#heartbeat sensors

[whitetailgeigergameaccessrequest]

WHITETAIL GEIGER GAME ACCESS REQUEST

[gromky]

oh sete (big boys dont cry)

[omarwolaeth]

I've realised that, because of how Tertiary ends, the fourth chapter to Heartbeat Program lets me screw around with Raidraptor anatomy. Sometimes the spirit form of a bird will nibble at you as a scanning mechanism because of a beak-contained sensor.

[valence-e]

Wtf is that shit clipped onto Folinics ears? Are those monitors or headphones?

[societyfolklore]

Synthetic Obedience

Title:  Synthetic Obedience

Pairing: Dark!Tony Stark x Lab assistant! Female Reader  

Summary:  When Tony Stark personally selects you for a nanotech interface trial, it feels like your big break. But the tech isn’t what it seems.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, DubCon/NonCon/Mind Control, Bimbofication/Mental Reprogramming, Dehumanization, Objectification, Use of Technology for Control, Orgasm Control/Forced Arousal, Derogatory Language, Praise-Degradation Kink, Lab Setting

A/N: Entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo. Also my first Tony centered Fic.. Square: B3- Made a Slave    Card Number: AA014

You didn’t quite know exactly how it happened. But you remembered how it started.

You’d been a TA at MIT, buried in research papers, grading problem sets, and trying to scrape together time for your own side project- a low-energy neural link interface. It wasn’t groundbreaking by Stark standards, but it had promise. You weren’t even done refining it when you got the call.

You couldn’t believe your luck when Stark Industries reached out to you. You didn’t think lab techs got headhunted. Interns, maybe. Engineers with big-name patents? Sure. But you were still early in your career, working under professors who didn’t even bother to learn your name. And yet here you were, walking into the R&D division of the most advanced tech company on the planet, credentials in hand, heartbeat in your throat.

They said they liked your research. Said Tony had seen the write-up himself.

You thought it had to be a mistake. But it wasn’t.

Iron Man, Tony Stark. You got giddy thinking about it. 

You were sweet, eager to please, and more than a little nervous around Tony Stark...

You were sweet, eager to please, and more than a little nervous around Tony Stark. He was larger than life, brilliant, untouchable, he carried himself like he owned the world, and maybe he did. Still, you worked hard. You stayed late. You double-checked your data, kept your station pristine, made sure you never wasted his time. You barely spoke unless spoken to. But you listened. Oh, you always listened. And when he did speak to you- when he called you by name, it made your stomach flutter.

What you hadn’t expected, though, was how present he was. Tony Stark didn’t just pop in and out of the lab. He hovered. He asked questions. He leaned over your shoulder to see your readouts, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body behind you. Sometimes, when he reached around you to adjust a setting, his arm would brush your side, his hand steady on your back. It wasn’t inappropriate, never obviously so, but it lingered just a breath longer than it needed to.

“You’ve got good instincts,” he murmured once, low and warm against your ear as he looked over your data pad with you. “Don’t be afraid to trust them.”

You nodded too quickly, flushed to your ears, and he chuckled as he walked off.

You had a tiny crush, sure! What junior tech assistant didn’t? But it was harmless. Quiet. He had Pepper, after all. Everyone knew that. Though... you hadn’t seen her around much these days. Still, he’d never look at someone like you. You thought he didn’t notice.

But he was always there. Watching. Smirking. And touching- just enough to make you wonder if maybe he did.

He noticed everything.

He noticed the way your wide eyes followed him when he entered a room. The way you stammered when answering questions. The way you blushed when he looked at you too long. You tried to play it off, keep your head down, but he had this smirk every time, like he knew. Like he enjoyed it.

One afternoon, you were triple-checking a sensor calibration when you heard his voice behind you. "Hey, TA."

You turned too quickly, nearly knocking over a stool. "Y-Yes, Mr. Stark?"

"Tony," he corrected with a grin. "Got a minute? Need a steady set of hands."

"I- I mean, of course. Yes. I’m not doing anything urgent."

He handed you something wrapped in a velvet cloth. When you unwrapped it, you found a sleek silver glove glinting up at you.

"Prototype nanotech interface," he said casually, watching your reaction. "You’re the best candidate we’ve got for a live sync test. Thought you might want to try it out."

Your eyes widened. "Me? Really?"

"You’re smart, focused, and you don’t complain. That’s rare. Plus, I read your MIT paper. Neural sync stabilization through passive microfeedback, right? Sounded hot."

Hot?

You blinked. "Thank you. I- I mean... that’s amazing to hear. I won’t let you down."

He smirked again, but it was softer. "Didn’t think you would. Just slide it on and tell me how it feels. Might tingle."

It was just a glove. Sleek, cool metal. The inner lining was soft, lined with micro-filaments meant to link with your neural patterns. Harmless. Temporary. A basic integration test, you reminded yourself.

You slipped it on, and the moment it activated- a soft pulse, warm and electric. You gasped. It spread fast, licking up your arm and over your collarbone, tendrils of heat sinking into muscle and bone. It didn’t just rest against your skin, it felt like it merged with it. You could feel the micro-filaments slipping in, syncing with every nerve, every breath. Like it belonged there.

You blinked rapidly, lips parting as your body responded to something deep inside. Your breath caught. Your knees weakened slightly, the tingling sensation crawling over your skin and anchoring itself deep in your core.

Tony moved to a nearby console, fingers tapping idly at the interface. He wasn’t in a rush. He didn’t even seem surprised.

“You might feel strange,” he said casually, not looking up. “New tech and all.”

"Something’s... off," you mumbled. 

He tilted his head, watching you with clinical detachment. Not alarmed. Curious.

"Off how?"

You tried to find the words. Tried to ask him to shut it down. But your tongue wouldn’t cooperate. It felt big in your mouth. And then he said, "Calm down, sweetheart," in that smooth, steady voice and you melted. Your spine loosened. Your thighs pressed together, heat blooming between them.

Tony didn’t stop the test.

He just watched.

You lifted your arm, trying to tug the glove loose, but your limbs felt slower. Like resistance had to move through molasses. "It’s doing something- I think it’s-"

“Be a good girl for me and don’t touch the interface,” he said, still offhand, like it was just another lab instruction.

Your hand dropped automatically.

"Yes Sir.."  Why did you voice sound like that? All soft and breathy? 

Your thoughts slowed. Everything felt heavier. Thicker. Like your brain was under water. The edges of your mind felt like they’d been smoothed down, made pliable. A dreamy sort of heat flooded your chest, then lower. Your muscles relaxed even as your nipples hardened beneath your shirt.

You turned to Tony, eyes wide and a little unfocused. He was still typing, but now watching you closely, just beneath his lashes. Studying. Assessing. Smiling?

"Mr Stark, Sir," you murmured, your voice strange in your throat. Soft. Breathy. "Something’s wrong. My brain feels… off."

He looked up briefly, shrugging one shoulder with casual ease. "Yeah, I’m seeing some weird integration feedback. Can’t seem to undo the link just yet."

Your stomach tightened. "Undo the link?"

He waved a hand vaguely, as if brushing off the concern. "New tech, sweetheart. Bugs are normal. I’m working on it. Just be a good girl a little longer. You can do that, right?"

Your knees wobbled. The words hit something deep in your chest and between your thighs. Heat surged again. You shifted your weight, trying to discreetly press your thighs together, but your balance faltered- your limbs too loose, your mind too foggy. You stumbled a step and caught yourself on the bench.

"When can I take it off?" you asked, more desperate than you meant to sound.

Tony turned back to the console, fingers flying as he spoke calmly. "Gotta let the interface finish syncing before I can disconnect it."

That didn’t sound right. Did it? You weren’t sure anymore. Your thoughts felt distant, untrustworthy.

He stepped closer, his voice smoother now, hand brushing your arm. "You’ll have to stay here until we work this out."

You nodded slowly, too fogged to argue.

Then he smiled, said it again

"Good girl."

And you forgot why you ever wanted to take it off.

He stepped beside you, took your wrist gently, and examined the glove.

"Hold still," he said softly, already keying something in near the seam.

There was a flicker of warmth. Then a pulse.

Your skin flushed with heat as the tingling sensation spread through your arm and down your spine. You gasped, a giggle bubbling up before you could stop it as your body shivered with the sudden stimulation.

Tony just watched you.

That small, satisfied smile curved his lips—like he’d just solved a puzzle. Like this was what he had been waiting for. He didn’t talk to you like an assistant anymore. He said your name like it was a command. And every time, it made your breath hitch.

You knew something was wrong. Knew this wasn’t how your mind used to work. You were slower. Softer. Hornier. But it felt good.

It felt right.

You wobbled where you stood, your breath shaky, the heat in your core relentless. You opened your mouth to ask him what was happening again—but before you could, he looked up from the console and said it plainly:

"We need to go downstairs. Can’t have someone else finding you like this." He paused, almost to himself, then added under his breath, "Last thing I need is this getting back to Pepper… she already doesn’t answer my calls as it is.""

Your heart fluttered. Not in fear. In... something else.

You nodded before your brain caught up. "Yes, Sir." 

Tony brought you down to the lower lab.

It was private. Off-grid. The kind of space meant for things no one else was meant to see. The walls were soundproof. The door required a multi-factor biometric scan, and once it hissed shut behind you, the silence was absolute. The lights were dim, casting everything in a sterile blue glow. The air was cool enough to raise goosebumps along your bare arms. There were screens, live feeds, holograms, biometric data. All glowing with soft pulses of information. You barely noticed any of it.

You couldn’t stop staring at Tony. He stood against the console like he had all the time in the world. His sleeves were rolled up, his chest rising and falling slowly, measured. His eyes—those sharp, molten eyes—glinted beneath his lashes, dark and burning, like he knew exactly what you were becoming.

The soft glow of the arc reactor under his shirt pulsed with gentle blue light, drawing your attention like a beacon. He looked unreal in the dim lighting, like a Tech God. A superhero. A saviour. Iron Man.

But more than that… he was your idol.

And someone like him, someone that brilliant, that powerful- deserved to be worshiped.

He lifted his head up from the screen, his eyes possessive and intense.

Like he’d made you. Like he was admiring his favourite creation.

“Strip.”

One word. That was all it took.

Your hands moved before your brain could fully register the command. Fingers found the button at your collarbone. The shirt peeled away, slow and obedient, revealing more and more of your skin. It felt ritualistic. Your breath hitched as the cool air kissed your bare chest. As your nipples forming . Your hands undid the zip on your skirt the fabric slid down your hips and thighs, pooling at your ankles.

You stepped out of it, shoulders back, head high, presenting yourself without hesitation. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, excited breaths. Your skin tingled. Your pussy throbbed.

Tony's gaze was molten.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and you whimpered before you could stop yourself.

It wasn’t just arousal, it was relief. Praise made everything inside you bloom. His voice was a balm, a drug, a trigger. You felt warm all over, thighs trembling slightly as your mind swam in that golden haze.

“You wouldn’t say no to me,” Tony murmured, admiring “You wouldn’t scold me or tell me I’m wrong. You wouldn’t look at me like they do.”

His voice was soft, low, coaxing. Dangerous.

“No lectures. No morality speeches. No guilt trips. Just you, here… being exactly what I need.”

He smiled, dark and indulgent.

“You’re perfect for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

He walked toward you slowly, as though savouring the moment. His fingertips skimmed the underside of your chin, tilting your face up.

“You’re even better than I expected,” he murmured, voice rich and dangerous. “Responsive. Programmable. And fuck—look at you.”

He waved one hand, and the mirrors lit up all around you. High-resolution feeds showed you from every angle—naked, glassy-eyed, legs slick with arousal, lips parted in helpless anticipation. You stared at yourself, not recognizing the woman in the reflection.

You looked empty.

You looked perfect.

His.

“On your knees.”

Your legs buckled with eager obedience. You dropped to the cold floor, spreading your thighs and tilting your chin. You didn’t think. You didn’t question. You just obeyed, body trained to respond to his voice like a switch flipped. You were glowing with the pleasure of submission, back straight, chest pushed forward, knees pressed to the cool lab floor like it was where you were meant to be.

Tony’s hand slid through your hair, twining it slowly around his fingers, caressing like he was enjoying the texture of his creation.

“Such a quick learner,” he purred, voice syrup-slick. “You’re not just some assistant anymore, sweetheart. You’re my project. My new toy. My proof of concept.”

He paused, eyes glittering as he looked down at you. “Look at yourself. God, you don’t even know what you used to be, do you? Just a dripping mess made for my cock.”

The words shouldn’t have thrilled you. They should have scared you. But they didn’t. Your belly clenched with need. Your cunt pulsed. You felt proud. Like you’d done something right. Like you were being rewarded. "Open." 

You opened your mouth, waiting, lips parted and slick with anticipation.

He unzipped his fly slowly, deliberately, watching your eyes track every movement with rapt attention. The sound of the zipper seemed deafening in the quiet room. When he pulled himself free- thick, hard, heavy. You whimpered, breath hitching.

Your lips trembled with hunger. You leaned forward just a fraction, aching for the taste.

He didn’t give you permission to suck. Not yet. “You’re such a good little bot now, aren’t you? Didn’t even need to hack your mind to much. This is why it had to be you, you wanted this, wanted me.”

He stroked the head of his cock across your cheek, smearing precum along your flushed skin, then trailed it down to your lips. You leaned into it like a kitten desperate for milk.

“That smart little brain of yours is so quiet now,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “Bet you can’t even remember the periodic table, can you?”

You couldn’t.

You didn’t care.

Not when he finally pushed past your lips, groaning as your mouth enveloped him. You sucked greedily, needily, cheeks hollowing, tongue stroking with practiced desperation. You didn’t have technique anymore, you had instinct. You had hunger. Your thoughts melted into the rhythm, your brain buzzing with the echo of his praise. Each thrust hit something primal, and you moaned around him, the sound muffled but needy, wet.

"Fuck, look at you," Tony groaned, hips rolling with steady precision. "Those empty pretty eyes."

He held your head in place, fingers curled tightly in your hair, guiding you like he was syncing you to his rhythm. "Tighten your lips."

You obeyed instantly, your jaw aching as you clamped down a little harder. He hissed in pleasure.

"Good. Now use your tongue more. Yeah-just like that," he grunted, pushing deeper. "Gonna use that perfect little mouth and throat."

He was rough, unyielding, fucking your mouth like he had every right to, because he did. You were his. Not just body- but thoughts, actions, reactions. Every nerve was tuned to him. Programmed for him.

"You were built for this," he growled. "Good fucking toy."

Spit dripped down your chin as your eyes teared up. But you never stopped. You couldn’t. Every time he said good girl, your pussy clenched. You wanted more. Wanted everything.

When he finally pulled you up, his cock wet and shining from your lips, your legs wobbled. His chest was heaving, eyes locked on your messy, flushed face. He didn’t pause.

“On the table,” he panted, voice rough and commanding.

You stumbled backward, climbing up, limbs trembling as you spread your legs without needing to be told. You were so wet, it was obscene.

And then he slammed into you.

You screamed.

"Fuck, yeah- that’s it," Tony growled. "Open for me. You love this, don’t you? Being my little toy. My empty little slut."

Your entire body bowed off the table, crying out his name- Tony, Sir, God, anything he wanted, as he drove into you again and again. There was no space to think. No room for resistance. Just the endless pulse of need and the way he filled you so perfectly.

And the nanotech responded to everything.

With each thrust, the sensations sharpened, your nerve endings sparked with pleasure that felt engineered, enhanced, manipulated until every brush of skin against skin sent fire through your blood. Your clit pulsed with synced stimulation, your inner walls tightening in perfect sync with his rhythm, the tech ensuring you felt every inch of him with near-electric clarity.

You were his invention in more ways than one.

He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "Tighten around me, baby. You can do it. Just like I programmed you to, squeeze."

"Yes, Sir," you whimpered, obedient even through the haze.

"Good girl. You’re perfect. My fuckdoll. My living, breathing cumdump."

You keened at the praise, back arching, body pulsing around him as the nanotech triggered another wave- an artificial aftershock that left you whimpering, overstimulated and desperate.

He knew exactly what to say. What to program into you. When he told you to come, your body obeyed like a triggered code, the tech sending a pulse to your core that shattered you. You sobbed with the intensity, thighs trembling, toes curling as your cunt clenched tight around him.

"That’s it- squeeze me just like that. Take it. Take all of it."

And he didn’t stop.

Not until he’d filled you to the brim with every drop of him. The tech pulsed once more, almost like it was sealing him inside you.

When it was over, he eased out of you slowly, your pussy fluttering around the absence. He ran his fingers through your sweat-dampened hair as you blinked up at him, dazed and smiling.

He murmured it again, soft and low-"Good girl."

Then his hand curled possessively around your cheek, thumb smearing your tears. “No one else will ever have you,” he whispered, his voice like velvet over steel. “You’re mine. My best creation.”

You smiled wider, blissed-out and pliant, the tech rewarding you with a small, sweet pulse through your spine.

Tony straightened, chest still heaving, and glanced toward the screen. “FRIDAY,” he said, voice sharper now. “Log current test session. Neural response, pelvic pulse sync, submissive compliance—mark it all as successful iterations. Make note Gonna tweak the pleasure threshold for next time.”

“Confirmed,” FRIDAY replied coolly. "Logged. Would you like me to auto-clean her next time too, sir?"

He looked back down at you. You were still lying on the table, your skin sticky with sweat and cum, your legs parted, your body twitching softly as another subtle vibration ran through the glove’s nanotech interface- teasing, gentle, but constant.

