#Eye Tracker Device and Controls

[midseo]

Tobii Pro Spectrum Screen Based Eye Tracker Hardware Reseller, India

Reseller of Tobii Pro Spectrum Advanced Eye Tracker hardware designed for studies of human Visual behaviour, psychology, neuroscience, faster eye movement, Mumbai, India.

[iydiamartinx]

UNEXPECTED GUESTS II

jason x reader, platonic!damian wayne

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto& @omi-resources word count: 857 synopsis: Jason’s secret relationship is discovered by Damian—who keeps showing up uninvited. Jason’s patience is tested, popcorn is made, but at least Damian brought cinnamon rolls. a/n: y’all I’m still new to posting on tumblr, idk how to respond to your reblogs, but thank you for all the love!!

It started with a puzzle.

Then it became a movie.

Then it was breakfast.

Then game night.

You weren’t exactly sure how it happened, but somewhere between Damian’s first drop-in and now, he had quietly and confidently moved in emotionally. No key, no warning—just a kid who appeared at your door like a stray cat who decided you were his human now.

Jason was not amused.

“Babe,” he muttered one night, standing in the kitchen with a towel slung over his shoulder, “I think he lives here now.”

You didn’t even look up from where you and Damian were halfway through a Harry Potter movie marathon. “He brought cinnamon rolls. That buys him, like, three hours.”

Jason’s eye twitched. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

“And yet here we are. With cinnamon rolls.”

Damian didn’t even glance away from the TV. “You’re welcome.”

It didn’t stop.

Damian started showing up with snacks. Then books. Then a bonsai tree that he insisted would bring “calming energy” to the apartment—though Jason was convinced it was a surveillance device.

The turning point was when Jason came home from patrol to find you and Damian doing face masks while bickering over whether Batman could take John Wick in a fight, without prep time.

“I hate it here,” Jason muttered, dropping onto the couch like gravity had personally wronged him.

“No, you don’t,” you said, patting the spot beside you.

Damian looked smug. “You should exfoliate more. Your skin is tired.”

Jason looked like he aged five years on the spot.

Meanwhile, across Gotham, the rest of the Bat-family had questions.

“He skipped patrol again,” Tim muttered, narrowing his eyes at the tracker on his screen. “He’s somewhere in Crime Alley, but he’s not moving. That’s not like him.”

“He’s not fighting crime?” Dick asked, frowning as he squinted at the grainy feed Tim managed to pull from one of Gotham’s ancient surveillance cameras. “Is he injured?”

“No,” Tim said, zooming in. “I think he’s… playing Monopoly?”

Dick raised an incredulous eyebrow. “He’s doing what?” 

Tim leaned closer. “Wait—never mind. That might be a bomb.”

“I’m following him tonight,” Tim declared. “See what he’s hiding.”

“I’m going with you,” Dick said. “Damage control. Just in case he really has joined a criminal syndicate without telling Bruce.”

That night, they tailed Damian across rooftops, watching as he made his usual unannounced entrance into Jason’s apartment through the fire escape like it was a routine—and it was. By now, you’d already prepped hot cocoa, and a blanket was folded on the couch just for him.

Jason wasn’t home yet. Which meant Damian had free reign.

When Tim and Dick peered through the neighboring rooftop window, they expected secrets. Schematics. Maybe even an underground lab.

What they found was you and Damian arguing about whether waffles or pancakes were the superior breakfast food while watching John Wick in an aggressively cozy blanket fort.

Tim blinked. “Is that a fort?”

“Oh my god,” Dick whispered. “He has a fort buddy.”

Jason returned an hour later, tired, sweaty, and one patrol away from an identity crisis. 

He prayed Damian was gone so he could finally have some alone time with you. Every time he tried to initiate anything romantic, the little demon just happened to be there—coincidentally, of course.

But what awaited him was somehow worse.

The moment he stepped inside, he froze.

Dick and Tim were seated at your kitchen table, sipping cocoa. Damian was calmly painting from he sat beside you, and you looked like you were completely unfazed by the three vigilantes in your living room.

“Don’t say it,” Jason groaned, setting his helmet down.

“We followed Damian,” Dick grinned. “Turns out he’s been living a double life.”

Tim nodded solemnly. “I think he’s cheating on us.”

Jason dragged a hand down his face. “Of course you idiots followed him.”

“Her cooking is nearly on par with Pennyworth’s,” Damian said casually, not looking up from his brushwork. “And she doesn’t interrupt me when I’m watching Lord of the Rings.”

Dick raised a brow. “Lord of the Rings?”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece,” you replied without missing a beat and Dick didn’t question it. 

“We just wanted to meet the person responsible for his personality transplant,” Dick said with a teasing smile. “He’s been nice lately. It’s suspicious.”

You shrugged. “We made a deal. He’s nice to everyone else, and I let him pick Friday night movies.”

Tim gestured dramatically. “She tamed the demon.”

Jason looked up to the ceiling like he was searching for divine intervention. “Why are all of you here?”

“We came for answers,” Tim said.

“We stayed for the snacks,” Dick added.

“And the Wi-Fi,” Tim finished.

Jason looked at you.

You smiled sweetly. “Cinnamon rolls?”

He sighed, walked into the kitchen, and took one off the tray. “I hate all of you.”

But he didn’t leave.

Not when you handed him his mug. Not when you leaned into his side. Not even when Damian held up his newest painting like it was the Mona Lisa.

Jason looked around his overcrowded apartment—full of noise, cocoa, and chaos.

“…You’re all sleeping on the floor.”

← Previous Chapter ✯ Next Chapter →

[chadobi]

When I wasn’t sure if I’d get back into this account, I started writing to calm down a bit, and since I’m obsessed with Bayverse Donnie, I had to let the stress out somehow, haha.

Anyway, hope you guys like it!

Night at the Museum

Bayverse!Donatello x reader

The mission was supposed to be quick.

In, out, no problem.

Retrieve a stolen tech device that some high-end thief stashed inside a museum exhibit — easy enough. Mikey had already volunteered to stay on comms (a little too eagerly), Leo was on patrol elsewhere, and Raph… well, Raph hated museums.

So it ended up being you and Donnie.

You didn’t mind. Not at all. Actually, you were kind of excited.

It wasn’t every day you got to break into the Museum of Natural History in the middle of the night with a 7-foot-tall mutant genius.

Besides, you liked Donnie. Maybe a little too much.

Maybe a lot too much.

