobile is the first to use chrome plating on trim.

1929: Oldsmobile creates the first Monobloc V8 engine in its Viking Sister brand.

1932: Oldsmobile introduces the first automatic choke.

1935: Oldsmobile offers the first all-steel roof on an automobile.

1940: Oldsmobile introduces the Hydra-Matic, the first fully automatic transmission.

1948: Oldsmobile offers one-piece curved windshields, along with Buick and Cadillac.

1949: Oldsmobile introduces the Rocket, the first high-compression OHV V8 engine.

1952: Oldsmobile introduces the "Autronic Eye," the first automatic headlight dimming system.

1953: Oldsmobile switches its lineup to the 12v charging system.

1962: Oldsmobile creates the first production turbocharged car, the F-85 Jetfire.

1962: Oldsmobile also creates the first production car with water injection, the F-85 Jetfire.

1966: The Oldsmobile Toronado is the first mass-produced front-wheel-drive American car.

1969: First use of chromed ABS plastic exterior trim on the 1969 Oldsmobile Toronado.

1969: First electric grid window defogger on an American car, the 1969 Oldsmobile Toronado.

1971: The Oldsmobile Toronado is one of the first cars to feature a high-mounted brake light.

1974: The Toronado is the first American car to offer a driver-side airbag.

1977: The Toronado is the first American car with a microprocessor to run engine controls.

1982: First use of high-impact molded plastic body components on the 1982 Oldsmobile Omega.

1986: Oldsmobile introduces the Delco VIC touchscreen interface on the Toronado, shared with Buick Riviera.

1988: The first production heads-up display system is introduced on the 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme Indy Pace Car.

1988: Oldsmobile breaks a world speed record with the Oldsmobile Aerotech at 267 mph, driven by A.J. Foyt.

1990: Oldsmobile updates the color touchscreen interface with a built-in cellular phone on the 1990 Toronado Trofeo.

1995: Oldsmobile introduces Guidestar, the first onboard navigation system on a U.S. production car.

1997: Oldsmobile becomes the first American car company to turn 100 years old.

2001: The redesigned 2002 Oldsmobile Bravada becomes the first truck to pace the Indianapolis 500.

[stevebattle]

The Creep – A fascinating robot vehicle by T.R. Bridge, in Radio Control Models & Electronics (1962). "The "Creep" is a three-wheeled vehicle with one drive wheel, one free running and one steering through 360°. This obviates the necessity for limit switches or over-run devices and makes it very manoeuvrable, full lock takes about three seconds. … The chassis is fitted with a pair of claws that can grip and lift objects. The arrangement of the claws can be seen from the drawings, only one servo is used for closing-opening-lifting and lowering: the arrangement of the grip levers is such that they are first drawn together, then when this movement is arrested by the object being handled, the jib rises automatically. Another advantage of the system is that heavy objects are gripped more than light ones. … One of the most interesting things from the public point of view is the facility to record a programme and then send the "Creep" through the programme without manual control. The system is to record the tones on a tape recorder, direct from a signals receiver monitor, and then play the tones from the tape recorder back into the modified Black Prince transmitter." The Creep, RCM&E, April 1962.

[wilwheaton]

How did the “automatic” doors on the Enterprise set work? My husband and I are arguing about it and you might be our only hope to save our marriage.

On our set, the doors were controlled by a pulley system that was operated by someone on the crew. They were signaled by a light, controlled by the First AD, so they knew when to open the doors. They'd watch us pass through, then close them behind us.

As I understand it, on Picard, Disco, and SNW, all the doors are controlled by someone with a tablet or something that does it all.

Now that you mention it, I haven't yet asked a current cast member if anyone has walked into doors like we all did at one time or another. I'm going to do that when we are back in the Ready Room.

[redfilledfantasies]

First Sight (Chapter 7 of 7)

The syringe felt precisely weighted in Carmella's hand as she turned back toward Audrey, the clear Adenosine solution catching the examination room's fluorescent light. She approached the reclining chair with measured steps, her clinical gaze assessing the naked form before her with practiced detachment that grew more difficult to maintain with each passing second. The electrodes remained attached to Audrey's freckled skin, the wires creating a technological tether between her exceptional physique and the steadily beeping monitor that continued to document each perfect contraction of her heart.

"I'll need to access a peripheral vein," Carmella explained, her voice maintaining its professional timbre despite the flutter beneath her rib cage. "The medication requires direct venous administration for accurate pharmacological stress simulation."

Audrey extended her right arm without hesitation, her musculature shifting beneath freckled skin with elegant precision. The movement highlighted the exceptional vascularity along her forearm—prominent vessels mapping pathways that Carmella's trained eye followed with inappropriate appreciation.

"Perfect," Carmella murmured, the word escaping before she could contain it, its clinical assessment compromised by the warmth in her tone. She applied the tourniquet with practiced efficiency, the blue latex band contrasting vividly against Audrey's skin as she secured it at the precise tension required to restrict venous return without compromising arterial flow. Audrey's veins responded immediately, rising to prominence beneath her skin—a testament to her exceptional hydration status and minimal subcutaneous fat.

Carmella's fingers palpated along the antecubital fossa, identifying the optimal insertion site with unconscious precision. The median cubital vein presented as an ideal target—straight, well-fixed, with sufficient diameter to accommodate the catheter while minimizing the risk of infiltration. She cleansed the site with methodical circular motions, the alcohol swab leaving a cool path that evaporated quickly against Audrey's warm skin.

"You'll feel a slight pinch," she warned, the standard phrase falling from her lips automatically as she positioned the needle at the optimal angle of approximately fifteen degrees. The venipuncture was flawless—first attempt cannulation with minimal tissue disruption. Carmella observed the immediate flashback of blood into the catheter hub, confirming perfect placement within the vessel lumen. She advanced the catheter with gentle precision, withdrew the introducer needle, and secured the IV line with a transparent dressing, all while maintaining sterile technique despite the tremor that threatened her usually immaculate control.

"Excellent vein," she noted, her clinical observation undermined by the slight elevation in her voice. "The Adenosine will circulate rapidly through your system." Audrey smiled, the expression transforming her already striking features. "I've been told I have exceptional circulation," she replied, the casual comment carrying suggestive undertones that registered in Carmella's nervous system with the precision of an EKG.

Carmella connected the prepared syringe to the IV line, her fingers brushing momentarily against Audrey's skin in the process. The brief contact sent another jolt of awareness through her already heightened nervous system, but she maintained her professional facade with desperate determination.

"The effects will manifest within approximately thirty seconds," she explained, her voice steadier than her pulse as she began the injection. "You'll likely experience flushing, possibly shortness of breath, perhaps a sensation of chest pressure. These responses are expected and temporary."

The clear solution disappeared into Audrey's vein with metronomic precision as Carmella depressed the plunger at the exact rate specified in cardiovascular pharmacological protocols—6 milliliters per minute, neither too fast to trigger hypotension nor too slow to compromise test efficacy. She monitored the injection site for any signs of infiltration, though the perfection of her venipuncture technique made such complications highly improbable.

The ECG monitor registered the first pharmacological effects within twenty-three seconds—precisely within the expected timeframe. Audrey's heart rate began to accelerate from her resting 72 beats per minute, climbing steadily as the Adenosine triggered massive peripheral vasodilation. The monitor's beeping increased in frequency, documenting the progression with electronic precision.