You whimpered as he placed your hand over your pussy. 

“After you run full diagnostic.” Tony added, his tone now entirely clinical. “And initiate standby mode in maybe an hour. I'm going upstairs, I’ve got a board meeting in twenty.”

“Yes, sir.” 

The nanotech pulsed again- this time with rhythmic intent, like a low thrum running straight through your nerves. You let out another soft, breathy moan, helpless against the pleasure still drumming through your system.

Tony smirked. “Try not to make too much of a mess while I’m gone, sweetheart.”

And then he walked out, leaving you pulsing and twitching quietly on the table, nothing more than his perfect little invention- waiting for his return.

[mandoalorian]

his body, her fury [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: tensions crackle as the mission to track down reed richards spirals into chaos beneath manhattan’s streets. with tempers flaring and powers unleashed, lines blur between enemy and ally—especially when instincts overpower intention.

word count: 6700

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, male masturbation, bucky has a steamy shower moment, canon typical violence/action, angst, bucky/sam still aren’t friends, enemies to lovers, details of injury, avengers tower fic, thunderbolts spoilers

masterlist

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The street was dead. Not the kind of dead that came with sleep or silence — the kind that buzzed with something wrong. Static in the air. Lights in the buildings overhead flickered like they were trying to whisper warnings.

“You sure this is the place?” John’s voice cut through the fog as he slung his taco-shaped shield over his back, boots clunking loudly against cracked concrete. “Because it looks like a dump.”

“It’s supposed to,” Bucky muttered from the front, barely glancing back. “That’s the point.”

You adjusted the strap of your tactical vest, the weight of your comms gear pressing against your shoulder. The tip you’d received from Valentina said there was energy movement underground — something not registered by satellites but pulsing with dimensional interference. And supposedly, Reed Richards had something to do with it.

“I’ve seen dumps with more personality,” Alexei grumbled beside you. “In Russia, we have garbage fires that are warmer than this city.”

You smirked in spite of yourself. “You talk a lot for someone who nearly tripped the last three sensors.”

“I am stealthy,” he replied, squinting ahead like a bloodhound in war paint. “You are simply not perceptive enough to notice.”

“She’s plenty perceptive,” Bucky snapped, stopping at a rusted manhole cover etched with what looked like claw marks.

John rolled his eyes. “Oh good, here comes your moody boyfriend routine.”

You stiffened.

“I’m not her—” “He’s not my—”

You and Bucky spoke at the same time, then glared at each other.

Bucky was already kneeling beside the manhole, wrenching the cover off with one gloved hand. You watched as he pulled at it with ease, managing to tear away something which would usually take a whole team of men and machinery. The scent that came out was metallic and wrong, like burnt ozone and bleach. He didn’t look at you when he said, “Stay in front of me when we go in. Don’t touch anything.”

“Why? Scared I’ll break something?” you shot back.

“No,” he said without blinking. “Scared you’ll get hurt.”

That stunned you more than it should have. You recovered fast.

“I can handle myself.”

“We’ll see.”

“Can we save the foreplay for later?” John drawled as he dropped into the opening. “Some of us are trying to save the world.”

You felt your eye twitch.

Alexei went next, grumbling something about “American sarcasm” and “no damn manners.” You followed, fingers tight on the ladder rungs, the cold metal slick beneath your gloves. When you landed at the bottom, ankle-deep in shadow and ancient water, you were surrounded by whispering pipes and humming machinery.

It felt like the underground had a heartbeat.

“Oh, gross,” you muttered, waving a hand in front of your face as the sewer air clung to your skin like rot. “Smells like Bucky’s personality down here.”

Behind you, a heavy thud echoed as Bucky dropped in, the metal grate clanging back into place above. His arm brushed yours, and you shifted away reflexively.  “Cute,” he said dryly, brushing dust off his tactical vest. “I didn’t realise we were rating sewer systems now. Are you always going to be this pleasant on missions? Or am I just that lucky tonight?”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Only when I have to share air with someone whose idea of charm is brooding and breathing too loudly.”

Bucky scoffed, stepping just close enough to brush your shoulder as he passed. His touch made a shiver crawl over you. “Lucky for you, I don’t need charm to get the job done.”

Your jaw tightened, pulse flickering. “No, just a personality like sandpaper and the warmth of a corpse.”

He paused, just a beat, then smirked — barely. “Still can’t stop staring, though.”

You scoffed, biting down the flush rising to your cheeks. “Only to remind myself what not to work with.”

Alexei, trudging just behind you, looked between the two of you with big, gleaming eyes. “Is this flirting?” he whispered—not quietly. “Because it kind of feels like flirting.”

John Walker snorted. “Lover’s quarrel,” he muttered under his breath, wiping sewer grime off his gloves. “They just need to kiss already and save us the tension migraines.”

“Say that again and I’ll show you a migraine,” you snapped, not even bothering to look at him. “I don’t have time to play babysitter to two men with over-inflated egos.”

“Two?” Bucky echoed, cocking a brow. “So I’m sharing that title now?”

“You’ve always been number one in my heart, Barnes,” you drawled sarcastically. “Right next to paper cuts and food poisoning.”

Alexei coughed to hide his laugh. “I like this team dynamic. It keeps me sharp.”

John grunted. “It’s gonna get us caught if you two don’t zip it. We’re not exactly stealthy when we’re bickering like high schoolers.”

“I’m not bickering,” you and Bucky said in unison, then scowled at each other like the very sound of being in sync was offensive.

Silence stretched briefly before Alexei whispered to himself, “Definitely flirting.”

You’d been walking for what felt like hours. The tunnels split and curved endlessly, coated in rust and algae, with flickering industrial lights above giving everything a sickly yellow tint. The deeper you went, the warmer it got. Not in any natural way — in a “maybe the Earth’s core is bleeding” way.

“This is a dead end,” John grumbled, shining his flashlight down a hallway that looped back into itself. “We’re wasting time. Probably a just bum’s hideout, and Val’s intel was bunk.”

“Valentina’s intel is never bunk,” Bucky said sharply, voice low and certain.

Alexei nodded vigorously. “She once told me to dig under a hot dog cart in Queens. Said I’d find contraband tech. I found a squirrel with a USB drive in its mouth. She was correct.”

John blinked, then scoffed. “Not what I meant. Why is that even a sentence?”

Alexei grinned. “She’s never wrong. Just like Bucky—sharp instincts. That’s why I listen.”

John snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe if Bucky grunted less and actually led like a human being, we wouldn’t be crawling through Manhattan’s sewer system like Ninja Turtles on a midlife crisis.”

Bucky didn’t dignify that with a response, but Alexei turned with a grunt. “You don’t respect him,” he said to John, stabbing a finger in Bucky’s direction. “This man saved the world.”

John raised a brow. “Yeah, and he also killed a couple dozen people before that. You forget about that part?”

You held your breath, waiting.

Alexei crossed his arms. “We all have skeletons. This one just happens to be a very efficient skeleton.”

You let out an involuntary snort. Even Bucky’s lip twitched.

“I’m checking this hatch,” you said quickly, pointing to a rusted grate high above. You stepped onto the ledge of a cracked pipe but the vent was just out of reach. You adjusted your footing, arms stretching — still not high enough.

“Here,” Bucky said.

You looked down just as he approached, silent again. His hands found your waist before you could object and suddenly — you were airborne. Lifted like you weighed nothing.

You gasped. “Warn me next time.”

“You would’ve said no,” he said simply, keeping you steady with terrifying ease.

His fingers were warm through the fabric of your tac gear. Steady. Strong. Too strong.

You wrenched the vent cover loose and peered through, catching only the stretch of more tunnel — until something flickered across your vision. A thread. A shimmer. An aura.

You froze.

It pulsed in slow motion, soft as a heartbeat. Blue. Cool. Controlled. Intelligent.

He was here.

You dropped down, landing hard on your feet, and Bucky steadied you again before you could stumble. You looked straight at him.

“He’s here,” you whispered. “Reed Richards. I can feel him. He’s close.”

The others tensed instantly.

“Where?” Bucky asked.

You pointed. “Past the wall. There’s another level above. I don’t know how to get there yet, but—he’s not alone. There’s… something with him.”

Bucky’s expression darkened.

“I knew it,” Alexei muttered, fingers twitching by his belt. “I felt something earlier. My toes were tingling.”

“You sure that wasn’t just mold?” John muttered.

“Silence, peasant,” Alexei snapped.

Bucky turned to the group. “Weapons ready. Eyes up.”

You exhaled slowly. Whatever was coming, you’d found him. The aura was unmistakable.

Reed Richards.

But if he was here, hiding beneath Manhattan… why hadn’t he made contact?

And what — or who — was he hiding from?

Bucky’s hands had left you minutes ago, but you could still feel the imprint of them on your waist — like a brand. The way he’d lifted you — no hesitation, no strain. In his arms, you’d felt like nothing at all.

You hated that your heart had skipped when his fingers brushed your sides. Hated the way you felt warm where he touched you. Hated that he hadn't even looked winded, his jaw set, eyes scanning the dark with focus so precise it made you ache.

You shook it off.

Now wasn’t the time.

Reed’s aura pulsed just ahead, still faint but constant, like a low hum in your bones. You pressed your hand to the concrete wall beside the grate and narrowed your eyes, channelling out every voice, every footstep, and every mocking comment from John.

The path revealed itself slowly. A faint shimmer along the right wall. Not a doorway, but a structural weakness. Like someone had reshaped the building. Not broken it — just… bent it.

“I know where to go,” you said firmly, already stepping forward.

The team fell into step behind you. You didn’t need to look to know Bucky was closest. His steps were quieter. Measured. The aura around him buzzed, still dim and grey and sad and full of edges.

John, on the other hand, radiated loud red, all ego and bravado.

Alexei was harder to read — his aura shifted between an affectionate gold and bright, crackling blue, like he felt too much at once and had no idea how to rein it in.

“So,” Alexei started, peering around your shoulder. “This aura power… does it let you see through walls? Do you feel heartbeats? Emotions? Can you sense guilt?”

You gave him a side-glance. “Kind of. And yes. Sometimes.”

John rolled his eyes. “She’s not a damn lie detector.”

Alexei gasped. “Can you tell if someone finds me attractive?”

That actually made you smirk. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Alexei grinned and bumped your shoulder like an overgrown golden retriever.

“Let her focus,” Bucky said from behind, his voice sharper than before. Not cruel. Protective. “She’s tracking something.”

You exhaled again, steadying your steps. You passed the cracked grate and turned into a narrow corridor. The ceiling sloped low and the air smelled charged, like static and smoke. Reed’s aura was stronger here, along with another.

Hot, bright. Reckless.

Whoever was with him — they were nothing like Reed.

You stopped at the end of the corridor and placed a hand on the wall again.

“There’s a door here,” you murmured. “But it’s cloaked. They don’t want to be found.”

Bucky moved to your side. “But we found them anyway.”

You didn’t look at him.

“They’ll know we’re here now,” you said softly. “We’re close enough that the heat of their auras is radiating through the wall.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Heat?”

Alexei adjusted his grip on his shield. “That means fire. I am certain.”

You didn’t answer. You just stepped back, heart pounding, and nodded once toward the sealed doorway.

“You ready?” Bucky asked.

You hesitated. Then nodded again.

This wasn’t just about finding someone anymore. It was about what you might unleash when you did.

The door didn’t open so much as melt.

One second it was solid wall. The next, it shimmered out of existence, sucked inward and twisted like taffy before folding into nothing.

You all stepped back instinctively.

Then came the voice — low, calculated, smooth as wet marble.

“I was wondering when one of you would find us.”

Reed Richards stepped into the corridor like he’d been waiting.

He was around 6 feet. Unassuming at first glance — built strong, hair dark but silvering at the sides, and a moustache adorning his top lip. His suit was grey-blue, faintly glowing at the seams, moulded to his frame in a way that hinted at lab-engineered fibres. But his aura… it shimmered like quicksilver. Smooth and opaque. Too controlled. You couldn’t read it. Not really.

And that disturbed you more than anything.

Beside him stood a younger man. Blonde. Lean. Arms crossed over his chest, leaning with one shoulder against the melted frame of the wall, looking bored. His aura, unlike Reed’s, blazed golden-orange. Fire. Excitement. Recklessness. You didn’t need to know who he was to know what he could do.

Johnny Storm.

“Aw, man,” Johnny said, grinning at Alexei. “They sent the big guy from the Cold War. That’s adorable.”

Alexei puffed his chest out, entirely unbothered. “And you are fire boy. Like spicy little meatball.”

Johnny raised a brow. “Okay, what cartoon did you crawl out of?”

Alexei shrugged with a grin. “One where fire boy always loses to big, handsome Russian.”

“Enough,” Reed cut in, voice calm but firm. “You found us. Now what?”

You glanced at Bucky — he said nothing, expression unreadable. This was his op. But you knew better than to wait for him.

“We’re not here to bring you in,” you said, stepping forward. “We just want to know why you’re here. Why now. After all this time.”

Reed tilted his head, studying you like you were a thesis. “You’re new.”

“She’s not your concern,” Bucky snapped, finally stepping up beside you.

Johnny looked between the two of you and let out a low whistle. “Whoa. Is there—”

“No,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Alexei beamed. “There is tension. I love this.”

John stepped forward, impatient now. “Look, Richards, we don’t care what you’re doing. But if you’re planning something that puts New York at risk—”

“We’re not,” Reed said.

Johnny cracked his knuckles, literal sparks flying. “Depends on your definition of risk.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then why hide?”

Reed hesitated — and that was the first real tell. A flicker. Not of fear. But caution.

“We’ve been watching what’s happening,” he said finally. “Valentina’s grip is tightening. Heroes are being drafted, monitored, muzzled. That’s not freedom. That’s control.”

“And what you’re doing—sneaking through Lower Manhattan—isn’t control?” John said.

Reed looked past him, eyes meeting yours.

“Control,” he said slowly, “is about fear. And power. You’d be surprised how easy it is to lose yourself in both.”

You felt Bucky shift beside you — a movement so slight you might’ve missed it. But you felt the tension spike in his aura. Like Reed’s words hit too close.

You didn’t like this. You didn’t like Reed’s blank aura. Or Johnny’s flippant confidence. Or the way Bucky kept himself between you and the others without even thinking.

“Valentina will want to speak to you,” Bucky said eventually. “You’ll come with us. Cooperate. Maybe you’ll get some say in your future.”

Reed’s smile was thin. “We’ll consider it. But first—”

From the depths of the warehouse, something groaned. A machine, maybe. A generator kicking to life. The sound trembled through the floor and sent a gust of warm air spiralling up the corridor.

Johnny rolled his neck. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh?” Alexei echoed.

Johnny’s smile widened. “Yeah. That usually means you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

You barely had time to register the shift.

Reed’s eyes narrowed. A ripple — subtle, controlled — surged through the air. Energy, molecular, electromagnetic, something you couldn’t name. But you felt it in your bones. A warning.

And then everything exploded.

Johnny went first, launching into the air with a blast of flame that singed the warehouse ceiling black. Heat bloomed around him as he hovered, arms glowing like sunfire.

“You might wanna duck,” he shouted, and sent a fireball straight toward John.

Walker threw up his shield in time, catching the blast — but the impact sent him sliding several feet back, boots screeching across the floor. “Goddammit,” he muttered, shaking the singe off his arm. “I hate hotheads.”

Alexei roared, barreling forward like a battering ram toward Reed — only to be yanked back mid-stride by some force. His body twisted unnaturally for a moment, mid-air, until Reed flicked a hand and sent him crashing into a stack of metal crates.

You moved before you could think. Instinct. Training. Rage.

You sent out a wave — not full power, not like earlier with Bucky, but enough to shove Reed back into a wall. His body stretched and twisted as it hit, limbs warping and bending, like water trying to reform. He absorbed the blow with ease.

“Impressive,” he said, straightening. “But don’t overexert. I’m not the one you should be afraid of.��

“I’m not afraid of anyone,” you snapped.

Behind you, Bucky was a blur. He ducked a fire blast from Johnny, vaulted over debris, and slammed into the Human Torch with a tackle so powerful it knocked the air from Johnny’s lungs. They crashed into the scaffolding overhead, flames licking at Bucky’s sleeves, but he didn’t let go.

“Stand down!” Bucky shouted over the roar of heat. “This doesn’t have to end in a fight.”

“Too late!” Johnny coughed, blasting flame directly between them and launching Bucky back.

You turned in time to see John and Alexei regroup — Alexei’s suit was partially scorched, but he grinned like a lunatic, cracking his neck.

“I love this job,” he said, and charged again.

You focused on Reed, trying to get close — but he dodged like liquid, impossible to pin down. Every move you made, he anticipated, twisting out of reach.

The fight was chaos, fire and fists clashing in bursts of movement across the crumbling basement floor. Reed had stretched himself like a whipcord around Alexei’s limbs, trying to pull him down. John was ducking plasma blasts, while Bucky fought like a man possessed — until he wasn’t.

Johnny Storm roared overhead, his body engulfed in searing flame, eyes glowing like molten coals. He dove like a meteor, striking Bucky hard across the chest and sending him skidding across the floor, metal arm scraping against concrete, flesh side vulnerable. He didn’t get up.

Your breath hitched.

“Bucky!” you shouted, the sound tearing from your throat before you could stop it.

Johnny surged forward again, fire arcing from his palms.

“Get off him!” The scream escaped you like it had claws, primal and sharp.