The skylight creaked as Donatello silently dropped down into the dark exhibit hall, scanning the area with a soft whirr from the goggles resting above his eyes.

You followed, landing more clumsily than you meant to, but he steadied you with one large, gentle hand on your back. Just briefly. Just enough to make your heart stumble a little.

The museum was quiet. Dim security lights cast long shadows across the dioramas and display cases. Time felt different here, slower. You could hear your own breath.

Donnie pulled out his modified tech tracker, scanning for the stolen device.

“The signal’s faint, but it’s somewhere in the west wing. Possibly near the biological sciences hall,” he muttered, typing fast. “Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”

You nodded.

Twenty minutes, and then you’d be gone.

That’s what you told yourself.

But twenty minutes turned into thirty. Then forty.

Because the second you passed the ancient civilizations exhibit, you slowed down. Your eyes lit up like stars in a planetarium.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, walking past the glass display of Greek pottery. “This is an actual kylix. That design’s from around 500 BCE- probably used during a symposium.”

Donnie blinked. “A what now?”

You turned to him, grinning. “An ancient drinking party. They’d sit around talking about philosophy and pouring wine. Socrates was probably wasted all the time.”

“…Not how I pictured classical philosophers, but okay.”

He followed you as you drifted from case to case, words tumbling from your mouth without hesitation, the Mongol Empire, Egyptian medicine, early Islamic astronomy. It was like watching someone enter a dream.

You weren’t just reading plaques. You were remembering.

And you were glowing.

Donnie had never seen you like this.

Eventually, the tracker led you both to the natural sciences wing — a darker, quieter section of the museum, lit by the eerie blue glow of underwater exhibits and bone-white casts of ancient skeletons.

The tech you came for was easy to grab. Stashed behind a climate-controlled insect display, tucked inside a fake fern. Donnie secured it in his bag without a second thought.

But neither of you moved to leave.

You were standing frozen in front of the massive glass wall of the biodiversity exhibit, staring up at the suspended skeleton of a blue whale.

“You okay?” Donnie asked softly, stepping up beside you.

“Yeah,” you breathed, eyes wide. “It’s just… I used to come here as a kid. My parents couldn’t afford much, but on discount days, we’d take the subway in and I’d run straight to this hall. I’d pretend I was a scientist.”

Donnie’s chest ached a little.

He looked at you… really looked. The awe on your face. The fire in your eyes. How you stood there with your hoodie half-zipped, looking like someone who had the universe mapped out in her heart and still wanted to learn more.

“You ever consider going into science?” he asked quietly.

“I wanted to. Biology, maybe. But… I don’t know. I was always better at the humanities, philosophy, history, culture. I love systems. How people work. What they believe, and why.” You glanced at him, a little embarrassed. “That probably sounds dumb next to the stuff you do.”

He was silent.

You looked down.

And then…

“Don’t ever do that. Please.”

Your head snapped up.

Donnie was staring at you. His voice was low, almost hoarse.

“I think your brain might actually be hotter than your face. And that’s saying something.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“I mean-” he groaned softly, covering his face with one hand. “That sounded way less weird in my head.”

But you were already smiling.

“Are you flirting with me, Donatello?”

“…Yes?” He peeked through his fingers. “Is it working?”

You stepped closer. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Are you always this into girls who nerd out about dead empires and whale skeletons?”

He chuckled, low and nervous. “Only one, so far.”

Your heart did that annoying skip again.

And you were standing so close now. You could smell the faint scent of metal and coffee on his gear. His brown eyes locked with yours, and for a moment, the museum didn’t exist. Just the hush of breath. The hush of maybe.

Then, with a voice barely above a whisper, he added:

“You make me want to learn everything I don’t know. That’s… kind of a superpower.”

That did it.

You reached up, slow, testing, and brushed your fingers along his jaw.

He leaned in like it was gravity.

And in the shadow of ancient bones and glowing dioramas, you kissed him.

You didn’t leave the museum until two hours later.

But Donnie didn’t mind.

Because he’d found what they came for.

And so much more.

[spr1ngpvrinbwunnie]

Dr harley Sawyer is the only one smart enough to uncover an investigative reporter who has infiltrated Playtime Co., seeking to unmask the truth about them. What will he do??? (blackmail? extortion? torture? probably nothing good...)

Hmmm, I think instead of outright exposing the infiltrator, Harley becomes obsessed with them. It's not that he underestimates their threat—quite the opposite. They’ve slipped past security, decoded company secrets, and now they’re this close to exposing the truth.

That kind of intelligence, that kind of persistence, fascinates him.

He plays along—pretending to be unaware while subtly manipulating their investigation. He leaves "clues" that lead them deeper into a web of deception, making them question what's real and what’s a trap. Every time they think they’ve uncovered something big, it turns out to be exactly what Harley wants them to see. Eventually, they realize they were never in control of the investigation—he was investigating them all along.

So, rather than disposing of them… he decides to study them.

He lets them think they’re still undetected, watching from the shadows as they dig deeper. He even feeds them misleading information, curious to see how they process it.

When the time is right, he lets them know he’s aware of them—but instead of threats, he proposes a twisted game: “You want the truth? Fine. Let’s see if you can survive it.”

He orchestrates their descent into Playtime Co.’s nightmares, trapping them in the very horrors they sought to expose.

And instead of blackmailing them outright, Harley offers them a choice:

Expose Playtime Co. and disappear, just like all the others who tried before.

Or… work for him, infiltrating the outside world as his eyes and ears.

He might let them go, but with a gift—a hidden tracker, a surgically implanted device, or an unshakable paranoia that keeps them under his thumb long after they’ve escaped the factory.

No matter where they run, he’ll always be watching.

Harley doesn’t just catch them—he converts them. Using a combination of psychological torment, isolation, and a few creative surgical procedures, he rewires them into his perfect little assistant.

They still think they’re working against him, but in reality, their mind has been reshaped to serve his interests. Every article they write, every lead they chase, only strengthens Playtime Co.’s grip on the truth.

[vln-vibes]

Heroes Hunted

(I need to finish my other fics before thinking of others Q^Q)

Basically we've seen quite a few Danny getting hunted down by the GIW and ending up in Gotham resulting in him warning certain Bats (mainly just Jason) that hes in danger as well--- but what if the GIW decided to target 'smaller fish' in order to train themselves against Phantom; their main target.

Unfortunately Team Phantom is too busy trying to keep the calm around Amity Park and don't realize it until they're too late.

The JL never see them coming.