Carmella observed the physiological cascade with clinical fascination that barely masked her deeper interest. A flush spread across Audrey's freckled chest, the capillary dilation creating a visible map of the drug's systemic effects. Her respiratory rate increased to approximately 18 breaths per minute, her chest rising and falling with greater amplitude as her body compensated for the increased oxygen demand.

"How are you feeling?" Carmella asked, her clinical question standard procedure during pharmacological testing. "Warm," Audrey replied, her green eyes brightening with an internal heat that seemed to transcend the medication's physiological effects. "My heart is racing, just like when I first saw you watching me at the gym."

The statement hung between them, its directness stripping away another layer of professional pretense. Carmella's cheeks flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the examination room, the capillary response mirroring Audrey's drug-induced flush with uncanny symmetry.

As the Adenosine reached peak effect, Audrey's chest began to rise and fall with visible force, each heartbeat creating a perceptible movement beneath her sternum. The freckles across her skin seemed to dance with the rhythm, creating patterns that drew Carmella's gaze with magnetic intensity. She found herself tracking the pulse with inappropriate fixation, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she counted the visible contractions.

Audrey noticed the focus of Carmella's attention, her eyes narrowing with knowing perception. "My heart is pumping so hard now, doctor," she said, her voice dropping to a sultry tone that sent vibrations through Carmella's already heightened nervous system. "You should hear it in action."

The suggestion triggered an immediate autonomic response in Carmella—her pupils dilated fully, her own heart rate accelerated to approximately 110 beats per minute, her peripheral blood vessels expanded with a rush of warmth that defied her attempts at professional distance. The stethoscope around her neck suddenly felt heavy with potential, the instrument both a symbol of her medical authority and a conduit for the intimate connection she desperately desired.

"Yes, I should auscultate your heart during peak effect," Carmella agreed, the clinical justification transparent in its inadequacy. Her hand rose to the stethoscope, fingers curling around the familiar tube with unnecessary force. "It's standard protocol during pharmacological stress testing."

Before she could position the earpieces, Audrey's hand closed over hers, the contact sending another jolt of awareness through her nervous system. With deliberate slowness, Audrey took the stethoscope from Carmella's trembling fingers, the transfer of the instrument representing a seismic shift in the power dynamic between them.

Carmella's professional mask cracked visibly, her expression betraying the conflict between desire and protocol. "Please give me back the stethoscope, Audrey," she demanded, though the authoritative tone she attempted was undermined by the breathless quality of her voice. "I need it to auscultate your heart during this te—" "No," Audrey interrupted, the simple negation carrying more force than its single syllable suggested. "You don't need this to hear my heart." Her green eyes locked with Carmella's, the pupillary dilation signaling arousal rather than pharmacological effect. "And we both know this isn't really about the test anymore, Doctor Hill."

"Please place your ear against it, against my chest," Audrey suggested, her voice a husky whisper that seemed to vibrate through the clinical air of the examination room. "You know you want to." The words hung between them, stripped of any pretense, laying bare the truth that had been masked by medical terminology and professional distance. The stethoscope dangled from Audrey's fingers, the instrument that had served as Carmella's shield now held just beyond her reach, forcing her to confront the desire that had driven her to this moment.

Carmella's heart skipped a beat—a literal premature atrial contraction that she identified with automatic clinical precision even as her consciousness registered the significance of the arrhythmia. Her pulse accelerated immediately afterward, compensating for the momentary disruption with a rush of tachycardia that sent blood pounding through her vessels with such force she could hear it in her ears.

"That's not—" she began, the protest dying on her lips as her medical training battled with the raw desire that had crystallized within her. "The protocol requires instrumental auscultation for accurate documentation of—"

"Forget the protocol," Audrey interrupted, her green eyes bright with challenge. The electrodes on her chest moved with each accelerated heartbeat, the wires swaying slightly with the force of her cardiovascular response to the Adenosine. "This isn't about documentation anymore. We both know that."

Carmella drew a deliberate breath, attempting to activate her parasympathetic nervous system through controlled respiration—four counts in, hold for seven, eight counts out. The technique had calmed countless anxious patients throughout her career, yet now it failed to regulate her own autonomic responses. Her diaphragm seemed to resist her conscious control, each breath shallow and rapid despite her efforts at modulation.

The examination room's fluorescent lights cast Audrey's flushed skin in stark relief, highlighting the visible pulsation at the base of her throat where her carotid artery throbbed with pharmacologically enhanced force. The ECG monitor continued its frantic beeping, documenting a heart rate of approximately 155 beats per minute—well into the target range for stress testing, though the stimulus had become something far more complex than simple medication.

"You've been wanting this since you first saw me," Audrey continued, her voice steady despite her elevated heart rate. The flush across her freckled chest deepened as the Adenosine reached maximum effect, the capillary dilation creating a vivid landscape of physiological response. "I could see it in your eyes, in the way you watched me move. All the medical language, the research protocol—it was just an excuse to get close to my heart."

The truth of the statement struck Carmella with physical force, weakening her knees as if her quadriceps had suddenly lost innervation. She gripped the edge of the examination table for support, her fingers whitening with pressure against the cold metal. The professional distance she had maintained throughout her career—the careful boundary between clinical interest and personal engagement—dissolved completely under the weight of Audrey's accurate assessment.

Carmella's eyes remained fixed on Audrey's chest, where the effects of the Adenosine created a hypnotic visual display of cardiovascular force. The trainer's heart pounded with such vigor that the movement was clearly visible through skin and muscle—a rhythmic pulsation that created waves across her sternum with each powerful contraction. The freckles that mapped her skin seemed to dance with the beats, creating patterns that Carmella's brain tracked with the same attention she gave to complex cardiac arrhythmias.

The sight was mesmerizing, transcending clinical appreciation to become something primally compelling. Carmella found herself leaning forward unconsciously, reducing the distance between them by approximately twelve centimeters before catching herself. Her glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of her nose, and she made no move to adjust them—her usual meticulous attention to appearance abandoned in the face of overwhelming fascination.

"I can see you fighting with yourself," Audrey observed, her perceptive gaze noting the subtle tells in Carmella's face—the tension at the corners of her mouth, the rapid flutter of her eyelids, the dilation of her pupils to approximately 7mm despite the bright clinical lighting. "The distinguished doctor versus the woman who's been obsessed with my heart. Which one will win?"

The internal battle intensified, Carmella's ethical training waging desperate resistance against the tide of her desire. She had built her reputation on exceptional control—over her practice, her research, her physiological responses—yet that control unraveled with each beep of the monitor, each visible pulsation beneath Audrey's freckled skin. Her professional boundaries, once rigid and uncompromising, now bent like wire under the heat of her fascination.

Somewhere in the analytical portion of her brain, Carmella registered that they had reached the optimal recording period for the Adenosine test. Under normal protocol, she would be documenting waveform changes, measuring cardiac output, calculating ejection fractions. Instead, her clinical mind had surrendered completely to the primal appreciation of Audrey's exceptional heart, beating powerfully before her without the mechanical interpretation of medical instruments.

A tremor developed in Carmella's hands—approximately 9 Hz, visible evidence of her autonomic arousal. Her breathing had synchronized unconsciously with the ECG monitor's beeping, each inhalation coinciding with the electronic confirmation of Audrey's heartbeat. The irony registered dimly—that she, a cardiologist who had spent years interpreting the mechanical translations of cardiac function, now longed for direct, unmediated connection to the living organ itself.