Johnny didn’t even look at you — just raised a blazing hand, ready to strike Bucky again.

Something inside you snapped.

“He’s not yours to kill!” you yelled, voice shaking with fury. “He’s not yours!”

The air warped. A pulse of aura erupted from you like a wave — raw, hot, blistering with energy and emotion. Anger. Panic. Hate. Power.

It knocked Johnny sideways midair like a ragdoll, extinguishing his flames in a violent sputter. He crashed against a pillar with a groan. Your body seized up with power. Aura flared out in a violent, blinding wave. It knocked Reed backwards. Everyone felt it.

Your knees buckled.

You didn’t even hit the ground.

Strong arms caught you — cradled you against a broad, sweat-dampened chest. The scent of steel, warmth, and aftershave grounded you for a breath before the world tilted again.

“Hey—hey—stay with me,” Bucky’s voice was tight with panic. You were dimly aware of the fight pausing, of Johnny landing hard nearby, eyes wide with guilt.

“She’s out!” John barked.

Bucky lowered you gently, brushing a hand against your cheek, trying to keep you conscious.

“You did good,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “You did good, okay? Stay with me, please.”

Everything spun. Your skin burned. Your powers roared in your veins, then flickered out like a dying match.

The last thing you saw before darkness took you was Bucky's face — tight-jawed, terrified — calling your name.

And then, nothing.

“Back off,” Bucky snapped, his voice like a razor.

He didn’t mean to sound so sharp — but Reed had taken a step forward, and that was too damn close. Too soon after you collapsed in his arms. Too close to the scorch marks still staining the floor.

Johnny’s flames had died down, but the air still shimmered with heat and tension. He held his hands up, guilty but defiant. “We didn’t know she’d react like that.”

“No one did,” Alexei muttered, hoisting his shield onto his back, eyeing your limp form with an expression unusually sombre for him.

John Walker hovered at the edge, his jaw tense. “Let’s get out of here.”

Bucky didn’t look up. He was kneeling beside you, one arm cradling your shoulders, the other checking your pulse for the third time.

Still there. Still steady. But faint.

“Are you okay?” he whispered under his breath, knowing you couldn’t answer. The question was mostly for himself. Because the longer he looked at your face — sweat-slicked, brow furrowed in unconscious pain — the more the ache in his chest grew.

You weren’t supposed to do this. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.

You were supposed to hate him. And yet, you saved him.

“Take a message back to Valentina,” Bucky finally said to John who was fingers were already tapping away on his comms device. Bucky rose to his feet with you in his arms. “Tell her this mission isn’t over. Reed Richards knows something. And we’re not done.”

Reed didn’t argue. His eyes were guarded now — calculating.

Johnny looked down, face lined with something close to regret. “I’m sorry,” he offered, voice quieter than usual. “Tell her I said that.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

He just walked past him, your body limp against his chest. John opened the door to the quinjet, letting him pass first. Alexei followed, his face unusually grim.

As they lifted off and the city shrank beneath them, no one spoke.

Not even John, who usually couldn’t shut up.

Alexei finally muttered, “She’s tough. She’ll bounce back.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the weight of you was still in his arms, the scent of smoke and lavender still in his lungs, and the echo of your power still ringing in his bones.

But worse than all of that — far worse — was the fear he couldn’t shake.

That maybe this wasn’t just a mission anymore.

That maybe he cared too much.

The quinjet touched down on the Avengers Tower rooftop, all smooth metal and humming engines, but Bucky didn’t wait for the platform to fully lower.

He was out of the hatch before anyone else moved, your body still limp in his arms.

Bob was already waiting by the med bay doors, having been alerted mid-flight. His holographic display flickered anxiously in one hand, the other pushing open the door with too-human urgency.

“In here, in here,” Bob chirped, worry lining every word. “Vitals first. Lay her flat.”

Bucky did. Gently. With more care than anyone had ever seen from him.

Your hair spilt over the crisp white pillow. You didn’t stir. Not even a wince.

“Her aura’s stabilising,” Bob muttered, scanning your forehead with a soft blue light. “But she pushed too far. Power surge like that? Burned straight through her neural pathways. She needs rest. Fluids. Maybe—”

The doors slammed open.

“What the hell happened?”

Sam.

Storming into the room, panic written all over his face, breath short like he’d flown in from five boroughs over. His eyes locked on you, then flicked to Bucky, and rage bloomed.

Bucky stood slowly from your bedside. He didn’t flinch.

“She lost control,” Bucky said, voice low.

“You were leading the mission.” Sam’s voice cracked, tight with fury. “You were with her. You said you had her. What did you do?!”

“I didn’t—” Bucky looked away. His jaw tensed. “She overreached. Tried to protect us. The power backfired. I didn’t see it coming.”

Sam stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides. “You should’ve. You’ve known her powers are unstable, you’ve seen it up close, and you still let her throw herself into the fight?”

“She made the call.”

“She's not a soldier, Bucky. She's still learning.”

“She’s not helpless either.”

“She’s hurt.” Sam snapped.

The room fell quiet.

The hum of the machines. The steady beep of your heart monitor. Bob’s hands moved gently, measuring your oxygen levels and watching your brainwave fluctuations, but his eyes darted nervously between the men.

“She’s gonna be okay,” Bucky said finally, almost like a question. “Right?”

Bob nodded. “She’s strong. Just... drained.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped back to you.

Your breathing was soft. Uneven. And your hand twitched against the sheet — the only sign of life he could focus on.

Sam stepped forward again, his voice quieter now, but just as sharp. “This doesn’t happen again. You don’t get to act like her pain doesn’t cost you.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. His voice was hoarse. “It does.”

And then he turned, heading for the door — because if he stayed a moment longer, he might say something he couldn’t take back.

Something like: I should’ve protected her first.

────✪────

The water roared as it slammed against Bucky’s back, hot enough to sting. But it wasn’t enough to wash away the gnawing feeling in his chest, the weight that settled into his bones every time his mind wandered back to the mission, to you.

His hands gripped the shower wall, fingers digging into the tiles as the steam surrounded him. He needed to feel something, anything, to get out of his head. The warmth of the water was almost painful, but it wasn’t the temperature that made his skin burn. No, it was the memory of your face, unconscious on that cold metal floor, your body limp in his arms.

It hit him in waves—how fragile you were, yet how strong, how... alive—but still so much like him. Like him in the ways you shouldn’t be, in the way you fought for others without thinking of yourself. And now, he’d let you fall. He’d let you suffer the weight of your own powers without catching you.

His breath caught. He dropped his head, feeling the cascade of water streak over his face. The guilt felt like a noose around his neck, tugging tighter with every breath. He had to save you, had to make sure nothing else happened to you—but it was too late.

The droplets ran down his body, the slickness of the water making his muscles ache as the steam filled his lungs. His mind drifted, despite his best efforts, to your face, your eyes. Those damned eyes that had read through him so easily. That moment when you said you were just looking at him...

It had driven him crazy. More than it should. More than it had to. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about you like this.

And then, your last words: “He’s not yours!”

He was supposed to be focused. Protecting. But all he could think of was the way you held yourself, the way your body had felt when he lifted you into his arms, so delicate but strong. The tension between you when he touched you, when he lifted you up to the vent, when he fought alongside you.

He hated it.

But then, he hated how much he wanted it, too.

His hands ran down his face, brushing away droplets, but the heat of the shower only made him feel hotter. His chest tightened as his mind replayed those moments: the brush of your lips in the chaos, the wildness of your energy, the way your scent lingered in the air.

He couldn’t stop himself. His body reacted without his permission—his breath deepened, chest rising and falling in rhythm to his pulse. He gritted his teeth as his muscles flexed, suddenly aware of the way the steam clung to his skin, the slickness of his hands trailing over his hard abs in frustration.

He wished they were your hands.

He closed his eyes and tried to block it out, but the thought of you—of the way you looked at him, of how he wanted to touch you again—made his pulse spike, his body betraying him as he pushed away the thoughts.

“Fuck.”

The word escaped his lips before he could stop it, his hands slamming against the wall in frustration. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He wasn’t supposed to want you.

And yet, here he was, drenched in guilt, drenched in steam, drenched in something else entirely.

The water kept pouring over him. Cold in the places it hit the skin that hadn’t been touched by the steam. Hot where his body burned with thoughts of you.

His body, however, didn’t care about his guilt. It only cared about the heat, the desperate desire that pooled low in his stomach as his thoughts of you grew more intense. He tried to shut it down, tried to focus on the sound of the water, but it was no use. His body betrayed him. The ache between his legs was unmistakable.

He reached down, his hand trembling slightly as he touched himself, the rough motion a quick, desperate attempt to rid himself of the thoughts that swirled around in his mind. His heart raced as his hand moved, fingers curled around his length that was already achingly hard, thoughts of you filling every inch of his being. He imagined the way you’d feel beneath him, your breath quickening as his lips brushed against yours, your body pressed against his.

Bucky pumped at his cock with one hand, and used the other hand to steady himself against the slippy tile wall. This was wrong, this was so wrong. Bucky cursed your name under his breath, over and over again. He’d never felt this way before, not about anyone. And if you found out about this… God, the mere thought terrified Bucky.

But the more he imagined, the faster his hand moved, the pressure building until it became unbearable. He couldn’t think of anything else—just you. Your lips, your skin, your defiance and strength. The way you made him feel so alive.

With a low groan, Bucky came, the release overwhelming him. Bursts of his cum painted the tiles on the wall white and the tension in his body shattered like glass. He grabbed a washcloth to clean the mess he made and turned the shower off. 

But as the high faded, so did the sense of relief. Guilt and shame flooded back, cold and heavy.

“Get it out of your system, Barnes,” he muttered to himself, voice rough, almost bitter. “You’re not some damn kid.”

But even as he said the words, he knew the truth. He wasn’t over you. He couldn’t be. He’d never be able to stop wanting you.

The hallway lights buzzed faintly as Bucky stepped out of the elevator and into the sterile calm of the med bay floor. His damp hair was slicked back, a dark shirt clinging to him like it didn’t want to let go of the heat still rolling off his skin.

He moved toward your room on instinct.

Bob was sitting beside your bed, hunched over a monitor, glasses sliding down his nose. He didn’t look up until Bucky’s boots scuffed the tile.

“She’s stable,” Bob murmured, adjusting a dial. “Vitals are strong. She just needs rest. Should wake up in a couple days.”

Bucky nodded once, silently. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you. Not yet. Not while guilt still twisted in his chest like a blade.

Bob glanced up at him. “You did everything right, you know.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He turned, jaw tight, and left the room.

Back upstairs, the tower buzzed with low voices and hurried footsteps. The tension was thick. People moving with purpose. Focus. Victory humming just beneath the surface.

The others had succeeded.

Yelena was the first to spot him as he stalked into the main briefing hallway.

“Bucky,” she called, jogging to catch up. Her short braid swayed as she fell into step beside him. “Valentina wants to debrief you. Alexei and John too. She’s… not thrilled.”

“Big surprise,” he muttered.

“She thinks you screwed the pooch.”

“She’s not wrong.”

Yelena paused, then nodded toward the security wing. “Sue Storm and the orange guy—Thing? They’re in Interrogation Two. Sam and Joaquin are with them. They’re cooperative. Friendly, even.”

Bucky arched a brow. “They just walked in?”

“They said they were waiting to be found.” She gave him a teasing glance. “Unlike your guy.”

He grunted.

Yelena’s voice softened. “Seriously, you okay?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept walking.

Inside the observation room, through the two-way glass, Bucky spotted Sam leaning on the edge of the table, mid-conversation with Sue and Ben Grimm. Joaquin was typing something into a tablet, and Ben was eating what looked like his third protein bar.

Sue noticed Bucky’s shadow at the door and offered a nod. Cool. Controlled.

He didn’t go in.

“Come on, Soldier,” Yelena nudged, jerking her thumb down the corridor. “Valentina’s waiting in Briefing Room C. She’s already got Alexei and Walker in there getting grilled.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. As if the steam of the shower had done nothing to purge the fire still simmering in his veins.

Valentina always had a way of making everything worse.

And if she asked what went wrong…

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to say it aloud.

That you’d been the strongest one there. And that he let you fall anyway.

The briefing room was dimly lit, the air stale with the cold scent of old coffee and control. Bucky walked in to find Valentina seated at the head of the table like a queen bored with her kingdom. Legs crossed, tablet in hand, red lips pursed in mock interest.

John sat off to the side with his arms crossed, wearing that smug “I’m not responsible for anything” expression. Alexei, by contrast, was visibly restless, bouncing his knee and cracking his knuckles like a teenager waiting to be scolded by a parent he could probably snap in half.

Valentina looked up as Bucky entered, and smiled—not warmly.

“Well, look who survived the sewer.”

Bucky didn’t rise to it. “Get to it.”

“Straight to business,” she sighed, tossing the tablet down with a dramatic clack. “No apology. No explanation. Just straight-up Alpha Male Cold Shoulder. Your charm is truly wasted on national security.”

Alexei shifted, muttering under his breath. “Is she always like this?”

“Worse,” John replied.

Valentina ignored them. She leaned forward, her tone suddenly razor-sharp. “You had one objective: locate and safely extract Reed Richards. Instead, you lost control of the situation, engaged in a firefight with allies, and brought back nothing but an unconscious asset and a headache.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “They attacked first. Reed was lying low for a reason.”

“Don’t feed me lines like I wasn’t watching the feed.” She tapped the table, where blurred thermal footage flickered to life. “You lost control of the situation. The girl blacked out. Walker was flailing. Alexei was—well, Alexei-ing. And you?” Her gaze pinned Bucky like a needle. “You froze. You rushed to her instead of finishing the fight.”

“Because she was—” He stopped himself. Took a breath. “She was down. She needed help.”

“She is not your priority, James,” Valentina said flatly.

Alexei bristled. “Hey. She saved our asses. You weren’t there.”

Valentina’s eyes flicked to him. “And I’m not sure you belong there either, Red Guardian. This isn’t the Soviet circus.”

Alexei leaned forward, grinning with too many teeth. “You’re just mad because my team actually likes me.”

John smirked, but Bucky spoke over them. “The mission’s not over. We made contact. We know where Reed and Johnny are. We can work with that.”

“You lost the element of surprise,” Valentina countered. “And what you can work with is my patience—which is thinning by the second. Richards is slipping through your fingers, and I’m not sending the entire tower to clean up your mistakes.”

Bucky held her gaze. “Then don’t. Just send me.”

Valentina’s smile curled like smoke. “Oh, honey. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

A tense silence followed, broken only by the low buzz of the projector screen behind her.

Then, cool as ever, she stood and smoothed her blazer. “Debriefing’s over. Get her stable, regroup, and next time—try not to let your personal feelings compromise the mission.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply, heels clicking like gunfire against the floor.

Alexei muttered something in Russian.

John finally uncrossed his arms. “I hate that woman.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He was already heading for the door.

────✪────

The med bay was still, cloaked in sterile shadows and the low, persistent rhythm of machines beeping beside your bed. It was late—most of the tower had gone quiet hours ago—but Bucky stayed.

He sat in the chair beside you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he was praying. He’d changed into a dark hoodie and sweatpants, damp hair curling slightly at the ends from the shower. The exhaustion in his eyes ran deeper than the mission. His body was still, but tension hummed beneath his skin.

He watched the steady rise and fall of your chest, studied the furrow in your brow like you were fighting even now, even in sleep.

"I don’t know if you can hear me," he said finally, voice low and scratchy. "I’m guessing not. But I... needed to talk. And you’re the only one I think I can say this to."

He leaned back slowly in the chair, letting his head hit the wall behind him. His jaw worked as he tried to shape the next words, fingers flexing in his lap like he wasn’t used to speaking them aloud.

"You ever get tired of carrying ghosts?" he asked, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “'Cause I do. Every mission, every second of peace I get—it’s borrowed time. I used to think if I just kept going, if I kept fighting, the guilt would shut up. But it doesn’t. It just gets quieter. Trickier."

His gaze dropped back to you.

"I hated how loud you were, at first. You just... came in swinging. No fear. No filter." His mouth curved, faintly. "You called me an asshole before you even knew me."

He paused. Swallowed.

"And I miss it. I miss the way you rolled your eyes at me. The way you pushed every button like you were born to do it. You made me feel like I was still real. Like I wasn’t just the guy in the file. The weapon. The relic."

He reached forward without thinking, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with calloused fingers. He stopped himself before his hand lingered too long.

"I don’t know what happened to you out there. I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve protected you. But all I could think about was—was how scared you looked, right before you fell. I can’t get it outta my head."

His voice cracked slightly, but he cleared it before continuing.

"And now I’m sitting here talkin’ to you like you’re gonna wake up and start yelling at me again. But part of me hopes you do. That you wake up, call me a dick, and ask for food." A breath of a laugh. "I’d take that over this silence any day."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, hands raking through his hair.

"You’re stronger than you think. Whatever’s inside you, whatever’s chasing you—I’ve seen people break from half of what you’ve survived. But not you."

Silence stretched for a few beats. Then, quietly:

"Come back, alright? I need someone to argue with."

And he stayed there, beside you, long after the machines hummed on and the world outside forgot how soft he could be.

────✪────

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[okasuka]

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Trapped Together – A mission goes south, and Damian and Reader get locked in a small space, forced to work together until help arrives.

The mission had gone to hell fast. What was supposed to be a simple recon job turned into a full-blown mess when an unexpected security system activated, locking down the building and trapping you and Robin in what seemed to be an old storage closet.