The Bats are frantically looking for what should be their literal assassin trained Robin, Red Hood and Black Bat.

Supers are flying around the area looking for any trace of Supergirl and Superboy (I). Not even Tim's trackers on Conner show anything (just like the ones he had on his fellow Bats).

Arrows had sent Green Arrow and Arsenal to help with the search of the Bats, Roy leaving Lian behind with Dinah, only to drop off the face of the Earth.

The Flash, Blue Beetle and Hawkwoman are all reported as MIA.

An Emergency Meeting is announced and trying to get into contact with all the other fellow heroes. Some were known to be off planet but there were a few who'd failed to respond at all...

Batman is the first to realize a common factor to all those who've disappeared as most had concluded something or someone was targeting heroes.

They'd all died.

Diana was the one to bring forward worst news; the hunt wasn't done.

Impulse, Red Robin, Cyborg, Hawkman, Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman herself were possible targets as well.

Cyborg was able to recover and corrupted and dropped emergency call from Barry "Those weirdos in white from earlier are attacking downtown, could use some backup asap. Something about Anti-Ecto Acts or whate-- Hey! Ugh"

A shiver went down their spines as they collectively told stories about spotting men in white suits walk around their cities. Some had brushed them off whilst others had kept tabs but the guys seemed to have lost interest and left.

It was a terrible oversight.

"Looks like some assholes are digging their noses into my turf, gonna stake them out tonight" Jason had told Bruce the last night they'd seen each other, "My guys they were wearing white suits, terrible choice for Crime Alley or Gotham"

Red Hood had said he didn't need backup as he would just gather intel, still that was also the night Black Bat and Robin were paired for patrol and she'd indicated she'd check in on him before the end of the night. The three never got to call in for the night.

Oracle had informed him that Red Hood's helmet had detonated, fortunately without him in it, its location the last place his children had pinged in the scanners.

The only audio they managed to recover from the device was "---Control Act, Article 1, Subse---Under Arrest---Questioning... And experimenting lots---"

Oracle had finally found the 'Anti-Ecto Acts', formally known as the Federal Anti-Ecto Control Act hidden along laws against the privatization of new green energy sources; Anything that was made off of or produced this so called 'ectoplasm' was to be handed over to the federal government's Ghost Investigation Ward for imprisonment, experimentation and finally termination.

"What the hell even is ectoplasm?"

"Its the source of all ghosts" Zatanna spoke up, repulsion clear as she read and reread the acts words, "Their body and souls are made up of the energy much like atoms make up all things in the physical world. The energy of the dead"

"According to these documents" Red Robin pulled up a research paper around two decades old from some students of the University of Wisconsin, "Ectoentities or ghosts are unfeeling, nonsentient echoes of their formerly living selves. They'd even theorized a means to access their home dimension they call the Ghost Zone"

"Ghost are made of bloody emotions" Constantine rolled his eyes "What kind of idiot would think otherwise? And don't get me started on a 'home dimension'--unless?"

"John, you don't think?"

"I sure as bloody hell hope not"

"The Infinite Realms!?"

Which only proved the situation more dire; a potential for a dimension that glued the multiverse and their afterlives, whose beings all had potential of rivaling the strength of a Super when provoked, their noted territorial nature making that a given if a portal happened upon them.

They were on a ticking time bomb to rescue their fellow heroes but they didn't even know where to start. Luckily they weren't the Justice League for nothing---

Potential locations scouted, teams made and buddy systems enacted for those potentially targeted.

Batman and his team headed to Amity Park to check on the three researchers of those papers-- Madeline Walker, Jack Fenton and Vladimir Masters. Background search revealed that Madeline and Jack had gotten married and had two children Jasmine and Daniel.

It wasn't until they crossed the town border in the dead of the night that their systems pinged the Fenton children were reported as runaways-- and not just them. The local high school had shut down as children were reported missing or also runaways from their parents. Even the faculty and some parents had begun to disappear.

Those that remained were kept under strict curfew by marshal law-- the GIW had the town under their control.

Just what exactly had they stumbled upon? Could their comrades be hidden somewhere in this small midwestern town?

Their theories were proven right the following night when tapping into their communication line about the 'aggressive subject G-02' and how 'it' had managed to break some arms when it had been relocated to the Fenton's personal lab. The 'unfortunate' Agent H who'd tried to yank it by its black and white contaminated hair had gotten his nose broken for it. It was scheduled for biopsy tonight.

Batman couldn't help but taste the bile make his way up fearing/knowing who G-02 was.

His Team was right behind him in the change of plans as they made their way across town as covertly as they could; it seemed as though after finding out about G-02 (it couldn't be him, he couldn't put a name to him lest he let his fear override everything) Batman pinged on more and more of their ghost detectors.

Disabling was taking too long, loathe he admit, as they devolved to destroying as discreetly as they could.

Finally they could see the garish neon of the FentonWorks logo, the steps and door to the house were covered in ectoplasm and another familiar substance-- handmarks, clawmarks, clear signs of resistance could be made out.

And then Fentonworks went up in a flame and red and green.

Batman couldn't keep in his desperate cry. Not again! Please not again...

[spread-the-influence]

So when Ragatha has the influence. She turns into an emotionally manipulative lil freak who tricks people into letting her get closer by either acting pathetic and sad or like your best friend there to help.

But WHAT IF someone else had the Influence. And by someone, I mean Pomni. Would she have a different strategy of getting close to people? Would her personality be shifted in the same way? How would Ragatha and the others react? What would a post influence pomni act like? Would Ragatha still have a crush on her?