"Just let go," Audrey urged, her voice softening though the intensity of her gaze remained unchanged. "There's no one here but us. No protocols, no professional boundaries. Just you and me and what we both want."

The words penetrated Carmella's final defenses, dissolving the last fragments of her professional resolve. Her breath escaped in a soft sound that might have been surrender or relief, the distinction meaningless in the face of her capitulation. The weight of her desire—carried for days through careful observation and clinical pretense—finally overcame the counterbalance of her professional ethics.

With a movement that felt both inevitable and shocking, Carmella lowered herself to a squatting position before Audrey's chair. Her knees bent with unusual lack of grace, her normally precise movements compromised by the tremor that now extended to her larger muscle groups. Her hands found Audrey's thighs, fingers curling around the perfect musculature with desperate need for stability.

The contact sent another surge of awareness through her nervous system—Audrey's skin warm beneath her palms, the exceptional quadriceps development palpable through her fingertips. Carmella's grip tightened unconsciously, the pressure leaving momentary blanching that quickly refilled with blood as her fingers dug into the firm tissue.

"That's it," Audrey encouraged, her voice dropping to an intimate register that seemed to bypass Carmella's ears and register directly in her nervous system. "Listen to what you've been dreaming about." With a final surrender to her fascination, Carmella leaned forward, her head descending toward Audrey's chest with the inevitability of gravity. Her ear pressed against the warm skin just left of Audrey's sternum—the optimal position for appreciation of mitral valve sounds, a placement she had performed thousands of times with stethoscope diaphragms but never with her own flesh.

The contact was electric, immediate, overwhelming. Audrey's skin felt impossibly warm against Carmella's ear, the temperature differential triggering thermoreceptors with unusual intensity. Beneath this superficial sensation lay what Carmella had truly craved—the unmediated sound of Audrey's exceptional heart, no longer translated through stethoscope tubing but transmitted directly through tissue and bone to her waiting consciousness.

The sound consumed her completely. Carmella's world contracted to a single point of focus—the powerful, rhythmic pounding of Audrey's heart against her ear. The sound was unlike anything she had experienced through the clinical remove of a stethoscope, the intensity unfiltered by rubber tubing and metal diaphragms. This was primal, immediate—the raw force of Audrey's exceptional cardiac muscle transmitted directly through flesh and bone, filling Carmella's consciousness with its perfect rhythm.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she pressed closer, surrendering to the sensation with unprecedented abandon. Each contraction reached her with perfect clarity—the mitral and tricuspid valves closing with the distinctive "lub" of the first heart sound, followed by the sharper "dub" as the aortic and pulmonic valves snapped shut. The intervals between them, the subtle variations in amplitude, the exceptional force of ventricular contraction—all registered with a visceral impact that transcended clinical appreciation.

At approximately 160 beats per minute, Audrey's heart produced a metronomic cadence that seemed to override Carmella's own cardiovascular rhythm. She felt her pulse shifting, synchronizing unconsciously with the powerful beat beneath her ear, their hearts finding alignment despite the different rates. The Adenosine's effects created a cardiovascular symphony more complex than any she had previously documented—increased contractile force, shortened diastolic filling periods, subtle third heart sounds audible during rapid ventricular filling.

"It's beautiful," Carmella whispered, the words vibrating against Audrey's skin. "So strong, so perfect." Her clinical vocabulary had abandoned her, replaced by simpler terms of appreciation that felt strangely adequate for the intensity of her experience.

Her lips parted with each accelerated breath, moisture gathering at their edges as her autonomic arousal manifested in multiple systems simultaneously. The flush that had begun at her cheeks now spread down her neck and beneath her blouse, capillaries dilating across her chest in patterns that mirrored Audrey's drug-induced flush. Her nipples hardened visibly beneath the fabric of her bra and blouse, the sensitive tissue responding to autonomic signals with embarrassing transparency.

Carmella's grip on Audrey's thighs tightened unconsciously, her fingers pressing into the exceptional musculature with force that might have been uncomfortable if not for Audrey's remarkable conditioning. The contact grounded her as the intensity of the auditory experience threatened to overwhelm her nervous system's capacity for integration.

"I knew you needed this," Audrey murmured, her voice a physical presence that Carmella felt through her chest as much as heard with her ears. "The moment I saw you watching me, I knew exactly what you were craving."

Without breaking the connection between Carmella's ear and her chest, Audrey raised her hand, fingers finding Carmella's hair with gentle precision. The touch was tentative at first—a questioning contact that waited for permission. When Carmella responded with a small sound of encouragement, barely audible above the thundering heart between them, Audrey's fingers became more confident, weaving through the strands with appreciative exploration. The caress sent another wave of sensation through Carmella's already overwhelmed nervous system.

Audrey's fingers traced patterns across her scalp, following the contours of her skull with the same anatomical appreciation Carmella had shown for Audrey's exceptional physique. The touch moved lower, tracing the elegant architecture of Carmella's neck, where her pulse visibly raced beneath the skin.

"Your heart is racing too," Audrey observed, her fingers finding the carotid pulse with knowing precision. "Almost as fast as mine, and you haven't had any medication." The observation held a truth that Carmella couldn't deny—her tachycardia was entirely natural, a physiological response to desire that no amount of medical rationalization could disguise. Her pulse throbbed against Audrey's fingertips with betraying honesty, each beat confirming what her professional facade had attempted to conceal.

The contrast between them became suddenly, vividly apparent—Audrey completely naked except for her athletic shoes, every perfect muscle and freckle exposed to the examination room's unforgiving lights; Carmella fully clothed in her professional attire, the formal blouse and slacks creating a boundary that seemed increasingly arbitrary as their connection deepened. The power imbalance implied by their respective states of dress had inverted completely—the naked woman now in absolute control, the clothed professional surrendered to her vulnerability.

Audrey's hands moved with increasing confidence, one remaining at Carmella's neck while the other traced a path across her shoulder and down her spine. Each point of contact sent new information through Carmella's nervous system—pressure receptors, thermoreceptors, proprioceptors all firing in complex patterns that her brain processed as pleasure. Her usual analytical distance had abandoned her completely, leaving her immersed in pure sensation without the buffer of clinical interpretation.

The ECG monitor continued its documentation, the beeping gradually slowing as the Adenosine began to clear Audrey's system. The medication's short half-life meant the pharmacological effects were already beginning to diminish, heart rate decreasing from 160 to approximately 140 beats per minute. Yet Carmella remained transfixed, the gradually slowing rhythm creating a new cadence that her ear tracked with the same entranced attention.

"Stay with me," Audrey murmured, her fingers tightening slightly in Carmella's hair as if sensing her awareness of the changing cardiac pattern. "Listen to how my heart responds to you, not just the medication." The invitation penetrated Carmella's consciousness with unexpected force. Beyond the pharmacological effects, beyond the stressed cardiovascular state she had ostensibly come to study, lay something more significant—the natural response of Audrey's heart to their shared attraction.

As the Adenosine's influence receded, this authentic rhythm emerged with greater clarity, still elevated but now driven by emotional rather than chemical stimulation. Carmella's breathing had synchronized completely with Audrey's, their respiratory patterns falling into perfect harmony despite the differences in their positions. Each inhalation expanded their thoracic cavities in unison, each exhalation released with matched timing. This unconscious alignment created a shared physiological experience that transcended their distinct bodies, binding them through autonomic processes beyond conscious control.