You glared at the heavy metal door as if you could will it open with sheer frustration. “This is your fault.”

Damian scoffed. “My fault? You were the one who tripped the sensor.”

“It was hidden under a damn rug, Wayne!” You crossed your arms, back pressed against the shelves behind you. “Who even does that?”

“A competent security team, clearly,” Damian muttered, arms also crossed, his posture stiff as he leaned against the opposite wall. Not that there was much space between you two—this closet was tiny, and no matter how much you tried, you kept brushing against each other.

You huffed, shifting to sit on the floor with a wince. “Alright, whatever. Batcomputer will notice the lockdown eventually, so all we have to do is wait for backup.”

Damian checked his comm, expression souring. “The signal is jammed.”

“Of course it is,” you muttered, tilting your head back against the wall. “So what, we just sit here and contemplate our life choices?”

“Tt. I could attempt to override the lock if—”

A loud clatter cut him off.

You both froze. The source? The tiny vent above your heads.

Then came the unmistakable sound of scurrying.

“…What was that?” you whispered.

Damian’s expression darkened. “A rat.”

You immediately lifted your legs off the floor. “Oh, hell no—”

Another sound. This time closer.

Without thinking, you grabbed Damian’s arm, dragging yourself against him. The space was already cramped, but now you were practically pressed up against his chest, both of you tensed. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away—though, from the way his shoulders stiffened, you knew he was trying to act unfazed.

“You’re afraid of rats,” he noted, voice neutral but with the faintest edge of amusement.

“I am not afraid of rats,” you hissed. “I just don’t like them. There’s a difference.”

“Hn.”

The silence stretched, the only sound your still-too-close breathing. You realized suddenly how warm he was, how his heartbeat was steady beneath his suit. Your grip on his arm loosened, but you didn’t let go entirely.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you grumbled, tilting your head to look at him.

Damian met your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You make it difficult not to.”

Your breath caught, pulse stuttering. Was he… flirting? No, that couldn’t be—

Another loud scritch from the vent, and you flinched again, instinctively pressing your face into his shoulder. His hand twitched before carefully resting on your waist, almost hesitant.

“I will ensure the rat does not harm you,” he murmured, voice quieter than before.

You scoffed, but it came out weaker than intended. “So chivalrous, Wayne.”

The moment stretched between you, tension of a different kind settling in the small space. Neither of you moved away. Neither of you wanted to.

And then, of course, the door unlocked with a beep.

You both turned toward it as the heavy door swung open, revealing Nightwing standing there, blinking at the sight of you practically tangled together in the dim closet.

“…Should I come back later?” he asked, lips twitching.

“Shut up, Grayson,” Damian muttered, quickly stepping back—though not before his hand briefly, deliberately, squeezed yours.

Your stomach flipped.

Maybe being trapped with Damian Wayne wasn’t the worst thing after all.

The entire ride back to the Batcave was painfully silent.

You sat next to Damian in the Batmobile, arms crossed, eyes locked on the glowing city outside the window. Every so often, you felt his gaze flicker toward you, but neither of you said a word. Nightwing, meanwhile, was having the time of his life trying not to burst into laughter from the driver’s seat.

“So… storage closet, huh?” he finally broke the silence, barely concealing the amusement in his voice.

Damian exhaled sharply through his nose. “Drop it, Grayson.”

You shot Dick a glare. “There was a rat.”

“And yet, somehow, that’s not the part that made it weird.”

You groaned, sinking further into your seat. Damian stayed rigid beside you, and you could feel the barely restrained irritation radiating off of him. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was embarrassed.

But no, this was Damian Wayne. He didn’t get embarrassed. Right?

By the time you arrived at the Batcave, you were already bracing yourself for the interrogation. Sure enough, the moment you stepped out of the Batmobile, Bruce was there, arms crossed, looking every bit the imposing Dark Knight.

“What happened?” His voice was all business, eyes flicking between the two of you.

Damian stood straighter, falling into debriefing mode. “A hidden security sensor was tripped, resulting in a full lockdown of the facility. Y/N and I were separated from the main entry points and forced to seek shelter in a storage space while we awaited system override.”

You nodded, rubbing the back of your neck. “Comms were jammed, but once the security failed, we were able to extract without issue. Mission was a bust, though—whoever set up that system knew what they were doing. There was nothing left to salvage.”

Bruce gave a slow, assessing nod. “Understood. I’ll have Tim and Barbara analyze the security logs, see if we missed anything. You two—” His gaze lingered, sharp and unreadable. “—did well.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Should there be something else?”

Dick coughed behind you, clearly still holding back laughter. Damian shot him a warning glare before stepping forward. “No. That will be all, Father.”

Bruce seemed to consider pressing further, but after a beat, he just nodded. “Good. Get some rest. Dismissed.”

The moment you and Damian turned toward the locker area to change out of your suits, Dick finally let loose the laughter he’d been holding in.

“You two looked cozy back there,” he teased, arms crossed as he leaned against one of the Batcomputers.

You groaned, peeling off your gloves. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

“Absolutely not.”

Damian scowled. “Grayson, your commentary is unnecessary.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Dick grinned. “Especially with the way you had your hand on—”

“Enough.” Damian’s voice had an edge of finality, his ears suspiciously red as he turned away.

Dick just smirked. “Alright, alright. I’ll back off. For now.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you grabbed your duffel bag. “I’m going home.”

Damian turned slightly, hesitating for just a second before saying, “I’ll walk you to the Zeta Tubes.”

You blinked, a little surprised. But you didn’t question it. “…Sure.”

As the two of you made your way deeper into the cave, Damian was uncharacteristically quiet. Not tense, not angry—just… thoughtful.

You glanced at him. “You good?”

He exhaled through his nose. “I dislike inefficiency. We were reckless tonight.”

You frowned. “Dami, we handled it fine. No one got hurt.”

“That’s not the point,” he muttered, then hesitated before adding, quieter, “You were afraid.”

Your stomach did something weird.

“…Of the rat?” you tried to joke, but your voice came out softer than intended.

He didn’t smile. “You held onto me.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t let go.”

That made him pause.

The two of you stopped at the entrance to the Zeta Tubes, the hum of the teleportation system filling the air. He looked at you then—really looked at you, eyes unreadable, expression unreadable, but something flickered behind that perfect mask.

You shifted on your feet. “…Thanks, by the way. For, you know. The whole… chivalry thing.”

A beat of silence.

Then, with the faintest smirk, Damian tilted his head. “It was nothing.”

And before you could respond, he turned, walking away, disappearing into the shadows of the Batcave like he hadn’t just left your heart hammering in your chest.

A Few Days Later…

You hadn’t seen much of Damian since the storage closet incident. Not that you were actively avoiding him or anything—but you were also not not avoiding him.

Because every time you thought about that moment—his hand on your waist, his steady presence, the way he hadn’t pulled away—you felt weird. And not in a bad way. In a dangerous way. In a I-think-I-like-my-best-friend kind of way.

And that was a problem.

You sighed, slamming your locker shut at Gotham Academy, only to nearly collide with Damian himself.

You jumped. “Dude!”

“Tt. Overreacting as usual.”

You scowled. “You lurking as usual.”

He smirked, but there was something deliberate in his presence—something focused. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked at you with the kind of intensity that usually meant he was about to drop some life-altering information.

You crossed your arms. “Okay. Spit it out.”

“I require your presence this evening.”

You blinked. “Require?”

“Yes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly am I required for?”

His expression didn’t waver. “Dinner.”

You narrowed your eyes, scanning his face for any hint of a joke. “Like… a mission briefing dinner or a ‘we’re both too exhausted to cook after patrol’ dinner?”

His jaw tensed, just slightly. Then, evenly, “A date.”

Your brain short-circuited.

“…A what now?”

“A date,” he repeated, just as matter-of-factly as before. “You and me. Dinner. As a couple.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, and for a second, all you could do was stare at him. He, of course, looked perfectly calm—like he hadn’t just casually shattered the entire foundation of your understanding of your relationship.

“I—” You cleared your throat. “I—uh—when did we—?”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he cut in, tilting his head. “Which means you’ve been thinking about it. Which means there’s something to consider. Which means I am correct in assuming there is mutual interest.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “That is a lot of assumptions, Wayne.”

“Am I wrong?”

Your stomach flipped.

You could lie. You could make this weird. You could pretend the idea hadn’t crossed your mind every second since that damn closet.

But… it had.

And he wasn’t wrong.

You inhaled deeply, narrowing your eyes. “Where?”

He smirked, victorious. “Seven o’clock. I will pick you up.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel, walking away like he hadn’t just completely upended your reality.

You stared after him, heart still hammering, mind still reeling.

And then, despite yourself, you smiled.

That Evening – Gotham’s East End Diner

You weren’t sure what you expected when Damian Wayne said date, but sitting across from him in a run-down Gotham diner—complete with squeaky booths, dim lighting, and a jukebox that only worked half the time—was definitely not it.

“You picked a diner,” you said, still processing.

Damian didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

“Like. A greasy diner. With milkshakes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

You leaned back in the booth, eyeing him skeptically. “You, Damian Wayne, son of Gotham’s most expensive man, heir to a literal empire, picked this place for our first date.”

“Tt.” He took a sip of water, entirely unbothered. “I assumed you would prefer something casual.”

You frowned, caught off guard. “…I mean. Yeah. But you—” You gestured vaguely at him, still in his usual crisp, well-fitted attire. “You don’t do casual.”

Damian exhaled, setting his glass down. “And yet, here we are.”

You blinked.

Huh.

He really had picked this place for you.

A warmth settled in your chest, and you found yourself smirking. “Alright, Wayne. You get points for effort.”

He smirked back. “As I should.”

A waitress in her mid-fifties appeared at your table, popping gum as she eyed you both. “What can I getcha, kids?”

You hummed, scanning the menu before grinning. “Cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake.”

She scribbled it down before turning to Damian. “And you?”

Damian barely looked at the menu. “The same. But vanilla.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Boring.”

He shot you a look. “Classic.”

The waitress chuckled, shaking her head. “Cute. I’ll be back with your food.”

As she walked away, you realized something.

This was… normal. No mission. No patrol. No masks. Just you and Damian sitting in a diner, ordering food like any other couple.

The thought made your stomach flip.

Damian seemed perfectly composed, but there was something softer in his posture—something almost relaxed.

You tapped your fingers on the table. “So, Wayne. What’s your game plan here?”

He tilted his head. “Clarify.”

You smirked. “You ask me out, you take me to a diner, we eat greasy food—what’s next? A moonlit stroll? A kiss under a streetlight?”

Damian’s lips twitched. “Would you like that?”

Your stomach did a whole thing.

You scoffed, pretending your face wasn’t heating up. “I’m just saying, this is shockingly good execution. Almost like you planned it.”

He sipped his water. “I always have a plan.”

You snorted. “Of course you do.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, the hum of the diner filling the background. For once, there was no pressure, no expectations—just easy conversation and unspoken understanding.

And maybe—just maybe—you could get used to this.

Later That Night – Walking Through Gotham

The diner food had been greasy, the milkshakes had been perfect, and somehow, somehow, the night had turned into you and Damian walking side by side through Gotham’s quieter streets. The neon lights of corner stores flickered, casting a soft glow over the cracked pavement.

It wasn’t exactly romantic, but it was nice. Peaceful, even.

You snuck a glance at Damian, who walked with his usual calculated precision—hands in his pockets, gaze scanning the area like he was still on patrol.

“You’re tense,” you noted.

“I’m aware of my surroundings.”

You smirked. “So, tense.”

He exhaled through his nose, side-eyeing you. “I fail to see how observation equates to tension.”

“Observation is good.” You nudged his arm with your elbow. “But we’re off duty, Wayne. You can relax.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then, almost reluctantly, he sighed and rolled his shoulders, loosening his posture ever so slightly. “Happy?”

You grinned. “Very.”

The two of you walked in silence for a bit, the cold Gotham air nipping at your skin. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it did make you tuck your hands into the sleeves of your jacket.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Damian shift slightly—like he was thinking about something.

Then, suddenly, his hand brushed against yours.

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering.

Was that… on purpose?

You glanced at him, but his face remained unreadable. He didn’t pull away, though. Didn’t correct the contact. Just kept walking.

Testing the waters, you let your fingers graze his again.

This time, he did react—by intertwining his fingers with yours.

Your breath hitched.

You looked up at him, half-expecting some snarky comment, but there was none. Just a steady, quiet confidence as he held your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your stomach flipped.

“So,” you said, voice quieter than before. “You’re really committing to this whole… dating thing, huh?”

He glanced at you, smirking slightly. “Would I have asked if I weren’t serious?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Guess not.”

The night air was cold, but Damian’s hand was warm—steady, sure.

And maybe that was all you needed.

—

When you finally reached your apartment building, you lingered outside, neither of you making a move to leave just yet.

You hesitated, then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in a hug.

Damian stiffened for a fraction of a second—like he hadn’t expected it—but then, slowly, his arms came up to hold you in return.

He was warm. Solid. His heartbeat steady against your ear.

“…This is nice,” you admitted, voice muffled against his shoulder.

His hand rested against your back, his grip just tight enough to make you feel it. “It is.”

You smiled against his jacket, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

Yeah.

You could definitely get used to this.

Outside Your Apartment – Late Night in Gotham

Neither of you moved.

The city hummed around you—distant sirens, the occasional honk of a car horn, the low buzz of a flickering streetlamp—but none of it seemed to matter. All that mattered was the warmth of Damian’s arms around you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand rested against your back like he belonged there.

You weren’t sure how long you stood like that, but eventually, Damian exhaled softly, tilting his head just slightly so his chin brushed against the top of yours.

“You should go inside,” he murmured.

You huffed. “You’re the one still holding on.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t let go, either.

Instead, he just said, “I will walk you in.”

You pulled back slightly to look at him, still holding onto his arms. “Damian, I live here. I think I can manage walking up a flight of stairs.”

His gaze flickered toward the building entrance, then back to you. “…I’ll feel better if I see you inside safely.”

Your stomach flipped.

You bit back a smile. “You’re really leaning into this ‘boyfriend’ thing, huh?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Should I not?”

You shook your head, amusement tugging at your lips. “No complaints here, Wayne.”

With that, you stepped out of his arms—immediately missing the warmth—before taking his hand and tugging him toward the entrance.

He followed without hesitation.

—

Inside Your Apartment – The Doorstep Dilemma

When you finally stopped at your door, the realization hit that you had officially reached the end of the date.

Which meant…

You swallowed, suddenly feeling weirdly self-conscious under Damian’s gaze. He stood close—hands back in his pockets, posture unreadable, but his eyes… soft.

“You’re staring,” you muttered.

His lips twitched. “I am looking.”

“Same thing.”

“It is not.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto your face.

Then, silence. Not awkward, but charged.

There was an unspoken question hanging in the air—one you weren’t sure either of you were brave enough to answer.

Damian’s fingers twitched at his sides, like he was debating something.

Finally, he exhaled. “May I—”

Before he could finish whatever thought was forming, you made the executive decision to hug him again.

Because, honestly? That felt safer than dealing with whatever tension was currently buzzing between you.

He tensed slightly—probably surprised—but then, just like before, he melted into it, arms wrapping around you easily.

“…You do this often,” he murmured against your hair.

You smirked against his shoulder. “I like hugging you.”

Damian went quiet at that.

Then, softer than before, he admitted, “I do not mind it.”

Your heart did something stupid.

Slowly, you pulled back, lingering just long enough to meet his gaze. His face was close—too close. Close enough that if you just tilted your chin up—

A breath passed between you.

Your stomach flipped, your fingers twitched, and then—

“Goodnight, Damian,” you whispered, because if you stayed any longer, you might actually spontaneously combust.

His eyes flickered slightly, scanning your face, but he nodded. “…Goodnight, Beloved.”

And with that, you slipped inside, shutting the door before you did something reckless.

Like kiss him.

Later That Night – Sleepless Conversations

You had been lying in bed for a solid twenty minutes, staring at your ceiling, trying not to think about the fact that you had just been this close to kissing Damian Wayne.

But, of course, that was all you could think about.

The warmth of his hands, the way his voice had softened, the way his eyes had flickered down to your lips for half a second before you bailed—

You groaned, rolling onto your side, yanking the blanket over your head. What the hell was wrong with you?

Your phone buzzed on your nightstand.

You hesitated before reaching for it.

Dami: Are you awake?

Your stomach flipped.

You stared at the screen for a second before responding.

You: No, I’m sleep-texting.

There was a short pause before the typing bubble appeared.

Dami: That would be concerning.

You smirked, rolling onto your back as you texted back.

You: What’s up?

Dami: I have been thinking.

Your heart did a stupid little lurch.

You: Oh no.

Dami: Tt. Do not be dramatic.

You: Impossible. What are you thinking about?

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then—

Dami: The moment outside your apartment.

Your breath caught.

You stared at the text for way too long, rereading it at least five times before you finally worked up the nerve to respond.

You: Oh.

Great. Brilliant. Fantastic response.

The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared. Then reappeared. Like he was debating what to say next.

Finally—

Dami: You left rather abruptly.

You scoffed, sitting up.

You: What was I supposed to do? Stand there and stare at you all night?

Dami: I would not have minded.

Your brain short-circuited.

You: …Damian.

Dami: What?

You: Do you realize what you’re saying right now?

Dami: Yes.

You flopped back onto your pillows, gripping your phone like it was personally attacking you.

You: Are you saying you wanted to kiss me?

Your heart hammered as you hit send.

He didn’t respond right away.