And most importantly, how goofy would she look making an evil grin with those cool green eyes like Ragatha does.

hoo boy !

well ! there's already an interpretation for influence pomni out there ( the jokester you'll always be famous to me ) but i'll still put down my take

in all essence , the influence is a plot device that gives a character Ringmaster Powers but because the way they attained that power is through Psychological Torment they're Insane by the end of it . so they have a lot of power but since it's created by a Virus it's not permanent and thus is able to be reversed . so like there's a lot you could do if you want to influence another character

i see pomni getting off the high of Being In Control . because she isn't in a sane state of mind she would use it to assert dominance instead of for good . she would be a lot more aggressive in her approach , just outright saying Yeah i'm the new ringmaster now and you guys CAN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT Now put on a play to entertain me or you're going in the Pit . she's also only infecting everyone just as a way to put a Tracker Inside Of Them , so they can't misbehave or talk shit behind her back because she'll Know .

basically she's going to be worse than ragatha in every way . so of course everyone's going to be very Terrified .

for ragatha , i see her honestly being more creeped out than anything . like this is definitely not the jester she's fallen in love with . not helped by pomni inevitably picking her as the favorite and treating her less harshly compared to everyone .

but i mean there's still some feelings in there

[jnw1813]

Ok idk if you take requests so if not just let me use this to get my idea out. Imagine conquest and reader, conquest has been getting into the normal life, he still trains mark and oliver for the upcoming war but ya know, he is so strong he is holding back, its been months since he has had a good fight, he is feeling... at peace... nothing could ruin this... 😊😊😊 oh cecil is calling "hello?" "[reader] was taken by some villains as a hostage-" cecil doesnt even finish giving him all the details before conqyest is flying at supersonic speeds. And once conquest shows up, no matter who the villains are that kidnapped the reader, they are no match for him, obviously, but he is so enraged he just goes all out. HOW DARE THEY EVEN THINK OF HURTING THE READER! I just love the idea of conquest actually saving the reader, it would be his first time ever being a hero and he lets loose and fights like he always did and once the threat is gone he instantly turns back into husband mode and is coddling the reader, maybe even after the incident for the next week he becomes house husband and dotes on the reader with every little thing

Hostage

Conquest receives a call that you've been taken. He doesn't hesitate to get you back.

Warnings: torture, death, kidnapping, mentions of human trafficking.

They stared at the phone.

“... Sir–”

“I'm getting to it, Donald.” Cecil gritted out, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You'll have to do it soon, we've got eyes on Mx. Y/N right now but…”

“Yes, I know, Donald, except I'm scared shitless because I have to call the most powerful being this side of the galaxy to explain how his fucking spouse got kidnapped!”

Glancing at the screen again, watching his people track you, Cecil considered how best to go about this.

… Fuck it.

Biting the bullet, Cecil called Conquest.

———

Looking away from where he had the boys practicing Viltrumite style fighting, Conquest held up the device humans often used to communicate. Extremely clunky compared to what he was used to, but he'd adjusted.

Humming, he narrowed his eyes. Why was Cecil…?

Something was wrong. 

It was instantaneous, Conquest getting this overwhelming feeling in his gut, a new sense he's never experienced before awakening to scream wrong, wrong, wrong in his ear.

He picks up the call.

“Speak.”

“Y/N has been kidnapped–”

A boom echoes through the air as he shoots off, everything around him becoming background noise, invisible to him.

“Location.” He growls into the phone, shooting up into the sky, eye darting from one moving object to the next as if he'll spot you like this. Yet he can't just do nothing. Everything feels like it's taking forever, all the while you've been taken.

Cecil sends him something on the device– a tracker showing your and your captors movements– and Conquest moves.

A blur of white, he disappears from the view of anything watching, multiple sonic booms echoing through the sky as he flies towards you, his darlin’, his sweetheart; Emperor help him if anything happens to you, he'll wipe this stupid planet out starting with the worms that took you–!

3.2 seconds.

That's all it took for him to reach you.

He sees the truck that's supposedly carting you off. He doesn't even stop. The only reason he slows down is because he doesn't want to hurt you.

Conquest shoots over the roof, hand lower to rip a long strip right down the center of it. He watches dispassionately as the driver loses control for a moment, car swerving on the road. He just goes ahead of it, and grabs the hood.

Metal scrunches beneath his grip like paper as the fast moving vehicle is suddenly met with an unmovable, titanic force of strength; it buckles, bends in on itself, breaks. The men inside jostle, slamming forward. The driver only has a split second to lift his bleeding head from the steering wheel before Conquest is slowly squeezing his skull between his hands.

—––

Sitting on the grass, blanket wrapped around you, you watched with morbid curiosity as Conquest plucked another bone from one of your kidnapper’s ring finger. It was done with precision you didn't often see from your– admittedly– brutish husband. He rarely was so careful with others.

Shifting in your position, you tried to speak, only to fail, lips barely parting. Instead you swallow, heavy and thick, and continue watching.

Of your kidnappers, only two were alive of the original five.

Number one, the driver, had his skull crushed in after answering Conquest’s questions. They'd planned to sell you. Traffickers. It made your heart hammer faster, but one look at Conquest comforted you.

He'd come for you. He always would.

Number two, the one that tried to make threats, had been… well. You know when an eraser gets dragged across a piece of paper or whatever and leaves a trail of its… ‘bits’ behind? That. Except it was a man being dragged along the road at neck breaking speeds until only a long line of viscera was left.

You might've felt a little sick if you didn't feel so glad.

One less monster in the world. One less monster to fear.

Number three had put a gun to your head… Conquest had ripped his dick in half– the long way– and used the man's gun to… well… it ended up with bullets being fired up the newly made hole, let's say.

The last two had tried to flee. They didn't get very far.

Conquest had focused on you, checking you over, holding you, hugging you, muttering words into your hair. He'd set you down carefully, then began his revenge on those that tried to take you from him, performing his twisted vivisection before you like an offering to a king or a god.

He was onto the pinkie finger now.

A few feet away, number five was whimpering, stinking of piss and blood, both legs broken. He was next.

Finally, just as Conquest began to move onto the next hand, you croaked out, “I wanna go home.”

All movement ceased.

Conquest, silent as the grave, looked up.

“... let's get you home, pumpkin.” He finally spoke, standing up. He walked over to you, picking you up– still wrapped in the blanket– and flew off. If he happened to stomp on their heads as he left, you wouldn't mention it, eyes closed and face shoved against his neck.

–——

Over the next week, as you recovered from your traumatic experience, Conquest never left your side.

Among the get-well-soon! card Oliver sent and the texts from Debbie and Mark, a GDA nurse was sent to check you over; the entire time with Conquest observing, finger metaphorically on the trigger, ready to attack at the first sign of danger.

You appreciated it too much to be annoyed, clinging to him just as much as he clung to you.

“... my hero.” You muttered a few nights after the event, leaning back as Conquest washed your hair.

His movements paused. “Pardon?”

“You're my hero.” You repeat, smiling a bit, turning your head to look at him, some of your old energy returning. “You saved me.”

Conquest huffs. “Of course I did. You're my mate.” He emphasises, continuing to wash your hair, rinsing it out slowly.

“Well, yeah, but…” You bite your lip, eyes slipping shut. “I've never been saved before. I guess I'm just…”

You never finish your sentence, not finding the words for it. But you don't have to. Conquest understands, slightly, what you're getting at.