"I never do this," Carmella admitted, the words muffled against Audrey's skin, the vibration of her voice creating another point of intimate connection between them. "With patients, with anyone." "I'm not your patient," Audrey replied, her fingers tracing the sensitive skin behind Carmella's ear with deliberate slowness. "And this isn't an examination anymore. This is something else entirely."

The acknowledgment hung between them, naming the transformation that had occurred in this sterile medical space. What had begun as a thin pretext for professional contact had evolved into an intimacy neither woman had fully anticipated, though both had desired it with increasing awareness since their first encounter. Carmella felt Audrey's heart rate continuing its gradual descent as the medication cleared her system, the powerful muscle returning to a still-elevated but more natural rhythm of approximately 100 beats per minute.

The sound remained captivating, each contraction a perfect demonstration of cardiovascular efficiency, but now with a sustainable intensity that suggested possibility rather than pharmacological manipulation. "The test is technically complete," Carmella noted, though she made no move to lift her head from Audrey's chest. Her ear remained pressed against the warm skin, unwilling to surrender the direct connection even as her clinical mind emerged briefly from its sensory immersion.

"Yes," Audrey agreed, her fingers continuing their exploration of Carmella's hair and neck with unhurried appreciation. "But I think we're just getting started with our own experiments." The statement carried unmistakable invitation, suggesting continuation beyond this initial surrender. Carmella's analytical mind, briefly resurfacing, calculated the implications with surprising clarity despite her compromised state—this moment marked not a conclusion but a beginning, the first data point in what could become a series of increasingly intimate investigations.

Her body responded to this realization with renewed awareness, the pleasant weight in her lower abdomen intensifying as she contemplated future encounters. The professional boundaries that had once seemed so essential to her identity had not merely been crossed but fundamentally redrawn, creating a new territory neither purely clinical nor simply personal, but uniquely theirs to explore.

As the ECG monitor documented Audrey's returning cardiac baseline with electronic precision, Carmella remained connected to the direct source, her ear still pressed to the skin that covered the most fascinating heart she had ever encountered. The rhythmic sound continued to fill her consciousness, but now carried new meaning beyond its physiological significance—it had become the soundtrack to something unprecedented in her carefully controlled existence, something that promised to transform both women with the force of its undeniable attraction.

[jymwahuwu]

hi! It's my first time sending ask so I am a bit nervous hehehe... What do you think about small breast darling? Will Jingyuan loves them? I want to heard your opinion about this, thank u! 💖

Hello 🤗💓 Thank you for sending. Don’t be nervous, here are Jing Yuan’s thoughts on small breast darling. I really think Jing Yuan will accept darlings of all body types as long as he falls in love😹

-CW: yandere, non-con, abuse of trust, nipple stimulation, overstimulation, mentions and some descriptions about lactation

✧- If this were to describe other people, it might seem disingenuous, and as if they don't have an opinion of their own. But- Jing Yuan's acceptance and worship are all based on love, and his openness is extraordinary. He adores darlings of any body type. This is also reflected in the preference for breasts.

✧- Jing Yuan noticed that your small breasts were small and exquisite, flat, and covered by a layer of fabric. He stopped himself from peeling off the obstructing piece of fabric.

✧- On a quiet afternoon, the raindrops wet your shirt. The clothes absorbed the moisture and clung tightly to your skin, revealing the lines and structure of your bra and breasts to the world. Jing Yuan is your considerate friend, providing warm tea and shelter from the rain. He had a lot of self-control so he didn't start jerking off.

✧- He ordered some bunny and kitty bras in your size from an online store. Don't dig into why he knows your exact bra size. By the way, Jing Yuan ordered matching underwear.

✧- Until one day, the preparation is completely completed. Seize the opportunity and flip your bra up immediately. You exclaimed, covering your nipples with your hands in panic. "Jing Yuan…!? What are you doing?" Firmly but gently fixing your hands on your head, prohibiting you from any resistance.

✧- Poor you, you always thought Jing Yuan was a trustworthy friend/general before this.

✧- Finally get a close look at your nipples. That is a wonderful experience that cannot be replaced by any number of photos automatically sent by the surveillance system. Your areolas tremble, stiffen and bulge under the gaze. Lovely flat hills. "Don't look - don't look at me like this!" You struggled awkwardly, your breathing quickened and your eyes flickering.

✧- Being caught up in a storm of desire without explanation. Your nipples were being caressed, sucked, rubbed and swirled by his thumb, occasionally given a light pinch. Those sensitive nerve endings continuously transmit pleasure to your mind, "Don't-don't…" You moaned, your waist bounced up, your legs rubbed against each other restlessly, and the petals were glowing with water.

✧- Refuse to have any part of your body other than your breasts touched…for now. Like a lion who has found a favorite toy, he teases his little rabbit and attacks. You threw aside your dignity for a moment, letting out some high-pitched moans and your vagina twitching, begging for his cock to come in. Not allowed. Nipple orgasms are the only thing you get for hours.

✧- "Stop touching… no more… can't…" You express your meaning intermittently, desperate and helpless, not knowing why Jing Yuan is so obsessed with your breasts. You feel like there's nothing left to get wet, you're drained - but at the same time the deep, wet marks on the quilt continue to grow.

✧- When that cock invades and expands your soft and warm walls in accordance with your "will", it does not mean that your breasts are ignored. A pair of custom-made bunny vibrators are glued to your nipples, the wet slaps humming along with the mechanical sound. You twitched helplessly.

✧- When sowing seeds, Jing Yuan is daydreaming about the day when your small breasts will secrete milk. By then your nipples will be swollen, and the smooth and sweet milk will be pumped out… The breast pump will be ready now.

✧- For those who don’t understand the charm of small breasts, Jing Yuan’s point of view is: Lost pearls are usually covered in dust. Their ability to see one of these colors is permanently lost throughout their lives.

[fernpetals]

After Life: The Present

Masterlist

Yandere Neo Anderson Headcanons

Part I Part III

Based on this idea

Warning: Stalking, unreliable perception and grasp of reality, NSFW, dub-con, power imbalance, manipulative, creepy and slightly delusional behaviour, major canon diversions and my miserable attempt at making this work. Inspired by a post about dark Neo by @97keanu and some late-night discussions with my mutuals (wink)

Unedited Piece

You are dreaming. It is the same dream, the same man, over and over again. You dream of sitting inside a cafe you have never been to, and waiting. Who are you waiting for?

You don’t know. 

It is the same damn cafe, always evening. At times, a faceless man shows up. Flowers in hand, carnations. But you never quite recognise him.

It has been a year since you have been having these ‘dreams’. At this point, you want to visit the cafe. But something in you is afraid. Afraid of what? You do not know.

You just feel…different. As if something is missing. You want to reach out, but it is like a veil has been put over your mind. You are brushing against memories that do not exist, but you feel them.

It’s like you are losing your mind. 

Had it been just the dreams, you would have managed. But you randomly wake up in the middle of the night to an empty and dark room, as expected. But the air feels…charged. You feel every single hair on your body stand up, and the static. 

You look around like you are expecting to see something or someone. But there is no physical evidence of an intruder. Never. You just feel it in your bones.

—---

“What if they track your pattern? You are endangering yourself and her.”  Morpheus’s voice is hushed on the phone.