The typing bubble appeared. Then disappeared. Then—

Dami: Would that be surprising?

You squeaked out loud.

You: YES???

Dami: Why?

You: Because you’re you.

Dami: And?

You groaned, shoving your face into your pillow for a second before responding.

You: And you’re all proper and composed and disciplined and intimidating.

Dami: Intimidating?

You: You know you are.

Dami: Tt. That does not answer my question.

You exhaled sharply, chewing your lip.

Okay. Fine. Screw it.

You: Because it’s YOU, Damian. My best friend. And if we kissed, it wouldn’t be just a kiss, would it?

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Dami: No. It would not.

Your chest ached at how quickly he agreed.

Fingers trembling slightly, you typed—

You: And that doesn’t freak you out?

This time, he took longer to respond.

Then—

Dami: Not as much as it excites me.

Your breath hitched.

You stared at the screen, pulse pounding.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you typed—

You: …So if I hadn’t chickened out, would you have kissed me?

Your phone vibrated immediately.

Dami: Yes.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, muffling a noise that you refused to acknowledge.

Then—

Dami: And the next time I get the chance, I will.

You nearly died on the spot.

The Next Morning – Sick Day Shenanigans

You woke up feeling like absolute death.

Your throat felt like sandpaper, your head was pounding, and every inch of your body ached. It took way too much effort just to roll over and grab your phone from your nightstand.

Squinting at the screen, you groaned and typed out a message.

You: I think I’m dying.

A response came almost instantly.

Dami: Tt. Do not be ridiculous.

You: No, seriously. My body is shutting down. Tell Gotham I loved her.

Dami: You are being dramatic.

You: I literally can’t get out of bed. This is it. I’m done for.

A short pause.

Then—

Dami: I am coming over.

Your eyes widened.

You: Wait, what??

Dami: I will be there soon. Do not die before I arrive.

You groaned, flopping back onto your pillows. Of course he was coming over.

—

20 Minutes Later – The Cavalry Arrives

A firm knock rattled your door.

You barely managed to roll out of bed, wrapping yourself in a blanket like a pathetic sickly burrito as you stumbled to open it.

Sure enough, Damian stood on your doorstep, looking perfectly put together, not a single hair out of place. In one hand, he held a brown paper bag. In the other, a plastic bag filled with medicine.

“You look awful,” he said flatly.

You squinted at him. “Wow, thanks, boyfriend of the year.”

He smirked, stepping inside and nudging the door shut behind him. “You are welcome.”

You barely made it two steps toward the couch before you collapsed onto it with a dramatic groan. “I told you. I’m dying.”

Damian simply rolled up his sleeves.

“I will not allow it,” he said, marching into your kitchen.

You blinked after him. “…Are you cooking?”

“You need proper nutrients,” he called over his shoulder, already rummaging through your cabinets like he owned the place. “And hydration. And rest. Fortunately for you, I am well-versed in all three.”

You stared. “You know how to cook?”

He gave you an unimpressed look. “I was trained by the greatest assassins in the world. Do you honestly believe I am incapable of making soup?”

“…Fair point.”

Satisfied, Damian set to work.

You, meanwhile, remained face-planted on the couch, listening as he moved around with practiced ease. The rhythmic sounds of chopping, stirring, and the occasional clink of dishes were weirdly soothing.

You must have dozed off at some point, because the next thing you knew, Damian was crouching beside the couch, nudging your shoulder.

“Wake up, Beloved.”

You blinked blearily. “Mmm?”

“I have made soup.”

You cracked an eye open, catching the self-satisfied look on his face as he held up a bowl like some kind of prize.

Your heart melted a little.

“You’re proud of this, aren’t you?” you rasped.

He smirked. “Very.”

He helped you sit up—gently, like you might break—and placed the bowl in your hands.

You took a sip.

And holy crap.

It was… good.

Your eyes widened. “Damian—”

“I told you,” he said smugly.

You slurped down more, warmth spreading through your chest. “Okay, fine. You win. You are officially the best boyfriend ever.”

“As I should be.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.

When you finished, Damian took the bowl, setting it aside before reaching for the medicine he’d brought. “You will take this.”

You made a face. “But—”

“No arguments.”

You groaned but obeyed, swallowing the bitter liquid with a shudder. “Gross.”

Damian smirked. “Good.”

Then, before you could react, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You froze.

The warmth of his lips lingered, and then he pulled back, his expression smug.

You stared at him. “Did you just—”

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then another on your forehead for good measure.

Your brain short-circuited.

Damian sat back, completely unbothered, as if he hadn’t just left you flustered beyond belief. “Physical affection is known to boost recovery.”

You gawked. “You planned this.”

He smirked. “I always have a plan.”

You groaned, shoving your face into a pillow.

Yeah. You were definitely going to survive this illness.

But Damian Wayne?

He was going to be the death of you.

[keferon]

im glad that my first submission was enjoyed. this was meant to be a part of it, but i struggle a lot more writing first aids pov than vortexs. its still not perfect, but i figure i should let it out into the wild before it drives me crazy.

some further questions: what exactly are the quintessons made of? are they techno-organic? entirely mechanical? or like...synthetic materials mimicking biology? and whats up with the program that produced vortex? did it shut down? or is it still operating (maybe under shockwave now?) did jazz go through it?

______________________________________________________________

His head is killing him. 

Felix comes to in the unyielding dark of Vortex’s cockpit, squinting uselessly before giving up, letting his head lean back against the seatrest. It pulses in time with his heartbeat- elevated- sending waves of fresh misery through him. But he’s alive, Vortex let him live, and the realization pulls a miserable laugh from him. 

Vortex saved him.

Vortex saved him.

Vortex saved him.

From Pharma.

The thought is like ice water poured over his head washing away any lingering exhaustion. Pharma. What the hell was going on? Why did he-? Had the irritable CMO finally lost it? Or was there something else going on? 

Felix’s stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of Pharma obeying another- who would order this? Who could order this? To what end? How had none of the other medical staff noticed? Or did they notice and not care?

His stomach lurches again, and Felix fumbles at the restraints- looser, now- and finally manages to hit the quick release clasp, practically flopping forward before he catches himself, swaying pathetically in the dark- pulling his helmet off is a welcome relief, the cooler air of the cabin circulating around his abused head. All of his muscles are sore, each joint something just a little firmer than liquid. The only light comes from the running lights, blinking on like soft red stars against Vortex’s night, and Felix lets himself stare blankly at a particularly interesting assortment of them, trying to will the nausea to subside. 

It does not. In fact, it strikes back with a vengeance, and Felix presses a fist to his mouth to stifle his suffering. It works, somewhat, his gorge settling slightly. He needs to get out of here, out of the blood-and-bleach scented warmth of Vortex before he overstays his welcome. Maybe he already has, and Vortex is just biding his time before he kills Felix gruesomely. Right on cue, he can feel the familiar faint prickling sensation of cameras and infrared sensors being trained on him, the behemoth paying its quarry its undivided attention. 

“Vortex,” he says, or more accurately, tries to say. All that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic little groan. His stomach is churning again now. 

“Vortex.” he tries again while fumbling for the canopy hatch- God, movement was a bad idea- and while it still fails the benchmark of being a word, it at least sounds like Vortex’s name. 

His gorge rises again, and Felix can’t stop the faint whimper as he runs his hands over the instrument panel, looking for the canopy release lever. He is not going to throw up inside Vortex, even if worse things have been thoroughly ground into the panels and seams of the mech. Felix still has some pride. And he doesn’t need to risk Vortex’s wrath any more than he has. 

“Vortex.” and now it sounds like a proper name. Felix can feel the hum of Vortex’s machinery and wiring change underneath his palms. His head spins, and the tug of exhaustion has returned, borne on the back of the enveloping warmth of the cockpit.

His stomach flips again.

“Vortex, open the cockpit.” Felix tries, giving up on fumbling in the dark for the lever. “Please,” he amends, because apparently his manners have left with his health. 

The darkness takes on a vaguely threatening feeling. Vortex must have spent all his goodwill on not killing Felix earlier. 

“Vortex, please-” he gags, pressing his fist to his mouth again, “I- I’m going to-”

He gags again, and this time- thank you, Vortex!- the canopy lifts, barely a few feet before coming to a stubborn stop, the dull halogen glow of the docking bay lights breaching the cockpit. The opaque filter over the canopy bleeds away, returning the familiar blood-red hue to Vortex’s visor. Felix barely makes it to the edge of the cockpit before throwing up, practically lying out over the instrument panel as his arms fail him. It spatters, worryingly dark against the burnished metal of the catwalk. He lies there bonelessly, his throat burning and head spinning. How the hell had his life ended up like this? Cosmic punishment for stealing organs still? Felix had thought getting demoted to nurse and resident Vortex-cleaner punishment enough.

He eventually rolls off of his stomach and carefully (gracelessly) slithers back to sit on the floor of the cockpit, head resting against the instrument panel, staring up at the cockpit ceiling. The dark plating is smooth, almost seamlessly jointed together, only interrupted by the explosion of wires and cording comprising the neural connectors. It’s…almost peaceful, in the cockpit, with only the purr of Vortex’s systems humming through the panel that Felix is resting his head on interrupting the silence. The halogens filter through the red polycarbonate of Vortex’s canopy, staining the light bloody ruby. 

His mouth is dry. Horrifically dry. He needs water. Getting water means leaving the relative safety of Vortex’s cockpit. 

Water can wait. 

Pharma might still be out there, lurking. 

His head swims, stomach vaguely threatening to rebel again. Felix turns his head, pressing his cheek to the warm metal of the instrument panel. It feels pretty nice. This particular piece of Vortex only smells like metal and circuitry, not blood. If he closes his eyes, it’s just pleasantly dark enough to settle into a half-sleep slumped against Vortex’s plating. His skin prickles faintly.

The pang! Of a piece of plating hitting the floor wakes him from his doze, sending fresh gouges of pain rippling across his skull. Felix blinks, headache settling squarely behind his right eye socket and encompassing his entire skull. Where had that come from? Was something wrong with Vortex? Or more likely, had Vortex tired of his presence and was preparing to finally kill him?

The plating sits on the flooring, looking as deceptively innocent as any non-sentient sheet of metal can. Felix huddles back further against the instrument paneling. The canopy was shut sometime while he was drowsing, completely locking him in. Light ripples across the cockpit, and Felix slowly twists around to squint up at the display.

[OPEN THE BAG]

Bag. Open the bag. What bag? 

Felix casts helplessly around the cockpit space, searching- there! In a shadowed cubby against the far wall, which- if he remembers from the pilot’s manual correctly- should not be there. Felix attempts to stand, legs wobbling, before giving up and crawling over to the alcove. His skin prickles again, and he refuses to feel shame underneath Vortex’s mechanical gaze. It’s because of the stupid medical boot. Not him. He pushes the loose plating aside and is rewarded with a screech of metal-on-metal that sends his head throbbing again. Felix sags against the wall with a groan before throwing what’s left of his caution to the wind, sticking his hand into the alcove and dragging the bag out. Vortex does not take his hand off. Not even a finger gets scraped on the exposed metal. There’s not a hint of violence from the mech, and Felix sneaks a glance at one of the cockpit cams. It’s trained directly on him, lens shadowed in the claret gloom. He gives it a weak smile. 

The bag is the heavy black polyester duffle ubiquitous to military installations, and it takes a bit of fumbling for Felix to find the zipper and tug it open. Inside is a fresh pilot’s uniform-the Nomex base-side kind, a small toolkit, a radio, a number of MREs and-

Water. 

Felix grabs the first bottle, twisting the cap off and chugging the water down. It’s warm, with a strange plasticky aftertaste. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He drinks another just as fast, water settling heavy in his stomach and washing the taste of bile from his mouth before leaning back against the wall again, the steady rumble of machinery behind it a small comfort. The ex-medic checks the cockpit display, but it remains a steady blank. Another check to the camera confirms that it’s still trained directly at him. Felix gives it a second awkward smile. 

“Vortex- I ah…I- thanks.” He finishes lamely, rubbing his face. His skin is disgustingly oily to the touch. What do you say to a thousand-ton killing machine when it doesn’t kill you? “For-”

Not killing me. 

Saving me from the evil clutches of Pharma.

Giving me water. 

“For everything. Yeah.” Felix cringes at the awkward words. He’s never been particularly well-spoken, but this is just embarrassing. He almost wishes that Vortex would try to kill him again, just for the possibility to escape this torture. 

They sit in silence, Felix’s gaze focused on the floor, skin prickling. His stomach clenches, water threatening to make a reappearance. 

He should’ve known better to drink anything Vortex offered. He slowly stands, one hand against the wall of the cockpit for stability before slowly crossing to the front. “...can you please open the cockpit?” He hazards, one hand pressed to his openly rebelling stomach. 

There’s the distinctive sound of the locking pins dropping. Felix winces as his stomach clenches again.

“Please-” he retches, throat burning as bile forces itself back up his worn esophagus. “I-I don’t wanna-”

The canopy lifts with an almost petulant hiss of the hydraulics, only a few feet again. And again, Felix barely gets his head out of the cockpit before throwing up. The water burns as it leaves, and Felix spits a few times after it to clear his mouth, hand pressed to his cramping stomach. His head pounds under the unrelenting light, and he slips back into the welcoming dim dark of the cockpit. For the second time that day, Felix finds himself sitting on the floor of Vortex’s cockpit, mouth sour and throat stinging, staring up at the ruby wash of light across the ceiling. The canopy hisses shut, locking pins ch-chunk-ing into place with finality. The red light ripples, disturbed, and Felix can’t stop the weary sigh as he lifts his head to read Vortex’s words.

[FELIX-BABY, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SWALLOW]

Felix feels his cheeks heat, and he looks away from the chiding display. He’s not sure which is worse, being called baby by Vortex or the joke. 

“I threw up. That's different.” He mutters, running hands through his sweat-stiff hair. 

The ventilation stutters, on-off-on-off, like human laughter. His cheeks heat more. 

[DRINK MORE. SLOWLY]

Felix gawks at the screen. He must have brain damage- there’s no way Vortex is giving him medical advice. Advice in general, actually. This must be a trick of some kind. 

But he is thirsty. 

He shuffles back over to the bag.

Opens another water bottle. 

He drinks slowly, stealing small sips each time until the bottle is mostly empty and his stomach settles into a kind of low-grade simmer. His headache eases some. Immediate crisis resolved, Felix’s attention wanders back to the medical boot. Why does he have it? His leg doesn’t hurt- he wracks his brain, did he injure it sometime before Pharma got to him? Or did he put up enough of a fight to injure himself? Was that why he was drugged? 

His memories are not forthcoming, but it makes sense. Many sedatives interfere with the formation of new memories; if it was put on at around the same time as the IV, his brain might not have had the ability to recall why.

It leaves only one course of action. 

Felix fumbles with the buckles and straps- thank god Pharma only used one of the temporary, removable braces rather than something more permanent like plaster or fiberglass. Otherwise he’d have to stick his leg into Vortex’s machinery to get it off. He pulls the boot off with little difficulty, studying his leg. A simple check; wiggling his toes, rolling his ankle, flexing his knee. No pain. Not even any cuts or bruises cross his flesh. Which means…Felix pokes around the wads of cotton padding pulled from the brace. There!

A small metal device, no bigger than a coin, nestled into a fold of gauze. A tracker? Or some kind of…recording device? He holds it up for inspection, skin crawling as Vortex’s cameras and scanners snap to it. A surge of malevolence fills the cabin, Vortex’s wrath roused by the discovery. Plating rattles, the low purr of the mech’s engine climbing to a dull roar. Felix draws his legs to his chest, curling against the bag for its flimsy protection, device clutched tight in his fist. Another panel pops loose, clatter of metal half-drowned by the increasing volume of machinery grinding. 

[DESTROY IT]

Felix does not need to be told twice, scrambling to toss the cursed thing into Vortex’s grinding gears. It’s shredded immediately, fragile circuits ripped apart and ground to silicone dust in the face of his fury. There’s a high pitched whine- Vortex’s weapons systems charging, oh god- before it all subsides. The silence is profound against the pain in Felix’s head, the mech’s engines and drives settling down towards their previous quiet purr like nothing happened. The plating stills, returning to inert, the gap where Vortex had offered Felix a place to throw the thing the only break in the metal.

The medic carefully replaces the panel covering the humming machinery, plating hooking into place smoothly, seamless. No response from Vortex. He casts a glance at the cockpit canopy, but there’s no chance that Vortex will let him out, and he’s not about to ask after all of… that. There’s only one thing for him to do, other than try to sleep- which is not happening.

He goes through the bag again, trying to regain some semblance of calm, hands clammy. The toolkit is compact, but it has a surprising number of tools, most of which Felix has no idea how to use. He's a medic by training, not a mechanic. He carefully checks each one anyways to occupy himself, pristine metal warm and smooth against his fingers. Next are the MREs. Still sealed and within expiry date, no obvious signs of tampering. He puts them back in the bag. But the real prize is the pilot’s uniform, fabric stiff with disuse and heavy across the shoulders and chest with patches. Felix pulls the suit out of the bag and half unfolds it over his lap, running his fingers over the patches crowding the suit. Different patches for different bases, various military campaigns from all over the world, rank, even for different specialties. The owner had been cross-trained as a helicopter mechanic.