Thankful / heroic / proud of / changed

It makes him feel a little hot behind the ears, but he shrugs it off.

He only did what was right, after all.

[hope-to-hell]

not covered by your deductible. Agent Stone x Ivo Robotnik. Smut, pwp, teeth, tooth extraction, spit, fluids, blood, blood and gore, oral, anal, no lube, gags, extremely dubious dental procedures. Part of the serial killer Stone 'verse. It should go without saying, but please don't fuck your partner's face after dental surgery. And don't stick your fingers in there.

--------

So the thing about taking up an extracurricular activity like murder is: you want to get off the radar, like, completely. It’s not easy to turn to a life of crime if you’ve got something like a tracking device in your molar, which is exactly Stone’s problem. It’s a relic of the good old days when he was still a loyal government servant (or at least as loyal as anyone can be when their heart’s somewhere else entirely; perhaps a more accurate sentiment would be that he was loyal to his paycheck); these days the big bosses claim it’s been deactivated but you know how much you can trust Uncle Sam. Here’s a hint: the number is less than zero percent. So as much as he’s attached to that bottom left molar, it’s gonna have to go.

Doctor, can I talk to you for a minute? I have a little problem. Except, it’s not a little problem, exactly.

Robotnik looks up from a tangle of copper wire. What, did you drive your bike into the river? Eat the still-beating heart of the Pope? Jaywalk?

Nothing as exciting as that.

And so it begins.

Robotnik knows a thing or two about a thing or two, but dentistry is not on the list. Hell— he’s still hitting the books with regards to general human anatomy, having found himself with a sudden need to know. Discovering your partner has a cenobite-level taste for the pleasures of the flesh will tend to do that to a body.

Stone beams at the comparison. You flatter me.

So what is it you want, exactly? What Stone wants is for his dear Doctor to reach in there and yank that tracker right out of his head. Robotnik listens, his mustache bristling. When he speaks it’s with the long-suffering air of someone who doesn’t get paid nearly enough for this. I don’t get paid enough for this. See? So you’re telling me you’ve been out there committing murder and you’ve got a fucking GPS tracker on you? Stone doesn’t apologize, doesn’t cringe or grovel; he stands straight with hands clasped behind, watching. Well?

In my defense, Sir, I’ve cobbled together a rudimentary scrambler. And my alibi is airtight.

That’s what all the little homicidal maniacs say right before they get caught. Robotnik scrubs a hand over his face, sighing. Very well. Minion, go fetch me some tools.

How many times has Stone pleasured himself to the thought of the Doctor’s hand in his mouth? Usually he pictures that hand encased in a control glove, adding a layer of remoteness, of impersonal rough cruelty. He probably thinks about it more than he should. He’s certainly let Robotnik catch him staring at those elegant hands more than once, but if the man’s ever noticed anything more than simple observation, he’s yet to remark upon it.

(Stone doesn’t bother to change out of his leathers; when he shuts the door and leans back against it with a sigh, he’s still fully dressed sans helmet. Doctor, he breathes. There’s no answer, of course. So he supplies the Doctor’s dialogue himself, picturing those hazel eyes narrowing in anger.

Wretched limpet. What were you thinking? Oh. Right. You weren’t. Really, the actual words don’t matter nearly as much as the intonation, the drawn-down brows, the snarl.

Suck. Stone shoves the first two fingers of his right hand into his own mouth, pressing down on his tongue, drooling carelessly over the leather. What do you have to say for yourself? He adds a third finger, crowding in, forcing his jaw down. What’s the matter? Tongue tied? No matter how many times he replays the fantasy, it always seems to end with him laving at his own fingers, desperately wanton. But today— today— he has something much more interesting than mere fantasy in store.)

When Stone returns, Robotnik is sprawled on the sofa with virtual displays all around him, frowning as he manipulates a model of a lower jaw. His long clever fingers reach in, tweaking the image, pinching and tugging to pull a molar out, its deep roots dangling. It’s a considerable amount of detail for a simulation, especially since it’s been a mere matter of hours since Stone went out on his little errand. Then again, the Doctor does tend to lock in hard, worrying at problems like a dog with a bone, to use the classic cliche.

Stone watches from the threshold, bag in hand. Doctor? I have the tools you asked for. He’s back to pleasant neutrality, displaying that placid smile that makes Robotnik want to chuck something at his head.

Obviously. Otherwise you wouldn’t have returned. Robotnik stands, laying his coat aside and rolling his sleeves to the elbow. Come on, then.

Where do you want me?

On the chair. Robotnik gestures toward the leather recliner. Stone settles in, laying back; he wriggles a bit to get comfortable. You want to be tied up, or can you keep still for me?

I’ll be still. So here Stone is in the recliner, head back, as Robotnik approaches with a mouth gag. It’s a cruel looking thing, all gleaming metal, with curving prongs to hold Stone’s mouth wide open. There’s no pain— yet— but once it’s in place he’s unable to speak, so he can only lie there with drool slowly pooling at the top of his throat, Adam’s apple jumping as he attempts a messy openmouthed swallow.

You know, I think we ought to keep this thing. You look damn good like this. So… accessible. Robotnik’s eyeing him with that look, the one that says he’s cooking up something diabolical. And Stone, for his part, is immediately and totally on board for whatever it is. He reaches to stroke the Doctor’s thigh with his thumb, up the inseam toward his prize. Ah, ah, ah. You want it? You better behave. Only good boys get their reward.

Gragh. Stone grumbles wetly, narrowing his eyes; it’s as clear an oh, come ON as he can manage. The Doctor summons one of the badniks to shine a light into Stone’s gaping mouth. He stands by the chair a moment, thinking, before giving a single decisive nod. He climbs up to straddle Stone, one hand planted on the headrest and the other gripping Stone’s chin. He turns Stone’s head this way and that, humming thoughtfully.

Emmylou? Get that light way down in there. The badnik beeps enthusiastically, adjusting its position. Good girl. Daphne? My tools. Another badnik floats over, grippers holding a metal tray. It’s loaded with all manner of tools still in their sterile packaging. Robotnik studies the instruments as though he hasn’t already decided which to use.The hawk’s bill pliers are nice; I do enjoy a good ultra-specialized tool. But I’m more in the mood for extraction forceps for that real hands-on feel. He taps Stone on the chin. Now, this is really going to hurt.