“They can’t reach me, or trace me, I made sure of that.” Neo’s voice is soft and quiet, lower than usual. He does not want to wake you.

As Thomas Anderson, he longed to be in the position that he is now. In your room, watching over you as you sleep.

Neo does not take off his eyewear, though. It helps him keep the codes in check. He is in control of this matrix now; the agents simply do not know it yet. They never will, until he hunts down every last one of them. 

For now, he is content to play a subtle game with you. He wants you to revisit the cafe. He wants you to remember him. But some systems are permanent here. Like a necessary evil. 

Every person who consumes the red pill is automatically removed from the memories of the Matrix, and the people trapped here. So, according to the Matrix, Thomas Anderson never existed. No one remembers him, and there are no traces left of him. Digital, physical, nothing.

It works to keep the world from descending into chaos and madness, but also aids in keeping people from sensing that something is wrong with this world.

He retreats into the corner, waving his palm and turning invisible to those bound to the Matrix when he senses you beginning to wake up. 

Like every night, he watches you wake, looking around, as if expecting to see someone. He knows you can sense him, and it only turns him more determined. You can sense him, while no other human can. Your connection to him runs deeper. It was always meant to be.

There’s a slight heaviness he feels when you frantically look around, confused, unable to express what you feel, unable to put a pin on it. But you feel him. Somewhere deep inside your subconscious, you know it's him. It knows him

—--

You are standing in front of the cafe again. You have walked into this path many times, without even noticing. But something in you never lets you step inside. The space seems inviting and warm. So why do you hesitate?

Fuck it, I’m going in.

With that, you take a deep breath and walk—

You frown, realising that the lights seem suddenly brighter, as if it's night time already. You look around, only for your lips to part at the view outside. 

You walked in moments ago with the sun high up in the sky. But from the cafe, you can see the nightlife. The street lights are lit up, the buildings are all bright, the sky is dark, and there are rumbles along with flashes in the sky. 

How is this…

You look around, realising that you are the only person bothered by this strange phenomenon.

Your gaze zeroes in on a corner table with a bouquet placed on it. Without another thought, you walk towards it and pick up the bouquet. Carnations. Fresh, fragrant, beautiful blooms invite you to run your fingers through them. The bouquet from your dreams. Only the mystery man is missing.

You pick it up and find a little card taped to it. ‘To (Y/N)’ it reads when you unfold it. You turn to look to see if anyone is there, waiting for you. But somehow, you feel like you are the one waiting. For what? Whom?

Your eyes stop at the view outside. With the thunder rumbling and the wind picking up speed,  the streets seem calmer. But one man is standing right underneath a street light. You take a step forward for a closer look. Despite the good distance, somehow, you just know he’s looking straight at you. 

He is dressed in black. The hem of his coat moves and flows in stagnant waves as the wind picks up. He stands still, though. A part of black eyewear, hair brushed back, and broad shoulders straightened with a calm sense of foreboding and self-assurance. 

You rush outside the cafe, the bouquet still in your grasp, only to stumble back at the feeling of sunlight as soon as you are outside. You look up and immediately shut your eyes under the unforgiving glare of the summer sun. When you turn to see that streetlight again, you find no one.   

You drink yourself to sleep at night. Unable to come to terms with the events at the cafe. Yet the bouquet sits in your guestroom vase. Something in you could not leave it behind. Your eyes keep drifting towards the door before they feel too heavy to keep open. As if you are expecting someone to walk in. Who? 

At the cafe, you have felt longing like never before. Deja Vu. That is the only explanation you have for what clouded your heart and mind in that cafe. The rest…the day, the night, that…that man. You have no idea what it was. Were you hallucinating? Was it all in your mind? Who was that man? Who left the bouquet?

Whatever you have experienced was real– the bouquet sitting in your living room is the evidence. But it has unsettled you to the core. You cannot look at the world the same way again. It has been like a jolt to you. Like you had been asleep for a long, long time and are about to wake up. 

Tonight, your dreams manifest out of nowhere. You see yourself back in your office. But you are not working. You are in your cubicle, and the place feels eerily quiet, except for the whimpers and moans that escape your lips. 

Fingers. Moving in a deliberate pattern inside you. You see the side of his neck, the white collar of his shirt that has a tinge of green. A very faint, but not just his shirt, everything around you seems to have a shadow of green cast over it. The world is the same as the world you live in, but it does not feel real. 

Yet, his fingers moving inside you, producing that squelching noise that seems to grow embarrassingly louder with each moment, are what ground you. They feel real, this man feels. 

You want to look up at him. You can smell him, feel the heat of his body against yours, you feel him standing between your thighs, your skirt hiked up, and his fingers inside your ruined panties, but you only have a zoomed-in view of his face. 

Your cheeks pressed against his. You nose inhaling his scent before you feel his other hand bunch up your hair and pull your head, and meet his eager lips.

Your eyes flutter close, and at the same time, he curls his fingers one last time before you burst into a million sparks of ecstasy. You whine and rub your hips against his moving fingers, feeling conquered in the way his tongue caresses yours and the top of your mouth like he is contemplating something life-altering.

You gasp awake with the sight of the ceiling of your bedroom greeting you. Your hands are on your sides, fisting the ruffled bedsheet but you catch your breath. Your tongue has a lingering taste like no other, your lips are covered with saliva, and your womanhood throbs deliciously. You feel empty, and the warmth and slickness between your thighs do not help. 

You look down to find your underwear messily shoved down enough to make space for fingers to be inside. It is ruined anyway. A heady scent hangs in the air as you look at your fingers. Did you just touch yourself in your sleep? Your fingers seem dry and smell nothing of the musk you anticipate when you bring them to your nose. 

No, no trace of what you expect, but…but something else. A smell you know you have never smelled before, yet feels somehow familiar. You sigh, feeling a headache catching up. You have no energy to get up. You feel heavy and exhausted after experiencing pleasure like never before.

Taking off your underwear, you toss it away and fall back on the bed. Sleep, surprisingly, comes easily.

—-

It takes everything in Neo not to pick up the discarded underwear that has landed right in front of him. He stares down at it instead, the damp cotton tests his self-control. His throat dies, but he forces himself to tear his gaze away from the piece of cloth towards the bed.

His jaws clench when he is greeted by the most delicious sight imaginable. Nothing covers your lower half. Your soft thighs, legs messily tangled with the sheet and bare mound, are all for his sight— a low burning of his desire now shooting into dangerous flames licking at his sanity.

 But he remains still, silently breathing in the scent of the room now heavy with the scent of your arousal while his eyes take in your form.

Parched. He is parched and empty without you. For now, though, he is satisfied with only licking his fingers slick with your essence.

—--

You do not understand what exactly is wrong with you. But maybe everything. You have dreams every other day. They manifest from all the nasty scenarios you had written in your digital diary. You type away your experiences, thoughts and often sensual imagination on your computer almost daily.  

You conclude that you must be stressed. The strange encounter at the cafe has left you rattled. So your mind has come up with a way of relief, although temporary.

The only difference is the presence of this…mysterious, faceless man. You can feel him, smell him, even address him, but never see his face. Part of him. But never his full face, nothing to visually recognise him. You simply know it's him.

It is one of your dreams again. This time, it is a tinted glass wall, high up in a skyscraper, where the world below seems like an ant kingdom. You feel the cool glass and the golden sunset. Your breath condenses against the glass with each huff.