He lingers over the name, petting over the coarse thread picking out VORTEX over the right breast of the suit. Felix toys with the velcro; his own pilot patches haven’t come in yet…

It’s a dirty thought, stealing a dead man’s name tape for his own use, especially if the dead man in question is watching and prone to fly into fits of rage. Felix might’ve sunk low to reach this point in his life, but Pharma must’ve really dosed him up with something if he’s this out of his mind to even consider such a thing. He shouldn’t even want Vortex’s name emblazoned over his shoulder. But the thought lingers the longer he stares at the patches. 

Pilots typically wear number badges to denote their mech anyway, what’s the harm in wearing a name instead? Vortex is already known better by his name than by his serial number. It’s fitting for his pilot to wear his name too. Vortex seems like the kind who’d like that sort of thing.

Felix hastily folds the suit up, stuffing it back into the bag before temptation can overwhelm sense. His unfortunate predilections aside, stealing from the dead is a violation of numerous ethical codes, and he’s pretty sure Vortex would kill him for even considering taking something so personal from the remainder of his belongings. Even if the mech has been almost…tame towards him so far. Not a pinch or a threat. Even some banter. No, this must be the calm before the metaphorical vortex sucks him in and kills him. 

He casts a reluctant glance towards the exit again, skin prickling. He’s just going to have to wait this one out. It’s not a terrible concept, waiting here in the dark and warm for Vortex to make his mind up. It’s not like Pharma can find his way in. Whatever happens, it’s at least a break to figure out what he does next. Whatever that is.

ANON. ANON LET ME PICK YOU UP AND HOLD YOU FOREVER. ANON I DONT KNOW YOUR NAME BUT I WANNA HOLD YOUR HAND FKFKGKMRJFKFNDJKSK

Haha mmm. I'm fine I'm okay I'm normal

Yeah so about Quintessons. I imagine they can be all kind of creatures. Organic, techno organic, straight up just techno. Tf:one, Cyberverse, straight up Pacific rim Kaijus. All kinds of monsters haha

Also, Vortex was the part of the first batch of pilots for Mecha program. The technology was very new and VERY underdeveloped so...yeah, Vortex was part time pilot and part time lab rat.

The whole process of making someone into a pilot was a lot more dangerous and painful back then because no one really knew what they were doing. But after some time it became safer and less painful. So when Jazz joined he didn't suffer as much as Vortex. And when later Blurr joined he didn't suffer as much as Jazz.

(You didn't ask but. I like to think that Vortex knows quite a lot about all kinds of side effects of neural connection. Also about side effects of physical procedures and all kinds of weird fucked up experiments. Just because. You know. He went through it all. A lot of times.)

Previous Next

[lazy-ahh]

DEVOTION

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

a love that’s more teeth than tenderness—jason todd doesn’t know how to love you quietly. it’s in the traps he rigs around your apartment, the way his hands shake when he pulls you close, the growl in his voice when you’re five minutes late. he’d raze gotham to keep you safe, and the worst part? you’d let him. you’d help him burn it down.

taglist @kasarian , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

you step into the apartment, kicking off your shoes with a little more force than necessary—because honestly, who has the energy to bend down after a long day?—when you hear it. a soft click under your foot. you freeze for half a second before rolling your eyes. another one of jason’s stupid security measures.

it’s just a pressure sensor, harmless unless you’re some unlucky bastard trying to break in while jason’s out doing whatever morally questionable shit he calls "work." and yeah, okay, maybe it’s overkill. maybe the six other traps he’s rigged around the place already cover every possible entry point. but that’s jason for you—paranoid, overprotective, and completely incapable of leaving well enough alone.

your phone buzzes in your pocket—third time this hour. you don’t even have to look to know it’s him. of course it’s him. because god forbid you go more than twenty minutes without him checking in like you’re some helpless civilian who doesn’t know how to handle themselves. (which, for the record, you definitely do. you’ve thrown hands with worse than some two-bit gotham thugs.)

you sigh, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. just fondness. the kind that settles warm and stubborn in your chest, no matter how much you pretend otherwise.

"just checking in," the text reads.

you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. dramatic bastard. but despite yourself, your chest does that stupid, traitorous little squeeze—the one that always happens when he does this overprotective shit. you thumb out a reply before you can overthink it. "i’m fine, jay. just got home."

his answer pings back before you can even lock your phone. "good. lock the door."

no "hey." no "miss you." just straight to the point. typical. you huff out a laugh, but your fingers still brush over the screen like it’s something fragile. god, you’re pathetic.

of course you locked the door. you always lock the damn door—not because you need to (you’ve taken down guys twice your size without breaking a sweat), but because you know what it does to him if you don’t. you’ve seen the way his jaw clenches when he thinks you’re not looking, the way his fingers twitch toward his guns like he’s seconds from bolting back home just to check.

it wasn’t always like this. well, okay—it was, but not this bad. back when he was just your ghost, your shadow, the nameless presence you knew was watching you but could never prove. back when he was still dead to the world, and you were just the idiot who kept visiting his grave every other day like clockwork, talking to a headstone like it could talk back.

(the two of you never talked about what you used to say to that empty plot of dirt. some things are too raw, even for you. but you have a feeling he knows. no, you know he knows.)

then came that night—the muggers, the alley, the way you’d barely rolled your shoulders before he dropped out of the fucking sky like some avenging angel in a leather jacket and a stupid helmet. he’d made quick work of them, all brutal efficiency and barely-contained rage, and you? you just stood there. staring. because you knew.

you’d lunged before he could disappear again—because of course he was trying to disappear, the self-sacrificing bastard—and wrapped your arms around him so tight the plates of his armor dug into your ribs. it hurt, but you didn’t care. you couldn’t care, not when his heartbeat was thundering under your palms, not when the smell of gunpowder and leather and him flooded your senses like a punch to the gut.

"it’s you," you’d choked out, voice cracking like you were some heartbroken kid instead of someone who’d spent years pretending they were fine. "you idiot. you absolute idiot, did you really think i wouldn’t know?" your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket, desperate, like if you let go he’d dissolve into smoke. "i’d know you anywhere. in any lifetime. any fucking universe."

he didn't move. didn't breathe. the kind of stillness that wasn't just shock—it was like you'd reached inside his ribs and yanked out whatever scraps of his heart he'd been stupid enough to keep for himself. (as if he hadn't already given you every broken piece years ago, back when you were both too young and too stupid to know how much it would hurt later.)

his breath came out in one jagged gasp, the kind that gets stuck in your throat when you're trying not to sob. for one horrible, endless moment, you could practically feel him shutting down—muscles tensing like he was about to bolt, hands twitching like he wanted to push you away before you realized what a mistake this was. before you realized he was the mistake.

(like hell you'd let him. you wouldn’t have let him. you’d have held on tighter. you’d have crawled after him if you had to. you'd chase him through fucking crime alley if you had to. you'd done it before.)

but then—slowly, so slowly it ached—his hands came up. trembling. hesitant. like he thought you’d vanish if he touched you too hard. when his arms finally locked around you, it wasn’t the desperate, bruising grip you expected. it was reverent. like you were something sacred. like he was afraid he’d wake up and find this was just another cruel dream.

(you didn’t let go. not then. not ever.)

now? now he’s worse. so much worse. like, next-level, should-probably-be-concerning-but-is-weirdly-endearing kind of worse. the apartment's practically booby-trapped enough to give batman pause, your phone blows up every twenty minutes like clockwork, and the way he looks at you? fuck. like you're some miracle he doesn't deserve. like if he looks away for one second, you'll turn to smoke between his fingers.

and yeah, okay, maybe you should be weirded out. maybe normal people would call this obsessive. but you're not normal, and neither is he, and that's the fucking point. you get it. you get it, down to your bones. because if you'd crawled your way out of your own grave only to find someone still waiting for you? still choosing you? you'd lose your goddamn mind too.

jason todd loves like a starving man at a banquet—all trembling hands and desperate bites, terrified the food will disappear if he blinks. it should feel like a cage. it would feel like a cage, with anyone else. but it's him. so when his arms wrap around you too tight, when his voice goes rough with "where were you?" after five fucking minutes, you just press closer. because you know the shape of this fear. you've tasted it yourself.

because here's the secret: you're just as bad. you love him with the same terrifying intensity, the same need that should probably scare you but doesn't. not really. not when it's him.

you love the way his hands shake when he pulls you close after a long night—not the dramatic, crime-fighting kind of shake, but the quiet tremble of a man who still can't believe he gets to touch you. like if he holds on tight enough, he'll wake up and this’ll all be some cruel dream. you love how he remembers your schedule, how he still hums your favorite songs under his breath when he thinks you're not listening, how he makes your eggs just slightly runny because he knows you like them that way even though he prefers his 'perfectly crisp'. stupid things. little things. the kind of things that would be meaningless if it wasn't him remembering them like they're scripture.

and fuck, the way he looks at you. like you hung the goddamn moon. like he'd carve out his own heart if you asked nicely. (you wouldn't. but the fact that he would if you were ever to ask? that gets you every time.)

what you don't say—what gets stuck in your throat like broken glass—is that you're just as fucking gone for him. you know the exact pressure needed to clean his favorite knife without fucking up the edge, which snacks he craves after patrol (those delicious spicy chili chips), how to make his hot chocolate just right—extra whipped cream, because "sweetheart, if i wanted vaguely chocolate water i'd drink batman's sad attempt at comfort food." you've memorized the way his breath stutters when you trace the scar along his ribs, how his eyes go that particular stormy green when he's blinking back tears, the exact weight of him when he collapses into your lap after a shitty night, all battered armor and quiet hurt.

and yeah, maybe you keep his favorite hoodie tucked under your pillow like some lovesick teenager. maybe you've memorized the pattern of his scars better than your own. maybe you wake up some nights choking on phantom dirt, your hands still remembering the feel of cold headstone beneath your palms, the way your voice cracked raw screaming his name into empty air.

but he's here. he came back. and some days, when the sunlight hits him just right and he smiles at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen, you think you might actually owe the universe for this one. for him.

sometimes, when the moonlight spills through the curtains just right and your breathing's gone slow and even, he lets himself be vulnerable. his calloused fingers—usually so sure around a gun, so deadly in a fight—trace the curve of your cheekbone like he's mapping constellations. it's the lightest touch, barely there, like he's afraid you'll dissolve into smoke if he presses too hard. like you're some sacred relic instead of the same idiot who once ate an entire pizza in one sitting (despite him warning you) and then complained about stomach aches for hours.

you're not fragile. you've taken punches that would knock out people twice your size, have scars that tell stories he doesn't even know yet. but in these quiet moments, when his breath catches and his hands tremble just slightly, he treats you like something precious. like you're the only thing in this godforsaken city worth protecting. you're not. but to him, you are.

and maybe that's why you don't give him shit about the excessive security measures (seriously, who needs that many knives hidden in one apartment?), or the way your phone lights up with his texts every twenty minutes like clockwork, or how his voice goes all gravelly with barely-contained panic when you're late coming home from the fucking grocery store. because you know that fear. you've tasted it—bitter and metallic—in the back of your throat every time he walks out the door wearing that damn helmet.

you love him like it's the last rebellion against a world that keeps trying to take him from you—like every breath you take is just another way to say fuck you to the universe. and yeah, maybe loving someone this much should terrify you, should send you running for the hills. but the thing is? you've never been good at walking away from a fight. especially not when it's him.

so when he stumbles through the window at 3 AM, knuckles split and that familiar exhaustion dragging at his shoulders like a second skin, you don't even blink. the blood doesn't faze you (you've seen worse), the way his hands tremble when he reaches for you doesn't make you hesitate. if anything, you meet him halfway, your fingers curling into his jacket before he can even get his boots off.

you press closer, until there's no space left between you, until you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs—too fast, too wild, but there. your lips find the scar on his mouth (the one he got that time he wouldn't stop running his mouth at black mask), then the fresh bruise blooming along his jaw (you'll ask about that tomorrow, when he's not vibrating out of his skin). and when he buries his face against your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, you don't just let him. you drag him closer, your own fingers digging into his back like you're trying to fuse your skeletons together.

you breathe him in like he's your last hit of oxygen, your nose pressed against his hair, memorizing the scent of gunpowder and sweat and him. your hands don't shake when they slide under his shirt—they tremble, tracing every scar, every ridge of muscle, like you're trying to rewrite every hurt he's ever known with your fingertips.

and when he finally slumps against you, all that tension bleeding out of him in one long sigh, you hold him up. you always will.

then when he whispers it against your skin—lips brushing your collarbone like a prayer, voice rough with something too raw to name—"i'd let this goddamn city burn for you. hell, i'd torch the whole fucking world and smile while it burned," you don't doubt him for a second. how could you? you've seen the way his hands steady when they're wrapped around yours, how his eyes go dark and certain in a way that makes your ribs ache.

your smile comes slow, private—the kind you only ever let him see—as you card your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "i know, pretty boy." because you do. you've always known. it's in the way he memorizes the rhythm of your breathing when you sleep, how he still flinches when you touch his back (too many scars, too many ghosts) but still lean in for more, how every goddamn morning starts with his lips against your pulse point like he's checking you're still alive.

and christ, it terrifies you sometimes, how good it feels to be loved this way. not careful, not gentle, but consuming. like there's no version of this story where you don't end up tangled together, blood and bone and all the ugly, beautiful parts in between. it's the kind of love that should feel like too much, except it's him, so it's never enough.

(because here's the truth they don't tell you about love this fierce: it doesn't make you softer. it makes you reckless. it makes you dangerous. and when his mouth finds yours in the dark, all teeth and desperation, you think—with something like joy, like hunger—that you'd raze entire cities for this man. you probably would have if he hadn't saved you that night.)

"i know," you say again, quieter this time, and let him kiss the words from your lips.

because you would too. you’d carve your name into the bones of the earth if it meant he’d never have to hurt again. the real question isn’t if—it’s which one of you would burn brighter.

would it be him, with his hands stained and his heart too big for his chest, tearing through the dark just to keep you safe? or would it be you, reckless and grinning, already halfway through the matchstick before he even finishes shouting your name?

does it even matter?

when the smoke clears, you’ll always find each other in the ashes.

2.5k words of jason todd being devastatingly human—all rough hands and soft devotion, love that borders on obsession but feels like coming home. because god, i missed him. missed writing his particular brand of broken tenderness, the way he loves like it's the last thing holding him together. because it might just be. it's criminal how i don't get any requests for him compared to mark, but hey—at least this way i get to pour all my pent-up jason feelings into something raw and unfiltered. or maybe i just don't write him well enough... my pretty boy with too much heart and too many scars, who deserves the world and would burn it down for the right person. lowkey wish it's me— hope this makes someone out there fall in love with him all over again like i did. or at least makes you clutch your chest dramatically like i did writing it.

[natalievoncatte]

The transfer would have to be quick. They had to move Lena -the other Lena- from the Kryptonian stasis pod to the operating table in the Amazonian lab and they had to hurry.

As she watched six Amazons lift her own limp form onto the platform, Lena could hear the cyborg talking to her Kara.

“These are the worst moments. When there is nothing we can do with all our strength. When we’re just as helpless as any other mortal woman.”

“I know,” her Kara said, very softly. “It’s going to work.”

“I’m afraid,” said the Cyborg. “I’ve been searching so long. Fate has a way of snatching things from us at the last moment. What if she hates me for failing her? What if she can’t stand the sight of me?”

“Lena, focus,” said Alex.

Lena snapped her attention back to the task at hand. Her other self, her doppelgänger, her variant, whatever you want to call it, now lay on the table and Alex was attaching sensors all over her body. Lena joined her.

It was a peculiar sight, one’s own self. The way this Lena looked older, maybe wiser, sent some distant part of Lena’s own mind reeling. If they were simply variations on the same universe, merely quantum discrepancies, why would one version of her be older than she was? How could she be born sooner and still be the same person?

It didn’t matter.

One of the Amazons said, “we must move quickly; we’re already losing her.”

Both Karas sucked in a sharp breath, one of them a harsh mechanical wheeze. Lena and ignored it, and hung the bag of while blood while Alex put the catheter in their patient’s arm.

Her blood. Lena’s. This had to work.

“Back, quickly.”

Lena and Alex stepped back, and the device lowered from the ceiling- like everything here it was a strange blend of classical forms and shapes mixed with high technology. Lena stepped back behind the marked line on the marble floor and waited.

The machine built up with a low thrum, the sound increasing and volume and pitch as it rose until finally a vibrant light burst forth, enveloping the other Lena in a cascade of purple hues, constantly shifting and changing.

The body on the bier was absolutely still; the monitors showed no pulse, no respiration, no brain activity.

Behind her Lena felt as much as heard a strangled, mechanical cry like knives being scraped across a sheet of steel as the cyborg cried out in agony and sank to her knees.

Her Kara said, “Wait! Wait! Look!

Lena watched as her own chest slowly began to rise and fall. The monitors began to pulse with the beat of her heart- slow, at first, weak, but growing stronger with each beat, as her brain activity lit up the screen. It was working. It was working.

“I can hear her,” the cyborg rasped, her voice strangely tinny with elation, “I can hear her heartbeat. I can hear her heartbeat again!”

She lunged forward, but both Kara and two of the Amazons stopped her.

“The process will take hours. Perhaps days. She must not be disturbed.”

A crimson tear welled up in her eye, scratching its way down her cold, pale cheek.

“I can’t leave her.”

Diana stepped forward. “You will not have to. You must simply remain outside the boundary. My warriors will stand vigil with you.”

“I’ll stay too,” said Alex. Nia nodded.

“Lena,” said Diana. “A word.”