No shit, Stone seems to say, his cock twitching as he watches the Doctor pull on a pair of black nitrile gloves, followed by the rustle of packages being opened. Stone is all anticipation, fingers twitching against the armrests; a thin string of saliva runs from the corner of his mouth down into his beard. He’s half-hard already.

Robotnik’s lip curls. I’d hate to see you at the dentist on a normal day. He raises the forceps, holding them directly in Stone’s eyeline, trailing them over those taut lips, letting them clink against the hard curve of the gag. For just a moment, he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of Stone’s ear. I don’t know why you trust me with this, beyond having no other choice. But you do trust me. And I’m going to make it good for you. He catches Stone’s ear in his teeth, denting the cartilage, relishing the man’s full-body shiver.

Now, it’s one thing to study tooth extraction on a model; it’s possible to calculate the amount of force needed, allowing for variations caused by root structure and so on. But, as with most things, knowing and doing are two entirely different beasts. Robotnik experiments with his grip, pinching the inside of Stone’s cheek in the process; his gaze darkens as he looks down at Stone, at his wide eyes and shallow breathing. Were anyone else watching, they might mistake this for nervousness or even fear, especially with the startled yelp that bubbles up from Stone’s throat.

Robotnik, however, knows better; he knows that Stone will be tonguing the spot for days, relishing its throbbing ache. He pats Stone's cheek and smiles indulgently. That’s my good little bitch. He shifts, ass brushing against Stone’s fly. Try to hold still now. One, two—

And he pulls.

It’s not a matter of simply grabbing and yanking; he rocks the tooth side to side, loosening it in its socket. Stone moans like he’s either dying or coming on the spot; the way he twitches hot and insistent against the Doctor’s ass suggests the latter. That’s it. Good. Wallow in it. The Doctor pauses, knuckles brushing over Stone’s open mouth. First part’s over, now here comes the big one. Robotnik adjusts his grip on the forceps, brows furrowed. Can Stone feel the faint tremble of his hand, through forceps and tooth, magnified by his jawbone?

Robotnik tenses his arm, then draws his hand up and out in one fierce motion, rocking back on his heels; along with the tooth, he pulls a moan from somewhere deep inside Stone, somewhere lightless and sticky and needful. He holds up the forceps, molar gripped tight, its long roots dangling. He lowers his hand enough to brush it over Stone’s nose and cheeks, leaving thin red trails. Say goodbye to your little buddy. Ivo drops the tooth and forceps onto Daphne’s tray and moves to climb down.

But Stone’s hand comes up lightning-quick, gripping Ivo’s wrist. What, you’re not ready to stop yet? Should I keep pulling? That gets him a head shake. No? If you want something, you’d better use your words. Oh, if looks could kill. Stone’s practically frothing at the mouth, flecks of red scattered across his stretched lips. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Well, if you’re not going to say it— Whatever he was going to say next is cut off when Stone grips Ivo’s cock hard, digging in with his fingers and squeezing until Ivo whines.

Stone might be beneath him— might be pried open with his face a filthy slick mess, flat on his back with eyes gone so dark they seem to absorb all light— but he’s nonetheless calling the shots here and he’s saying it clear as day: if you don't give me more right now, I will rip off your dick and eat it.

Noted. Robotnik has blood on his gloves; when he condescendingly pats Stone’s cheek, it smears rust over his skin, catching at the mess already drying there. Here, you seem stressed. You need some medicine. Doctor’s orders. Stone rolls his eyes, but it’s half-assed at best; the way his pants are tenting, he can’t put up any kind of a front. Yeah, you know what’s coming. Ivo opens his trousers, pushing them down just far enough to get his cock out. He drags the head over Stone’s lips, tantalizingly close. Want it? He splays a hand across the back of Stone’s head, lifting up, helping get him into position.

There’s no resistance when Ivo slides his cock in, but there’s also no suction— the one drawback of this game. But Stone bucks up beneath him like he’s been shot, fiery and desperate. Blood and drool mingle together, trailing down his chin, gathering in the thick red curls at the base of Ivo’s cock. Does it hurt? Stone hums in assent. Good. I know how much you love that. If those pretty teeth of yours weren’t such a limited resource, I bet you’d like to do this every day. With every thrust, Ivo aims a bit off center, seeking out that gory hole at the back of Stone’s jaw, raw and red and throbbing; the slide of teeth along his shaft is not painful, exactly, but their unforgiving hardness makes for a delicious contrast with the soft slickness of Stone’s gaping mouth.

We can keep the gag, you know. Love to see you helpless. Just a— a receptacle. For me. He holds himself close, watching Stone’s eyes water and then grow wide, pulling back to allow a single wet breath before plunging in again. Swallow me. That’s good. You— fucking hell, Agent, what are you doing?

Stone’s flipped the script, shoving Ivo off with an alligator roll to get the Doctor underneath him; the chair groans and rocks dangerously, but it holds. It shouldn’t be possible for anyone to look smug with their mouth ratcheted open like that, but Stone manages. You’re too fucking competent, Ivo grumbles. But there’s no bite to it; as much as Ivo might complain, he’s panting and wriggling, trying to get back that heat and friction.

Above him, Stone continues to drool, wet strings and droplets falling onto Ivo’s face; one lands in Ivo’s open mouth and he swallows around it with a thick moan. God. You’re filthy. If it were anyone else on this earth, Ivo would be spitting and hollering, ready to kill— but with Stone, Ivo bares his teeth in a feral grin that seems drawn straight up from his balls. Since you seem to be so excited about it, I suppose you can fuck me. He’s aiming for imperious, but gets stuck somewhere around hungry.

There’s Stone’s eye roll again; their hands tangle together in a mad rush to get Ivo’s ass exposed. There’s an ominous ripping sound, seams giving way as Stone rips Ivo’s trousers down. There’s a bit of a delay when Stone has to stop and remove one of Ivo’s boots; the trousers pool around the other and, well, that’s going to be good enough. Stupid fucking— okay. Next time we do naked surgery.

Nnngh. Stone is definitely on board for that— for the nakedness and the surgery both.

Stone can get at Ivo now, pressing into him with one rough finger; Ivo whines but instead of saying stop he pushes up into the dry burn. More, you ingrate. He grabs at Stone’s mouth, dragging him down til he can lean up and lick into him, tasting copper and salt; it’s not so much a kiss as it is a possession, a dirty wet I licked it so now it’s mine.