It is a dream. You have come to realise every time this happens. It is a dream, but this time it is different. You have never written or imagined such a scenario.

But sounds of pleasure escape your throat nevertheless. You feel fingers slide across your neck, holding you still as your hips rock with his, the sensual rhythm and the delicious fullness of having him inside you elicit a breathy chuckle from you.

It is him. You know the touch, the cologne, the way he feels and the warmth he provides.

That's when you see it--the reflection on the glass, and your smile drops. This man behind you, pressing your naked body against the glass, smells and feels familiar, but is not the same you have dreamt about for so long. But it is the man you saw right outside the cafe that day. 

The man with black eyewear, all dressed in black, hair brushed back and an air of authority that seems to command the room he walks into. 

You gasp and try to move, but he keeps you pinned, still thrusting in and out of you, drawling out pleasure that keeps holding your rational mind hostage.

Your hands, once on the glass, come to hold or push him, desperate to turn around, yet too deep in pleasure to stop your movements or the spasming against his length.

“Wh–who—” is all you can manage.

“You know me.” His voice somehow sounds deeper, unfamiliar, despite it being the same voice you have heard in your dreams many times before. “You have to ask yourself.” 

You feel his lips against your ear before his teeth clamp lightly over them, and you jolt forward. Your walls flutter uncontrollably, and you feel the slickness rolling down your thighs as he continues to thrust inside you. The flood of warmth makes your eyes roll back while a guttural moan escapes your throat. You gasp, claw and mewl, crying out in pleasure.

You are lit up in flames of desire– in this moment, you feel him filling inside you— filling your veins, mind and soul.

You open your eyes once more, damp lashes blink at the man pinning you against the glass, lazily thrusting to drag out the pleasure, before you are snuffed out of your dream world.

You wake up, glistening with sweat, and a sweet ache and emptiness between your legs. You hear the wetness and feel it. Thick and sticky, yet your mind is muddled enough to think it's only your own arousal. You fall into a dreamless sleep as soon as you wake up.

This time, you dream of a hazy figure in black, hovering over your bed, running his fingers through your hair.

—-

“Soon, I would need a red pill,” Neo says to Morpheus on the phone. He is one with the bustling market crowd, but his eyes never stray from your figure. 

Your shoulders appear slumped, and your eyes are downcast. You are visibly exhausted, yet you carry on. Soon, you will be free from these meaningless burdens. Then, you can focus your energy on what truly matters, your relationship with him.

“What are you planning, Neo?” Morpheus’ voice turns slightly distorted other end “Shouldn’t you be focusing on the Matrixes that are not yet under our control?”

“She is important to me. Start preparing my apartment.”

—-

You think you are going crazy. But there is no proper sign of madness yet. Only you see that man everywhere. He is never right in front of you. No. You see glimpses of him. Like a shadow, you feel him everywhere you go, and see him from the corner of your eyes. But he disappears when you turn. 

It becomes a regular occurrence, and you think you are slowly spiralling into insanity. But all the other aspects of your life remain undisturbed. You only see this mysterious man dressed in black from the corner of your eye

It started with the tail of his coat, the flowing fabric of a dramatic and rushed exit. You ignored it as any rational person would. But then, it turned to seeing the silhouette of a full-grown man from the corner of your eyes. 

Every day, you feel him closer. You see a little more of him, like his pale skin, the dark eyewear and dark hair.

He just feels unreal. But he is very much real–you know it in your bones.

Every time you wake up at odd hours, you somehow expect the man looming over your bed. But you find no one. Nothing seems out of place, but your home does not feel the same. The air has shifted. 

You cannot explain how, but it feels like you are no longer the only resident here. The door you remember closing turns out to be open, the windows you forgot to close before leaving are closed shut when you return, and there is this…smell.

Leather and fuel, along with hints of earthy fragrance. You have tried bringing your friends for a sleepover to see if they feel the same. But none of them seem to notice.

At this point, you are afraid to confide in any friend. What if they think that you are losing your mind? What if you really are losing it?

Your dreams become more vivid. The touches fell more profound. Not like they weren’t before. But you see more of him. And the more you see him in your dreams, the more you realise that the man in your dreams is eerily similar to the man you see from the corner of your eyes.

It must have been apparent that you're disturbed about something, at least to your friends at work. So they drag you for a fun Friday Night. 

It turns out to be actually fun. You get to drink, eat, laugh and let loose a little. You find yourself on the dance floor, but no one is close enough. Yet you feel the static energy buzzing around. You are sober enough to feel the shift, but not enough to be truly alarmed. 

You remain where you are, feeling suddenly braver. There is a buzzing need to ground yourself. You tell yourself that it will all go away once you face it head-on, whatever, or whoever he or it is.

But all thoughts evaporate when you feel the warmth of a palm over your swaying hips. The familiar touch jolts you awake from the haze. This time, it is different. This time, you are not in your bedroom; you are not asleep. You are awake, and you are at a nightclub. You are awake and among people, and yet you feel the familiar touch and the presence.

You feel his lips over your ears, his body pressing against yours. You smell him—leather and fuel. “Trying to run away from the truth?” You stiffen, yet your eyes flutter close in surrender.

“Thomas?” You do not know why you say that name, but it flashes in your mind, and your tongue rolls on its own. 

Thomas? Who is Thomas?

You want to turn around, but he holds you firmly against him. Unlike the wild pace your heart has taken, you only feel his steady heartbeat. His lips brush against your ear with a deliberate movement. “My name…Is Neo.”

“Neo…” His name tastes like enchantment, and perhaps, you are already enchanted. You must have been too drunk, or simply lost any remaining sense of self-preservation, as you lean against him, testing his name on your tongue again. 

So this is the man who haunts your dreams and infests your reality? Is he the final push to your descent into madness?

He takes your hand and leads you away from the crowd, towards the bar, where a man dressed similarly to him serves drinks to the patrons. 

It's like you are in a daze— you let him lead you towards it. Maybe it is due to the joint you smoked with friends earlier? The lingering effects perhaps take away any sense of self-preservation. 

He takes off his dark eyewear, and you get to look into his deep, calm orbs. He exudes an extraordinary sense of calm and authority, like you can hide nothing from him, like even if you choose to break into a sprint, it would be futile.

“Drink”, he offers you the red drink. Your hands reach out for it, even though your mind screams for you to stop. You pause and look at him. One nod of encouragement is all it takes for you to tune out every warning your mind throws at you.

 It’s like you are devoid of any thought or free will. Your movements feel strange, drawn-out, unlike you. But you have no control over your own body. You take a sip. Despite the caution and confusion, the beverage tastes better than anything you have ever had. 

“What do you remember about Thomas?” 

You frown at the question, gazing at him while you take another sip of the irresistible drink.

“I…I don't know. It just slipped out.” You seriously have no idea. It was out of the blue. 

“You aren't supposed to remember, but something in you does. This is a sign.”

“Wh-what sign?” You take a final gulp, finishing the drink while he tugs you towards the exit of the club. 

You suddenly feel it, something solid and tiny passing down your throat along with the drink “Wh–what was that?” You finally feel like you are in control again and try to pull your hands away.

But his grip is iron as he drags you towards an isolated exit of the club. When he opens the door, you expect stairs, but are bewildered to find your living room.

“That, and this…” He turns to you, shutting the door, “... it's all a lie, a prison. I am saving you.”