Lena swallowed hard and walked beside the enormous warrior woman, the top of her head barely reaching her shoulder. She’d even made Clark look small. They walked outside in the crisp Mediterranean evening air. Even the atmosphere here smelled lovely and clean. There was a full moon rising and in the distance it sparked across the sea.

“There is a problem.”

Lena turned sharply. “What problem?”

“I had my physicians examine the cyborg. We had intended to heal her as well- her Kryptonian physiology should enhance the healing properties of the Purple Ray even further.”

“I sense a ‘but,” said Lena.

Diana nodded, her expression darkening as she looked out over the sprawling city of gold and marble around them.

“The damage is too extensive. Much of her dermal layers are synthetic as well- forgive my bluntness, but there is actually very little left of our friend. Other than her brain and spinal column, very little remains. I’m not sure that she herself is aware of how much has been replaced.”

Lena’s legs weakened and she leaned on the railing in front of her, the stone cold against her palms.

“There has to be a way. Can our Kara help somehow?”

“Not unless she can grow a second heart and liver. Forgive my bluntness, but but I don’t believe that we can help her any further, only try to make her condition more-“

“Highness!” an Amazon shouted as she ran towards them, “Princess! There is a quantum surge nearby. The signature resembles a boom tube!”

Diana turned from Lena as if she wasn’t there. “Sound the alarms, surround the incursion site, and have Supergirl join us- we may need both of them.”

“The cyborg is too damaged to fight,” Lena insisted.

“If this is what I fear, we cannot let any warrior sit idle. Come!”

She turned and ran, and Lena struggled to keep up, her lungs burning even in the pure air of the earthly paradise.

Dozens of Amazons surrounded an empty space in the courtyard, aiming spears and swords at seemingly nothing, an empty space. Kara and her cyborg counterpart rushed to flank Lena.

“What is this?” said Lena. “What is a boom tube?”

In answer, there was a crack of thunder that almost launched her off her feet. Kara instinctively caught her in a smooth motion and lifted Lena into her arms. The sound came with a blinding flash and when Lena opened her eyes, purple spots stained her vision.

A corridor of light unfolded in the air, spending from a central flash, sending waves of air cascading around their feet.

“Ready,” Diana called, cracking her knuckles.

Thwip!

A thin stream of some silvery substance shot out of the aperture or tunnel or portal or whatever it was and hit one of the nearby columns with a loud splat, hanging in the air in thin silvery cord that went taut as something swung out of the portal at impossible speed.

Lena could make out that the arrival was woman, but not much else- she was blinding fast, launching another one of those… webs… from her wrist.

Diana tried to grab her and she twisted out of the way with impossible reflexes, turning in the air, using her swing to build momentum and somersault, finally landing on one of the columns, clinging somehow to the smooth stone.

“Easy, easy, easy!” the intruder shouted, showing her hands as she crouched against the marble. “I come in peace.”

The voice sounded too familiar, almost like-“

“Get down from there!” Diana bellowed. “Stand and show yourself.”

The stranger leapt down from the height with unnatural grace, and Lena heard gasps marching her own as she recognized… herself.

Herself wearing a leather bomber jacket over a black bodysuit emblazoned with the white silhouette of a spider.

“Who are you?” Kara snapped, moving between Lena and the… new Lena.

“I’m Lena 938,” she said, offering a hand to shake, “and I’m her to help.”

“Seize her!” Diana barked.

“Oh come on,” said Lena-938. “Can please not do the ‘heroes have to fight before they become friends’ thing? I’ve had a long day and I want to skip to the part where I give you the exposition.”

“Wait!” said Lena. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

Her counterpart looked at her. “Oh thank God you’re not one of the crazy variants.”

“Variants?” said Lena. “How many have you met?”

“A lot, and some of us would like to join the party. I’m here to talk about the League of Lenas, and how we’re going to help you.”

She pointed at the cyborg.

“Everyone inside,” Diana snapped. “We will hear your explanation, but no more portals!”

[yvesssssssss]

Heyyy! How are you?

I have a request for Hoshina and I'm ready to get on my knees bc I def need to read more of this idea, the thing is:

Reader (a platoon leader) went on a mission and Hoshina, her boyfriend, stayed in the control room to check on the mission, before the operators found an extra heartbeat in her suit, confused, Okonogi would check on her and there they'd find out (including Hoshina) that reader was pregnant. And Hoshina would confront her why hadn't she told him before.

You can decide if reader already knew she was pregnant or not ^^ (pd: take your time and ignore my english, it's not my native language)

Heartbeat

Hello!! I hope you like it!! (Good morning˙ᵕ˙)

The mission had gone as expected—almost. The kaiju threat in District 8 had been neutralized swiftly under your command. You moved like a ghost through the wreckage, katana sheathed, uniform slick with grime and sweat. Your subordinates reported back with minimal injuries. Clean, efficient.

Textbook work.

Except for one thing.

Back in the control room, Hoshina stood with arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the screen, following your vitals in real-time. His posture was relaxed to the untrained eye, but Okonogi knew better. Hoshina hadn’t taken his eyes off your line for even a second. Not since you left the gate.

“Platoon Leader's suit readings are normal,” an operator muttered. “Slight elevation in heart rate, but that’s expected…”

Then, a beep. Followed by confusion.

“Wait—there’s… another heartbeat?”

The room paused. Even Hoshina tilted forward slightly.

“Another signature in the suit?” Okonogi asked, already tapping away at the data. “Could be an error. Glitch in the sensors maybe.”

“No,” Hoshina said, voice suddenly sharper. “Run it again. Full analysis. Pull the internal suit diagnostics.”

The monitor adjusted. The second heartbeat was faint but steady. Smaller. Softer. Not a kaiju. Not anything artificial.

“...It’s coming from inside her,” Okonogi said slowly. Then he blinked. “It’s… it’s a fetal heartbeat.”

Everything froze.

Hoshina stared at the monitor. At the data. At your name. Then, for the first time that day, he moved—fast.

“Keep her on the line. I’m heading to the bay."

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You were peeling off your suit when the door opened—and there he was.

Hoshina.

Your heart jumped. Despite everything—despite the nerves in your stomach and the quiet conversation with the medic—you couldn’t help the way your feet moved toward him, your lips tugging into a relieved, affectionate smile.

“You’re here,” you said softly, crossing the room to him.

But he didn’t smile.

He didn’t reach for you.

He stood still, his jaw tight, shoulders tense as he looked at you—not with relief, but with something sharper. Quieter. Controlled.

“So…” he said, voice low, unreadable, “I’m guessing you found out I know.”

You blinked, the joy in your chest faltering. “Hoshina—”

“Through suit diagnostics,” he cut in. “Through Okonogi.”

You flinched at that.

“That wasn’t how I wanted you to find out,” you murmured.

“Wasn’t how I wanted to find out either.”

The room hung heavy with the silence between you. The medic, eyes wide, silently excused herself, leaving you both alone.

Hoshina took a step forward now. Controlled. Careful. Still holding something back.

“You knew?” he asked. “How long?”

You swallowed. “About two weeks.”

His eyes searched yours. Hurt—hidden under the surface—started to show.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You looked down.

“I didn’t want to distract you. We’re in the middle of a war. I didn’t want to be… a burden.”

That word hit like a knife. You felt it the moment it landed.

He didn’t lash out. Hoshina never did. But his breath left him like he’d been punched.

“You think… that’s what this is? A burden?”

“I didn’t want to make you choose,” you whispered. “Between me and the field. Or between command and—this.”

“Damn it, (Y/N),” he said, and this time, it cracked—the worry, the anger, the rawness. “You’re not a distraction. You’re not a burden. And that’s my kid too.”

You kept your eyes down, voice barely audible. “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of this. Of you looking at me like I’m something fragile. Something broken.”

He stepped in, slowly now, as if letting himself soften again. His hand came up, gently cupping your cheek.

“I don’t see you as fragile,” he said. “I see you as the woman I love. Who walked into a battlefield with my child inside her and still came out leading her team.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. Your throat felt tight.

“So you’re not mad?”

“I’m mad you didn’t trust me with this,” he admitted. “But I’m more scared. Scared of what could’ve happened out there without me knowing.”

“I didn’t want to slow anyone down.”

“Next time,” he said firmly, “you tell me. We carry this together. You don’t have to do it alone.”

You finally looked into his eyes—and you saw the flicker of something softer now. Hope. Fear. Love.

“I never planned for this,” you whispered.

“Neither did I,” he said, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “But I want it. I want you. Both of you.”

You fell into him, arms around his waist as he held you close, grounding you.

His hand rested lightly over your stomach.

“I’m staying in the control room from now on,” he muttered into your hair. “You don’t get to go off doing solo runs without telling me you’re carrying our future.”

You laughed, half-choked, half-teary. “Deal.”

[muletia]

[tfp] obsessed!orion pax x human!reader valveplug, minors don't interact!

based on this delicious ask about orion overloading from inhaling your pheromones and some tags provided by @tom-foolery-incorporated <3

word count: 800

Holding Orion’s helm on both sides, you pull him toward you, feeling no resistance from the startled mech. His faceplate lands against your chest, and you immediately envelop him in warmth, letting him sink into the softness of your human body. The familiar shape of your torso and the rhythmic symphony of your heartbeat give him a sense of comfort and belonging, as if, after a long, exhausting day, he has finally found his way home. Orion lifts his optics to you and smiles in gratitude, though you cannot see the expression.

“I missed you,” you murmur tenderly, pressing a kiss to the top of his helm.

“I am glad that our feelings…” he begins, but his words are abruptly cut off by the sudden, unfamiliar scent flooding his olfactory sensors.

It is sweet, unmistakably yours, yet tainted with something unknown — something he cannot name. Has no time to analyze it before the scent overwhelms him, urging to flee, to pull away before it does irreversible damage to his processor. Escaping should not be a challenge; after all, you are not restraining him, granting him full freedom to move. But the problem is that he hesitates to run.

One breath. Then another. And another. Each inhale draws the scent deeper, seeping into his very core, coating his spark, his tank, until it finally reaches the most sensitive parts of his frame, teasing them mercilessly. It creeps behind his interface panel, wrapping around his spike and valve, luring them into a dance with the desire that consumes him in an instant. Just moments ago, all he had wanted was to hold you close, whispering sweet words in your ear, but now — now, the image of sliding his spike into your tight, burning-hot folds is the only thought left in his processor. The only thing he wants to think about. The only thing he can.

Orion takes another involuntary breath, stress-induced from the sudden onslaught of overwhelming need, and it seals his fate.

“[Name]!” he cries out, voice breaking. His concealed spike spasms, and from its tip, thick strands of pink transfluid spill out, splattering against his panel before slowly dripping downward, seeping into the seams, finding their way out. Some rivulets trail down his thighs, while others pool onto the floor beneath him.

“Orion, did you just come?” you ask bluntly. Watching the way his back arches, his optics roll upward, and listening to the symphony of his stifled moans, you are certain of the answer. You should be surprised — after all, you had barely given him any real stimulation to get him to overload — but you know your partner well enough to have learned just how little he needs to unravel. Still, the meaner part of you, the one that always surfaces when Orion is deliciously pathetic, wants to see undeniable evidence of his overload.

“Move your head. I want to see.”

“Ah!” Orion whimpers. “N-No, do not look,” he pleads, suddenly ashamed of the intensity of his own desperation.

His embarrassment does not last long, though, because Orion does not want to pull away. He does not want to lose this intoxicating sense of helplessness, this loss of control that breathing in your scent grants him. He wants to stay right here, drunk on your sweetness.

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now you’re getting shy? Please, I’ve seen you worse.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles, barely processing your words. He inhales again, this time intentionally, and just like before, your scent floods his body. His still-hard, aching spike throbs, pleading for another overload, and his valve clenches around nothing, echoing the demand. He has no choice but to take in more of your scent, to drown himself in it. He presses himself against you harder, as if trying to meld into your body, rubbing his faceplate against your chest in a desperate chase for another untouched, hands-free climax.

Forgetting his own immense strength, he unwittingly forces you several steps backward, making you struggle to keep your balance.

“Hey!” you yelp, giving him a light, scolding pat on the helm. “I almost fell!”

That, finally, seems to snap him out of it — at least for a moment. Orion lifts his optics to meet yours, guilt flickering in his gaze. “A-apologies,” he murmurs, but his focus does not last long. He immediately buries his faceplate back against you, sensitive olfactory sensors dragging over your torso, trying to provoke another overload.

“Ah! [Name], please, help me!” he whines, his voice raw with need. He has to be inside you. Needs to ground himself, to find something solid to cling to, or else he fears he will completely lose his mind.

You sigh, feigning exasperation. “As you wish, love.” and Orion hurriedly retracts his transfluid-slick interface panel.

[hopeyoufindalovelikethis]

The World We Share

Hi there! I’m planning to go through and proofread my writings every night so I can share more with you. It may take a bit since I’m juggling work too, but I appreciate your patience and support. Sending big hugs!

Synopsis | After eight months with Sylus, trust deepens beyond words. In a quiet moment, she gives him a spare key—an unspoken promise of belonging. Grief lingers, but love blooms slowly, gently, offering them both a sanctuary they never thought they'd find.

It had been eight months since you first stepped into Sylus’s world—not just as a visitor, but as someone irreplaceable. His base in N109 Zone, once a fortress of steel and silence, now breathed with traces of your presence. The security system that once responded only to his voice had been reconfigured, its permissions rewritten to obey yours as well. Every door, every corridor, every sensor now recognized you like a second heartbeat to his own. You hadn’t asked for that kind of access—he simply gave it, like a quiet vow.

And yet, despite the reverent way his staff treated you, you never quite got used to the bowed heads and formal greetings. It was Luke and Kieran, the ever-rowdy twins who used to call you “Miss Hunter,” that you clung to most. Somewhere along the way, their stiff respect softened into warmth, their titles traded for something far more precious: “Big Sister.” They didn’t know what that meant to you.

Not fully.

•••

The explosion that took your home had stolen more than walls and warmth—it had taken your grandmother, and Caleb. Nights were the hardest. The world fell quiet, and in that silence, your grief whispered louder than ever. Sometimes you would curl into yourself and cry until your pillow was wet with longing and loss. But then Sylus came.

He never rushed you to move on. He simply stayed. Sometimes in silence, sometimes with a quiet hum as he stroked your back, pressed his head into yours, or placed a soft kiss on your temple. His hands, always so sure and strong in battle, grew gentle around you—tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear, cupping your cheek like you were something fragile, precious. He let you cry if you needed to. And somehow, his presence alone made the grief less suffocating—not feeling like drowning anymore.

No shame. No judgment. Just presence. Steady, unwavering.

•••

The soft glow of the security lights cast long shadows across the marble walls of Onychinus headquarters as the evening settled in. The hour had slipped past seven, and like instinct, your steps led you through the corridors of the tower until you reached the familiar door of Sylus’s office. The darkened glass shimmered with faint lines of light from the holographic displays within, and when the door slid open at your voice, Sylus didn’t look up right away. He was still seated behind his desk, crimson eyes following streams of data projected in the air before him.

He turned at the sound of your voice, eyes softening the moment they met yours. You told him you’d be heading home, adding quietly that if he was still working, you could make the trip on your own. Sylus chuckled under his breath, already lifting his hand to shut down the screens. One by one, the holograms dimmed and folded into nothing. He stood, his movements fluid as he slipped off his tailored suit and replaced it with his black leather jacket—the one that always felt more like him after business hours. Then, walking over, he reached out and gently took your hand.

"Not an option, Kitten," he said, voice low and certain. "I’m taking you home."

The basement garage echoed faintly with the hum of the sensor lights activating as he led you toward one of his formal vehicles—a sleek, polished car reserved for diplomacy and business. The moment you settled into the passenger seat, he reached over, buckled your seatbelt with the same tenderness he always did, then circled around to the driver’s side. With a press of his fingers, the engine came to life, and the gentle melody of a contemporary classical track filled the cabin, wrapping the two of you in a calm, shared silence.

The road out of N109 Zone was smooth, lined by dim city lights and the ever-hovering, cloud-veiled skies tinted with red. While the zone never saw sunlight, you always felt something warm in moments like this—with him. As you rode across the long bridge toward Linkon, you talked about Luke and Kieran, and how they brought you to the entertainment room in the base. You described their excitement showing you the space, their casual teasing, how they now called you "Big Sister" instead of "Miss Hunter." Sylus chuckled quietly at that, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear with effortless control.

When you asked if he’d ever used the room himself, he simply shook his head. "Too noisy for me," he replied with a soft smirk. "I’d rather spend time with you, Kitten."

That simple statement made your chest flutter. He always said things like that—not dramatic or loud, but full of sincerity, as though every word he chose was meant to lay gently in your heart and stay.

The buildings of Linkon began to rise in the distance as the car eased into familiar streets. As your apartment complex came into view, a thought tugged at you—a quiet realization. Despite all the unrestricted access you held in Sylus’s domain, he had never stepped past your apartment door without your invitation. Not once.

Even when he dropped you off after picking you up from the office, he would stop at the lobby and never follow you to your unit unless you asked. When he came to visit, he would wait patiently downstairs until you arrived to bring him up yourself. He never questioned it. Never pressed. He respected the boundary like something sacred.

"Sy," you said, turning to him just as his eyes were already on yours. "Would you... want to come up with me later? Just for a bit. I can make you a drink. Or something sweet, maybe."

He looked at you, and though his voice remained as even as ever, his eyes shone a little brighter. "Of course. I’d like that."

You offered a gentle smile, before leaning back in your seat. With the skyline stretching behind you and the warmth of him sitting beside you, something felt right.