And Stone, in turn, is fumbling one-handed at his fly. He lines himself up, missing the first time, slipping and nearly bashing Ivo in the nose; he plants his foot desperately against the floor and hikes Ivo’s legs up, belt buckle smacking into his face as he moves Ivo’s foot and its dangling trousers back and away.

What’s the matter, lost your touch? Ivo taunts. If it’s too much for you, I can— fuck. Oh my fucking— Stone is neither slow nor gentle; he is strung tight, practically vibrating from head to toe. He sinks into Ivo in one long inexorable push, breathing harshly; Ivo’s fingers dig into Stone’s tongue and cheeks, twitching without conscious thought. He digs his index finger into the bloody socket in Stone’s jaw; with the thinness of his nitrile glove, he can press his fingernail in sharply, so he does.

And

Stone

howls.

Now, one’s reaction to pain is not always predictable. It depends on so many factors: stress levels, location (both of the injury and of the body as a whole), personal inclinations, and so on and so on. Stone has experienced many different kinds of pain throughout the course of his life; he’s been shot at, stabbed, thrown off of tall surfaces and into hard ones; he’s been through sickness and heartache and so many other little aches and pangs and minor inconveniences that it seems impossible for anything to surprise him.

But this—gagged by cold metal and the tight grip of Ivo’s hand, raw nerves aflame with neither heat nor cold but some entirely indescribable sensation— this is something else. It rips through his jaw and down his spine, curving his back, demanding that he pull Ivo impossibly further onto his cock, to ground himself, to tangle them together in an ouroboros of their own making.

Fuck, that smarts. Ivo’s twitching around Stone’s cock, forcing his breath into a slow and even rhythm.

Mmmh? Stone raises an eyebrow. This is a checkpoint, an opportunity to stop or change gears if need be. It wouldn’t be any fun if Ivo weren’t complicit in his own destruction. But Ivo seems almost insulted by the idea of stopping.

Absolutely not. Don’t you fucking dare. Well. He might be a bit past almost insulted. Stone gurgles in agreement, rolling his hips. He is neither slow nor gentle; he moves like a river during the spring floods, roiling and dirty, crashing into everything in his path. And that everything— his everything— is Ivo.

Ivo reaches down, trying to snake a hand in between them, desperate for more stimulation on his cock: already he feels as though he’s being turned inside out, as though the jerk and slide of Stone’s cock is splitting him open at the seams. The cold metal of his prince albert taps against his belly with each movement, punctuating what few thoughts are left to him. Ivo’s hand is filthy with sweat and slick; he doesn’t know whether to push up into his own grip or onto Stone.

In the end, the choice is made for him; Stone shifts his weight precariously onto one arm so he can grab Ivo’s hand and bring it up to his own mouth. Now his mouth is stuffed full of Ivo’s fingers, their tips hooking into his lips, his teeth, his cheeks, anything Ivo can get a grip on as he falls apart; his face is spattered with blood and spit and it is filthy— I’ll never be clean again— grunting and groaning as if he could possibly remove the traces of Stone that burrow beneath his skin, as if he would want to. He is already inextricably bound to Stone, feeling his heartbeat inside and out.

And when Ivo falls apart at last, all he can do is screw his eyes shut and drop his head back against the chair; he clings to Stone like a lifeline, like a handhold against the rising tide. He shudders and clenches, knife-sharp pleasure spiking through him. For a moment all sound is lost to him; there is only Stone’s face, haloed with light, sliding in and out of focus above him, in time to the pulse of Ivo’s cock as he cums over his own stomach.

For a moment they just lie there, breathing rough and wet until Stone slips free in a rush of sticky fluid and Ivo finds the strength to release the gag; he flops back against the chair with an undignified oof. Stone pushes himself up to standing, swaying a bit at first as his blood makes its way back uphill. Neither one says anything.

Stone works his jaw, feeling the ache of overstretched muscle; his cheek bulges as he tongues at the spot where his tooth used to be. Ow. He does it again, and then a third time, tasting the bright spark of pain it elicits. He rinses his mouth, spitting blood into the sink; he is relaxed, loose, free for the moment to simply exist inside his own body. Doctor?

Mmm?

You alright?

Psh. Ivo sprawls bonelessly on the chair, wiping the worst of the mess from himself with the ruins of his stained and wrinkled shirt; his trousers are still caught on his foot. He rarely lets anyone see him so disheveled, but here with Stone, sated, he doesn’t mind so much. Get me the ointment from the cupboard, unless you want to carry me to work tomorrow. Some of us have appearances to keep up. Stone hums pleasantly; on his way past the chair he drops the mouth gag into Ivo’s hands with a wink. And bring me the tracker, minion. Let’s see if we can get anything interesting out of it before we smash it with a hammer.

Of course, Doctor. I am at your service.

[itsabouttimex2]

Can you do escape attempt headcanons with the bullfam?? I’ve been reading your headcanons lately n they’re literally so good 😭😭!!

Bullfam

Escape Attempt Headcanons

Out of this powerful trio, I think Red Son would notice the soonest that you’ve gone out of bounds. With how likely it is that you’re wearing a collar (of his own design) with the sigil of the Bull Clan emblazoned on it, it’s very probable that he has a tracking device on you. Even if you don’t have a collar, there’s always bracelets, phones, shoes… plenty of places to snap an unassuming tracker.

So if you somehow do manage to escape, your foray back into the familiar streets of Megapolis is bound to be cut short in record time.

Red corners you as by sharply rounding the curve of an alleyway, slamming into you hard. As you stumble and fall, the prince snatches a wrist or leg (whatever’s easier) and pulls until he’s dragged you roughly across half the concrete-paved block. After your whimpers and begging turn to pained screams, the half-taurine demon blazes up a runic portal and tosses you in.

Jumping in mere seconds after, Red Son surveys the scene before that unfurls before him.

You lay curled up on the plush purple carpet sobbing into your hand as blood oozes slowly down the road rash torn across your back.

As it always does, a cold regret seeps slowly through his veins at the sight of your suffering.

Red Son hasn’t come to realize something very important to him yet- he hates hurting you.

The prince explodes in a fit of fiery wrath, lashes out, hurts you- then stews in remorse and self-anger. An uncontrollable and ever-raging wildfire that torches even that which is dearest to him.

This is the part of himself he hates the most.

The part he can’t stop from hurting you.

Damage control is the most he can manage after these little fits.

“…come on, Y/N. I’ll get the bandages.”

Oh, boy. Absolutely not. I mean, you can try. Really, feel free. Go for it.

What’s a few broken bones or bloody gashes in return for a brief glance of sunlight? For a singular breath of fresh air?