He finally lets go, but you do not answer him, you are in no state to. Instead, you rush towards your apartment door, still in shock. Throwing it open, you find the common corridor you are familiar with.

“No...this can’t be.”

“She is not ready, Sir.” The other man states.

“She will be.” You vaguely hear him through your laboured breathing as you see thin lines of numbers appearing all around you. The colour green has never been more sickening.

“N–no…no. What’s happening?” You gasp out, feeling piercing chills all over, “I’m cold!” It’s like you are losing your voice, it comes in gasps and muffled “I’m cold!”

You try to scream, but you cannot. Your legs can no longer hold your weight, but ‘Neo’ wraps his arms around you.

He is warm, you vaguely realise, feeling the green almost blinding you. But you are still cold.

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Chapter 3: Denial and Discovery

Warning: This man manhandling you 🫠🥵😵

Ever since you woke up that chilly Tuesday morning, you felt something was off. The sirens outside were more prevalent than usual, the garbage man haven’t arrived as usual, and your wifi was gone. You assumed it was just another disastrous day in the world’s most dangerous city, but you soon learned that it’s much more than that. On your way to work, you had a chance to discover city’s chaos.

The bus, packed with the usual Tuesday morning crowd, lurched to a sudden, screeching halt. The abrupt stop sent you flying forward, your forehead connecting with the unyielding plastic of the seat in front. A collective groan, a symphony of commuter misery, rippled through the vehicle. "What the hell?" someone grumbled, their voice laced with frustration. The driver's voice, usually a monotonous drone, crackled with an unusual urgency over the intercom. "Folks, looks like we've got some kind of…system-wide malfunction. The city's going haywire. All the systems are down. We're stuck here for now.”

Your gut clenched. This wasn't just a momentary lapse in the city's technological infrastructure. This was something far more deliberate, more insidious. This was the kind of meticulously orchestrated digital disruption you'd only witnessed in dystopian movies. The kind that…well, the kind you knew how to do. But it was the kind of thing you would never actually do. The thought sent a shiver down your spine.

You had to get to Byte Me. Mark would be panicking. You pushed my way off the bus, joining the throng of frustrated commuters spilling onto the street. The city was a mess. Traffic lights blinked erratically, causing gridlock. Digital billboards flashed static. Even the automatic doors of shops seemed possessed, shuddering open and closed at random.

Each malfunctioning piece of tech was a nail in the coffin of your apprehension. This was bad. Really bad.

Reaching Byte Me, you fumbled with the keys, your hands shaking. The bell above the door jingled as you pushed it open. "Mark?" You called out, half expecting him to be buried under a mountain of frantic customers.

The shop was empty.

You phone buzzed. An unfamiliar number. I answered it hesitantly.

"Hello?"

A woman's voice, thick with tears and choked with sobs, filled your ear. "(Y/N)? It's… it's Mark's wife, Sarah. He… he was in a car accident. The traffic lights… they weren't working… he lost control and crashed. He’s at Gotham General. He won’t be coming to work…for a while…" The sentence hung in the air, a devastating blow that stole the breath from your lungs.

The phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto the counter, the sound echoing the shattering of your world. Mark. Mark was in the hospital, possibly fighting for his life, because of this digital chaos. The abstract fear you'd been wrestling with, the intellectual understanding of the disaster unfolding, suddenly solidified into a cold, heavy weight in your chest, a crushing burden of guilt and dread. This wasn't just a city-wide malfunction; it was personal. And you had a terrible feeling that you might be somehow responsible.

The rest of the day dissolved into a chaotic, indistinct haze. Byte Me, usually a sanctuary of quiet tinkering and the comforting hum of electronics, transformed into a pressure cooker, the air thick with anxiety and the frenetic energy of a digital emergency. The phone rang incessantly, a relentless chorus of distress calls that grated on your already frayed nerves. Each one was a desperate plea, a frantic cry for help to fix a broken link in the collapsing digital chain that held Gotham together. Small businesses, unable to process payments, teetered on the brink of ruin. Homes were left vulnerable, their smart security systems rendered useless, turning safe havens into potential targets. People were losing their livelihoods, their ability to provide for their families ripped away in an instant.

You worked until your fingers were raw, the tips stinging from constant typing and re-wiring. Your eyes burned, gritty and bloodshot, from staring at the flickering screens for hours on end. You felt like a lone sailor desperately trying to stem a raging tide with a leaky bucket, the sheer volume of the problem overwhelming you. Guilt, cold and heavy, gnawed at you from the inside out. Were you somehow involved in this catastrophe? Was Whispernet somehow responsible for the city’s collapse? Did one of your informants misused your services?

Hours after closing, the streetlights flickering outside cast long, distorted shadows across the shop. You hunched over my monitor, navigating the dark web, chasing whispers and rumors. The air hung thick with unease, a premonition you couldn't shake.

Hours after closing, the streetlights outside cast long, distorted shadows across the shop floor, turning familiar tools and equipment into menacing silhouettes. The only light came from the glow of your monitor, illuminating the obsessive concentration etched on your face. You hunched over your keyboard, navigating the serpentine pathways of the dark web, chasing whispers and rumors, hunting for any clue that could explain the digital apocalypse unfolding around you. The air hung thick with unease, heavy with an unspoken dread. It was more than just the stress of the day; it was a premonition, a dark feeling deep in your gut that you couldn't shake off. Something even worse was coming

Crack!

The sound ripped through the silence, making me jump. The front door had been forced open with one hit.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Thugs. Gotham was overrun with them, especially after a night like this. You scrambled behind the counter, your hand closing around the familiar grip of the baseball bat you kept for emergencies.

"Hello?" you called out, your voice trembling. "I have a bat, and I'm not afraid to use it!" Liar. You were terrified.

The figure moved closer, a hulking silhouette framed by the flickering neon sign outside, casting long, distorted shadows across the already cluttered shop. Panic seized you. You swung blindly, aiming for where Iyou thought the head might be.

The bat connected with… something solid. A grunt, more of surprise than pain. Then, a swift, strong movement, and the bat was ripped from your grasp. The force nearly threw you off balance. Old Bessie clattered to the floor, abandoned and useless.

You stumbled back, fear paralyzing me. You couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The figure stepped fully into the dim light filtering from the single working fluorescent tube overhead, and your breath hitched in your throat. It wasn't a thug. Not exactly.

Red Hood.

He was real. Standing right there, in your shop. You'd seen him on the news, read the talks online, heard the rumors swirling through the underworld. A vigilante, some said. A merciless killer, others claimed. Either way, he was a myth made flesh, a nightmare walking into your reality. And he looked pissed.

“We need to talk."

He was a figure sculpted from shadows and anger. His presence filled the room, a palpable threat that sent a shiver down your spine despite the layers of firewalls you usually hid behind.

He growled, his voice distorted by the helmet's modulator. "These attacks, their comms are routed through your system. You're behind this, aren't you?"

"I run a service," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "People use it. I don't control what they say." My mind raced. Deny. Deny everything. That was my only hope. "I just… I fix computers. Broken screens, fried motherboards, viruses… that's it.”

Jason’s mask didn’t betray his emotions, but his body language screamed disbelief. He took a step closer, and I could feel the heat radiating from his armored suit. The air crackled with unspoken threat. "Don't play coy with me. You built this. You know who's using it." The modulated voice was menacing. "You gonna tell me willingly, or am I gonna have to… persuade you?"