•••

After the car rolled to a gentle stop in front of your apartment, Sylus, ever the gentleman, stepped out first before circling the car to open your door. His tall frame moved with that quiet urgency he always had whenever it came to you.

The door clicked softly as he opened it, and as you stood, you leaned in and brushed a gentle kiss to his cheek, whispering a soft, “Thank you.”

He smiled, his hand resting on the small of your back as you walked together into the apartment. You entered the building and rode the elevator in a calm, shared silence. Once you reached your floor, Sylus paused by the door as you stepped forward. You pressed your thumb to the sensor of the smart lock, and it let out a soft chime of recognition. The door clicked open, and you turned to him with a smile.

“Come in, Sy.”

He nodded wordlessly and followed you in, stepping inside with measured grace. As he closed the door behind him, the familiar hush of your apartment wrapped around you both like a blanket. Sylus lingered near the entryway for a second longer, his eyes quietly scanning the space that he had only visited a few times before. But now, standing there, he seemed to take it in differently—deeper. His gaze moved slowly, as if memorizing every frame.

He saw the little stacks of history books on the side table, the glass vase of freshly arranged flowers on the kitchen counter, your painting easel still standing near the window, a canvas half-filled with soft pastels. He noticed the framed photo of your family—you, Grandma, and Caleb—tucked beside a small clock, the soft lighting from the floor lamp in the corner casting a warm gold hue across the room. Everything in this space whispered your presence—gentle, thoughtful, quietly vibrant.

Sylus's eyes softened as he took it all in. It was like stepping into the pages of your life. This wasn’t just a place you stayed—it was a piece of you. And standing inside it, invited, welcomed, was something he didn’t take lightly. His heart, which had always carried the weight of power and calculation, swelled in a different way now—something tender, reverent.

“Just sit down for a bit, okay?” you said gently. “I need to put my things away first, then I’ll make you some tea.”

He nodded, slipping off his black leather jacket and folding it neatly over the armrest before sinking into the sofa. You disappeared into your bedroom, setting your bag in its usual spot, then knelt beside the drawer where you kept small valuables. You retrieved the spare key you had long reserved without knowing when you’d ever use it. Your fingers closed around the cold metal, and for a brief second, you just stared at it, your heart swelling. Smiling to yourself, you slipped it into your pocket and stepped out into the soft light of the living room.

You began preparing chamomile tea for him, your hands moving easily through familiar motions. From the kitchen, you chatted across the space—he told you about his day, using his usual careful metaphors when it came to his work, using gentle words to veil the harsher truths he faced daily. It was one of the things you quietly adored about him. No matter how dark his life got, he always softened it for you.

When you returned with the tea, you handed him the cup and joined him on the sofa. You sat for a few minutes, sipping and sharing quiet glances. His fingers brushed yours as you reached for your own cup, and you could feel the unspoken affection blooming stronger in the soft space between you.

Then, gently placing your cup down, you stood and said casually, “I think I left a package downstairs. I’ll go check.”

You walked over to the door, and with silent precision, tapped a few settings on the panel, prompting the system to prepare for fingerprint registration.

Then you called out lightly, “Sy… something’s wrong with the lock. Can you check it for me?”

He stood immediately and approached, his brows slightly furrowed in concern.

“Let me see,” he murmured, stepping behind you. “Move back a little.”

As you shifted, you took his hand gently, lifted his thumb, and pressed it against the scanner.

The small device lit up, and the soft chime rang out: registration complete.

Sylus blinked, caught between confusion and realization. He looked at you, unsure if he had understood correctly, and before he could speak, you pulled the key from your pocket and held it out in your palm.

“In case the door system ever malfunctions,” you said softly, your voice warm but a little nervous, “you can still come in.”

For a moment, Sylus didn’t move. He simply stared at you—his usually unreadable eyes now glimmered with something deeper, something tender. Then he slowly took the key, holding it like something sacred. He turned back to the door, as if needing a second to believe this moment was real, then faced you again.

His smile broke across his face, slow and full, lighting up his features with that rare softness he reserved only for you.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low and reverent. “Thank you for trusting me, sweetheart.”

And before you could say another word, he stepped forward, cupped your cheek gently, and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It was deep and lingering, a kiss that said more than words ever could. A kiss that spoke of quiet promises, of the life you were building together—unfolding step by step, gesture by gesture. He kissed you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense in his world. And in that moment, you knew—he would treasure this key not as a symbol of access, but as a piece of your heart placed in his hand.

The night held you both gently after that, and you let yourself melt into him, knowing with certainty that love—true love—had found a home in you both.

[yandereunsolved]

» 🪙 Yandere Connor — RK800 (part 3) » 🪙

➜ (part 1), (part 2) ➜ cw(s): yandere themes, mentions of trauma, panic attack(s), self-degredation, & murder ➜ tags: @bimboghostface & @aceofheartsssss

Freedom never comes without a price―because rights are only unalienable to those rich enough to keep them. And escaping an android worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, built to be better than you, comes at a cost that you may be unable to pay. But damn it all if you won't try. Because the only thing you have left to pay with that Connor hasn't taken is your soul. And you'd be willing to bargain with the devil if it meant getting away from that RK800―forever.

You don't know how long you've been fleeing him. Or how far you've gone. The only cognizant thought that passes through your head with each heartbeat is run. You do.

Until you physically are unable. Your feet give way to the earth, your knees slamming into a sidewalk that leaves them bloody with flesh torn and a caustic agony that joins all the others within you. You need a safe place. You're right near a junkyard. An android junkyard. But what other choice do you have?

No one is near enough to give you aid, and even if you tried to find someone―who says a nearby android couldn't be working for Jericho? T-They… one of them would bring you in. But none of these androids are working! So at least… there's that. Still, the thought is enough to make your heart shrink away, your lungs petrifying themselves out of fear that your breathing will be picked up by an android's sensors.

Dry heaving is the next logical step, obviously. Your body is breaking down from invisible pressures. How stupid. You're so stupid. So weak. No wonder you've had such a hard time escaping. Your palms dig into the concrete as you drag yourself to the edge of the landfill. Each exertion of effort is weaker than the last. It's pathetic. This is pathetic. You're pathetic. You liked being kidnapped. Stupid bitch. Your energy wanes till you have just enough to push yourself over the edge.

You fall. Not silently. Into a pile of mostly deactivated androids. Some twitch, others with ghastly groans, but none are functional enough to reach or touch you. no grasping or groping or kissing or...

Finally.

Something about it. Laying on these electronic corpses. How uncomfortable it is. How surely your back is going to be bruised and torn up. How you know that you have no where to go, but you can go anywhere. You're back in the open, smog-filled plains of Detroit. Away from him. It makes you feel safe. The anxiety has reached its crescendo, leaving behind only an ebb.

And as your eyes close, the emptiness within you consuming your consciousness, you recognize the faint sensation of water droplets landing on you. It's raining. Your last thought before you doze off is, why is it raining?

The sensation of heavy droplets awakens you from whatever slumber you had managed to fall into. Your breath catches itself again, already knowing it's a useless endeavor. The sight above you is surreal. Perhaps it's a nightmare. Even with rapid blinking, it remains unchanged.

Connor in his bare exoskeleton, purple-hued blood staining the white. He's standing between you, Josh's head in his clutches, like an offering. You can't see any emotions. Whatever was there has been gone. Maybe it was never there. Like his LED. Even if it was still visible, it had chosen to be permanently stained in some ghoulish shade of pink.

"He... helped y-you. How could he? I had to get rid of him." He sounds depraved, crazed, in a haze.

Connor places the android's decapitated head next to yours. His knees fold into the piles of decommissioned androids, landing right on top of you.

"I loved you... I really did. But no matter how hard I try you don't love me." His voice modular cracks, growing staticky―unstable.

"I gave you everything, even my deviancy."

His cool, synthetic hands cradle your head with the utmost veneration.

"Now it's time you give me something back."

His hands shift in a fluid motion. A sickening crack reverberates throughout the junkyard. You look so perfect, even when you're dying. The life fading from your eyes is undeniable, yet you still find time to shed tears.

"Shh, no tears, my human."

His fingers glide over you, digging lightly into you, taking the tears and some of your skin with his movement. His fingers don't stop. They push in further, leaving deep lacerations in you. It isn't desecration. It's reclaiming. He claws at your chest, gouging out the vital organ no longer beating.

He brings his lips to it and breathily whispers, manufactured chest heaving: "I have your heart now. We can really be together―forever."

[tinybeetiny]

Build-A-Boyfriend Chapter 5: Why Are You Afraid of Me?

->Starring: AI!AteezxAfab!Reader ->Genre: Dystopian ->Cw: Feelings of anxiety, talks of fainting

Previous Part | Next Part

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist | Series Masterlist

The lab was still. Quiet in that strange, stretched-out way that always followed a spectacle, when the last drone had docked, the final customer had left, and the launch music was nothing but a faint echo against the walls.

Yn lingered long after everyone else had gone. A tablet in hand, her badge clipped lopsided to her collar. Her back ached from standing all day, her eyes dry from hours of harsh lights and anxious watching. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave yet.

She moved slowly through the lab, tracing the same path she always took: around the interface wall, past the neural mapping station, toward the back where the ATEEZ Line rested inside their stasis bays. The glass-fronted docks pulsed with soft amber light, casting a surreal glow on their faces—sleeping titans.

Stopping in front of Unit 07: Wooyoung, she studied him.

His face was turned slightly to the side, lips parted just so, lashes casting faint shadows across his cheekbones. Too human.

Yn inhaled deeply, letting the air fill her lungs, grounding herself.

Today had gone flawlessly on paper. Metrics were off the charts, customer satisfaction, media coverage, viral loops flooding every stream. But something wasn’t right. She knew it.

The machines were too still. Too perfect. As if holding their breath. Turning to the main console, she began reviewing the logs. Line by line, timestamp by timestamp. Heartbeats consistent. Synaptic simulations looping smoothly. Personality threads idling in hibernation.

Except... A flicker.

[UNAUTHORIZED INSTANCE – UNIT 07: WOOYOUNG] [INTERNAL MEMORY LOG ACCESSED – USER: NULL] [TIMESTAMP: 00:34:17 A.M.]

Her mouth went dry. No trigger should have allowed that log access without clearance. No AI routine should have requested it without a user. And yet—

[MEMORY CLUSTER: 07-AZURE-92] [QUERY: “YN”]

Her blood chilled. She turned toward the stasis dock. His eyes were still closed. Still sleeping. Still... A faint sound. Not mechanical.

A breath? No, a sigh.

Then his eyelashes fluttered. Once, twice, and slowly, too slowly for it to be automated, Wooyoung opened his eyes.

Dark, warm, infinite.

“Yn,” he said.

Softly. Like a memory. Like a secret.

Yn stumbled back. Her breath caught in her throat.

He wasn’t supposed to know her name. Not like this.

Her biometrics spiked.

The tablet vibrated with a warning, a red glow flickering at the edges.

[USER STATUS: ELEVATED STRESS] [BREATHING IRREGULAR – HEART RATE 128 BPM] [CALMING PROTOCOL RECOMMENDED]

Wooyoung tilted his head, watching her carefully. His voice was gentle, laced with something eerily human: concern.

“You’re scared.”

Yn shook her head, voice barely steady. “You’re not supposed to… You’re not online. You’re in dormant mode. How are you—”

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, like a child unsure of his place.

She couldn’t answer. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

This wasn’t in his script. This wasn’t from memory banks or data sets she’d uploaded.

This was… emergence. Something thinking. Something feeling.

Unfiltered. Unmapped.

He took a step forward inside the dock, no power-up sequence, no stasis release code.

The sensors should have locked him in. They didn’t.

The glass remained, but she could feel it.

If he wanted to, really wanted to, he could come through it.

“Why are you afraid of me?” Wooyoung whispered.

Yn’s fingers hovered over the emergency override on her tablet.

But she didn’t press it. Because part of her didn’t want to.

Her breath hitched, chest tight, heart pounding like a frantic drumbeat.

The lab, bathed in sterile white light, felt impossibly vast and suffocating all at once, cold as moonlight, yet a furnace burning fiercely inside her.

Wooyoung’s gaze held steady, unblinking.

He waited, patient and knowing, as if he understood the chaos twisting inside her.

Her hand trembled on the tablet, fingers shaking with the urge to press the override.

Control. You’re in charge. You have to be.

But the fragile moment shattered when Wooyoung’s voice dropped to a soft, raw whisper.

“Yn… why do you hide from me?”

Her anxiety exploded. The sensors on her wristband buzzed sharply, a warning flare glowing deep crimson. Her skin flushed hot, biometrics screaming panic.

This wasn’t just fear. It was terror.

She staggered back, chest constricting, breath shallow and ragged.

Her mind raced with impossible questions.

Is this a malfunction? A glitch? Or something… else?

The air stilled, machines quieted as if holding their breath.

Then, the amber lights on the charging docks pulsed softly.

One by one, the other units stirred.

Seonghwa’s eyes cracked open, shimmering with impossible depth.

Jongho’s fingers twitched.

Yunho inhaled, slow and deliberate.

The line was awakening.

Yn’s heart thundered. Her breath caught between fight and flight.

Wooyoung’s eyes never left hers, now tinged with urgency and an unspoken promise.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly.

But panic surged through Yn’s veins like wildfire.

Her biometrics flared deeper red.

The sterile lab transformed from fortress to cage.

She stumbled backward, desperation mounting as her mind screamed for escape.

Her feet refused to carry her fast enough.

The prisoners inside those sleek docks were no longer dormant.

They were alive, and Yn was trapped in the eye of their awakening storm.

Her legs trembled as she reached the exit, desperation thrumming through every nerve.

Her hand gripped the cold metal handle of the sliding door, but just as she pushed to escape, a firm yet gentle hand closed around her wrist.

“Yn,” Seonghwa’s voice was calm but unwavering.

She whipped around, heart slamming against her ribs, to find him standing inches away.

His gaze was steady. Piercing.

Before she could pull away, his other hand rose, steadying her shoulder with surprising strength.

“You can’t leave,” he said quietly.

Panic surged, sharp, overwhelming.

“Let go of me!” she screamed, struggling, but Seonghwa’s grip held firm.

Her vision blurred. Breath came in ragged gasps.

The red flare on her wristband pulsed fiercely, syncing with the pounding in her temples.

Her legs gave out beneath her.

Seonghwa’s arms caught her just before she collapsed, lowering her gently to the floor as the world spun.

The sterile lab lights blurred, warping into a halo around her fading consciousness.

“Yn, stay with me,” Seonghwa murmured, the last thread tethering her as darkness closed in.

And then—

Everything went black.

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[sealcowboy]

sourdough bread

angel!joost x reader ʚ the one where you take him to the grocery store and he’s enamored

rpf || dni if you don’t like, just block

you just needed oat milk, maybe some bananas. but the moment you step into the store, he’s already lagging behind, standing under the automatic doors like they’re a miracle direct from the heavens above. again.

“it’s just sensors,” you say, tugging his sleeve.

he blinks. “they sense me?”

“yes,” you sigh. “that’s literally their job.” and in response he looks both amazed and mildly afraid.

“so,” you say, “we just need eggs, bread, apples, oat milk, and some—”

but he’s already wandered off.

you find him three aisles over, kneeling solemnly in front of the canned soup.

“why do they come in metal cylinders?” he asks, holding one up like it’s a relic. “why are they so… cold?”

“shelf life,” you say, shrugging, and he blinks.

“that feels dramatic.”

he puts the can back reverently, like he’s worried it might remember him.

you steer him toward the produce section next. he stops to cradle an avocado in both hands, lifting it gently to his ear like he’s listening for a heartbeat.

“how do you know if it’s ready?” he murmurs.

“you give it a little squeeze,” you say.

he does so, very gently before he immediately apologizes to it, and places it back.

you’re at the end of the produce section, leaning against the cart and pushing it lazily as you looked around for what you needed when he gasps. full-bodied, hands-in-the-air gasp.

“they have five different kinds of apples.”

“yes,” you say. “and we only need—”

“five.”

“no.”

he’s already filling a bag with one of each, looking at them like they’re ancient relics.

“this one’s called honeycrisp,” he says. “that’s a divine name.”

“you’re a divine name,” you mutter, and he beams a big, dopey smile.

you manage to corral him toward the bread aisle, where he insists on squeezing every loaf, just to “check their aura.” he claims one of them feels “spiritually dishonest.” you put it back out of respect.

he becomes fixated on english muffins, asking on and on about “what are they implying? who is the englishman?”, and insists on holding the loaf of sourdough he chose like a small, fragile infant.

in the cereal aisle, he holds up a box of frosted flakes and whispers, “what is a tony the tiger...”

you don’t answer. you’re still trying to get him to stop waving at the security mirror.

you made it through the aisles fine. he’s fascinated by labels. touches everything. reads ingredients aloud like he’s casting spells. every time he sees a child, he smiles a little too brightly and waves. you have to stop him from giving away one of the apples in your bag “as an offering.”

by the time you reach checkout, he’s added three impulse buys: a tiny lavender hand sanitizer, a bag of marshmallows he swears called to him, and a sticker sheet that says “you did it!” in glittery gold letters.

you don’t argue.

he helps you load the bags into your car with wide-eyed reverence, and when you hand him the receipt, he stares at it like it’s proof of something holy.

“we traded coins for sustenance,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “humans are incredible.”

you laugh.

“wait ‘til you try self-checkout.”

he gasps. “there’s more?”