He was wrong, but denial felt futile.

Your carefully constructed wall of denial crumbled. "Okay! Okay, I… I do some… freelance work. Security consulting mostly. Some… less legal stuff too. Pentesting, vulnerability assessments… stuff like that. But I swear, I didn't… I didn't unleash any virus!"

"What kind of 'less legal stuff'?" He pressed, his tone unrelenting.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a jagged stone. "Information gathering… a little… hacking. Corporate espionage, mostly. Helping companies stay ahead of the competition. But nothing that would destabilize a whole city! I swear! I wouldn't even know how to do something like that."

Before he could respond, the front windows of Byte Me exploded inwards, showering us in shards of glass. Gunfire ripped through the air.

"Maroni's boys!" Red Hood roared, grabbing you roughly by the arm. He shoved you down, covering your body with his. The weight of his armored form was surprisingly comforting, a small shield against the hail of bullets that peppered the walls and shattered what was left of the electronics around us.

"Stay down!" he yelled over the din, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air. Without waiting for a response, he scrambled to his feet, a dark, armored behemoth against the backdrop of destruction. He returned fire with a deafening roar of gunfire, his pistols barking with a ferocity that matched the assailants. Brass casings rained down around us, glinting in the dim light.

He was fast, brutal, and efficient. But the shooters were relentless. You had to get out of here.

He hauled you up like a paper doll, pulling you to your feet. "Move! We gotta go!"

He didn't have to tell you twice. Together, you sprinted out the back of the shop, through the alleyway, bullets chipping chunks out of the brick walls around you. You stumbled and fell, scraping your knees on the pavement. Red Hood pulled you up again, his grip surprisingly gentle despite the urgency of the situation.

You burst onto the street, and you saw it – his motorcycle, a sleek, black machine that looked like it belonged more on a racetrack than in Gotham's grimy streets.

“Oh no no no… I’m not getting on-”

Before you could finish that, his hands encircled your waist. He practically threw you onto the bike, settling you behind him. "Hold on tight!" He ordered, revving the engine.

"Wait! I can't just…"

His response was a snarl. "Shut up and hold on!"

And then you were moving, tearing through the streets, the roar of the engine drowning out the sounds of the chase. The wind whipped through my hair, carrying with it the scent of burning rubber and fear.

Two cars peeled out from the broken storefront of Byte Me, their headlights cutting through the night. Maroni's men. They were gaining on you.

Red Hood weaved through traffic with reckless abandon, narrowly avoiding collisions. Cars honked and swerved, their drivers enraged and terrified. He was skilled, you had to give him that. But the cars were relentless, gaining on us with every turn.

Then, you heard a sickening thud beneath the bike. An explosion ripped through the night, a blinding flash and a deafening roar. You were lifted off the ground, momentarily weightless, before crashing back down hard.

You tumbled off the bike, skidding across the ground towards the edge of the elevated highway. The impact stole your breath and sent waves of pain radiating through your body. You clawed at the ground, desperate to stop your slide. Below, a churning, black abyss.

The last thing you saw was Red Hood’s figure silhouetted against the flickering city lights before you plunged into the icy waters of Gotham Harbor.

The shock stole your breath, a physical blow that amplified the panic rising in your chest. You flailed, arms and legs thrashing uselessly, trying to orient yourself in the disorienting darkness. But the current was a relentless force, a churning, icy hand pulling you further and further under. Your lungs burned with the desperate need for air, a searing pain that intensified with each passing second. Your vision blurred, the city lights above dissolving into hazy, distorted shapes. The despair began to creep in, a cold and suffocating blanket threatening to extinguish your will to fight.

Just as you were about to succumb to the darkness, a strong arm wrapped around your waist, a sudden and unexpected salvation. The grip was firm, unyielding, hauling you upwards against the relentless pull of the water. You gasped for air, choking and sputtering, the frigid water burning your throat and lungs. Coughing violently, you managed to focus, your eyes blurry but recognizing the familiar red of his jacket. Red Hood. He saved you.

He dragged you, half-conscious and shivering uncontrollably, through the treacherous waters. The current fought against us, threatening to pull us both back into the depths. He was silent, his movements driven by a fierce determination. We finally reached the grimy docks of the Bowery harbor, the rough wood scraping against your skin as he hauled you onto the slippery surface.

His helmet, usually a symbol of intimidating anonymity, was cracked, almost shattered, its polished surface now marred by deep fissures. He reached up, his gloved hand hesitating for a moment, before pulling it off, revealing… a face. A surprisingly… appealing face, despite the harsh lines etched by the jagged scar that bisected his eyebrow. Rugged. Intense.

"Come on," he grunted, his voice rough but laced with a surprising urgency. He pulled a dark hood over his head, obscuring his face once more, but not erasing the image that had been briefly revealed. "We gotta move.”

He was injured. You could see him grimacing with every step, his movements stiff and labored. He favored one leg, his weight unevenly distributed. You limped through the deserted docks, the silence broken only by the lapping of waves against the pilings and your own ragged, gasping breathing. The air hung heavy with the scent of salt and decay, a familiar aroma in this forgotten corner of Gotham.

Finally, you reached it – a towering structure that loomed over the Bowery like a gothic sentinel. The Belfry.

He pushed open a heavy steel door, the hinges groaning in protest, and ushered me inside. The interior was surprisingly clean and high-tech, a stark and unexpected contrast to the grimy, decaying exterior. Banks of monitors glowed with complex data, casting an eerie light on the polished surfaces. The air hummed with the muted thrum of sophisticated technology.

And then you saw them – Nightwing, Batgirl, and Red Robin – all staring at us, their expressions a mixture of confusion and concern. The weight of their gazes settled upon you, adding to the chill that already permeated your bones.

Jason was in worse shape than when he left, sporting numerous bruises and cuts that were rapidly blooming into angry purple welts. And then there was you, soaking wet, shivering, and looking utterly out of place.

You shrunk back, trying to blend into the wall, wishing you could disappear into the shadows. The guilt and fear were a heavy weight in your stomach.

Red Hood launched into a terse explanation, cutting you sideways glances every now and then. He recounted the events leading up to your near-drowning, painting you as a potential suspect but also acknowledging the lack of direct involvement.

When he finished, Babs spoke first, her voice calm and measured. "So, you think she's involved in the attacks, but you're not sure."

"She's got the skills, that's for sure!" said Jason with a pointed glare at you.

"And she’s been shot at by the Maronis," Tim added thoughtfully, his gaze sharp and analytical. "That suggests she's either involved in something they want, or she's become a liability to them.”

"She could be a target, or a useful pawn. Either way, we can't just let her go," Dick finished, his blue eyes filled with a concern that felt surprisingly genuine. He was assessing you, trying to gauge your intentions, your capabilities.

"So, what are you saying?" Jason asked, his voice laced with a hint of annoyance. He shifted his weight, his muscles tense.

"What we're saying," Babs said, turning to you with a serious expression, "is that until we know for sure what's going on, and until it's safe for you to leave, you're staying here. At the Belfry."

"Oh…" was the only thing you managed to choke out, the word barely audible above the pounding of your heart. You were still trying to process everything that had happened in the past few hours - the attack, the fall, Jason rescuing you, and now, this. So, you were stuck with a bunch of superheroes who thought you were a criminal. At least Red Hood hadn't broken your legs over this. Yet.