Okay, so the Demon Bull King isn’t exactly itching to hurt you. You wouldn’t be locked up inside his foundry like a fragile antique if he just wanted to grind you into a bloody smear on the concrete (that’s his son’s job) or pop you like a swollen tick. If he’s got you bolted into a nice little guest room with a Bull Clone, it because this big lumbering warlord actually and honestly cares about you.

Probably, the king sees you as a sort of “youngest child” naive and soft and so very malleable.

So the aspect of “protecting what is his” applies very strongly as the taurine demon catches sight of you fleeing, mild yellow eyes narrowing into glowing pools of fury.

This man is fast- we’ve seen it in canon. Also, his “on all fours” run?? Seeing that coming right at you, clearing miles in literal seconds??

You give up, hit the ground, and go still- if only because you’re entirely unsure of whether or not he’d actually be willing to actual physical contact at such high speeds and atomize the lower half of your body.

Instead, you allow him to corner your cowering form, not struggling as two clawed fingers pluck you off the ground. He’s too angry to even speak- and instead just fold his powerful claws around you, and the begins to stomp home.

You’ve earned yourself a custom-made metal shackle, to be worn through all through the day and night, paired with reduced rations and limited access to water.

But at least he hasn’t harmed you.

Yeah, okay. From everything we’ve seen, Princess Iron Fan is basically… unflappable and unstoppable? I can’t actually remember her directly losing a fight outside of the Sworn Brotherhood when they had the ink scroll. She’s powerful, intelligent, patient… I can’t imagine many ways to truly “get one over on her”.

An enchantment on your nape that prevents travel past a certain area. A magical tracking device planted under your skin. Cursed jewelry that tightens when you disobey. Mystical statues with strange eyes that track your every movement and spring to life when you make for the door.

It’s not happening.

You can try- Iron Fan doesn’t intervene with your escape attempts. You’re bound to fail one way or the other. Why should she waste her energy when your efforts are worthless to begin with?

At least watching your desperate struggles and harebrained schemes puts her in good mood- there’s something about your frustrated tears that she finds all too cute.

[storm-angel989]

Papi, I didn't mean it (Valentino x Daughter)

TW: Drugs. Overdose. Valentino.

It was the tracker that cued him into her location. 

If he was giving credit where credit was due, he had to hand it to her. Very few beings in this world could successfully hack a Voxtech device and get away with it for as long as she had. But as he lifted her unconscious body out of his club's bathroom, the notion that she was too smart for her own good came to mind. 

“One of you fuckwits, check the cameras and find out what she took,” Valentino snarled to one of the demons. “And shut down the entire club. Leave only the ones responsible for this. I want them chained to the bar.” 

As the demons scurried off to follow his orders, he carried his daughter to the backroom, typically reserved for dancers and dealers. He bit back the fear that wrapped around his heart. No, he needed to keep himself in check. Treat her like he would any other overdose. 

“Stay with me, pequeño amor,” he muttered as he laid her on the couch. “Come on, I need you to wake up.”  

He did a quick assessment of her vitals. Shallow breathing, fast heart rate. Pale skin, cold to the touch. Could be anything he sold. Or anything that he sold mixed with something else. He ripped off what little clothing she did have on as he frantically examined her body for any sign of what might be coursing through her veins, but came up with nothing. He had enough power in his own club to get the answers he needed. He just hoped they came in time. 

“Dragonsvein, sir. Given to her by these three.” A demon yelled, waving a photo as he entered the room. “They laced it with LSD and Cocaine.”

He recognized their faces instantly. Friends, she had told him. Friends from school she was studying with tonight. Or what she was supposed to be doing anyway.

“Did she smoke it, swallow it, inject it, snort it, what?” He snarled. Forget that all three of those drugs were meant only to be one of those options. He had enough at his disposal to ensure she survived this. 

“Swallowed it, sir.” 

“Fuck.” He pulled open a drawer and dug through until he found the correct drugs to counteract what was in her system. She wasn’t going to die on his watch, but she wasn’t going to like what was going to happen when she came to. 

“Come on bebita, I really need you to wake up now,” he muttered as he slid a needle into her vein. He slowly pushed the plunger down. 

He heard her gasp and watched her eyes fluttered open. Relief flooded through his chest. 

“That’s right, come to Papi,” he muttered as he smoothed back her hair. He looked at the demon as he took off his jacket and carefully placed his daughter inside, closing it tightly to be sure she was covered.  “Call the on duty nurse and tell her she has a patient coming in twenty minutes. Have the doctor on standby.” He bent over and checked her pulse again. Good. Stronger now. He carefully sat her up and held her against him. 

“Bebita, I need you to drink this,” he said gently. “Come on, get it all in your tummy.” He pushed the straw to her lips. “If you can’t, Daddy is going to have to get it down your throat another way. And you won’t like it, bebita.” 

To his immense relief, she gulped it down. Her eyes closed and he carefully laid her on her side. 

That was the most he could do for at least ten minutes. He didn’t want to move her if he could avoid it, and ten minutes was more than enough time to deal with the situation outside.

 “Watch her and call me if anything changes,” he ordered as he stood up. “Don’t let her roll on her back and if anything happens to her, consider yourself dead.” 

The demon bowed. He strode out the door, his overlord self taking hold, transforming him from an intimidating club owner to downright terrifying demon. His crimson wings sprang forth from his back, his teeth sharpened and he could feel his body become something stronger, something less controllable. Anger pulsed through him. Someone would pay for the state his daughter was currently in. 

He stood in front of the three three demons and glowered. To their credit, terror played on all their features.

“She called you her friends,” he said in a low growl. “She called you her friends and you betrayed her. Tell me, what exactly did you think would happen after she slipped into unconsciousness? That you would have a good fuck with an almost corpse?” 

He took a step forward. Of course they wouldn’t respond. Cowards. The lot of them. He pulled his pistol from its holster.

One. Two. Three.

The echoes of the bullets rang through the empty club. Silence. And then a small voice.

“Daddy?”

He turned around. Shit, not in all her life had she seen her Daddy in this state. His wings retracted and he transformed back into his usual self. Her Papito. 

That’s when he noticed the expression on her face. A look he knew all too well. 

“Daddy? My tummy hurts.” 

His hands barely wrapped around her hair before she unloaded the contents of her stomach on the club floor. 

“Come on, let’s get you home, niñita,” he muttered. With any luck, she was still too out of it to remember any of this. He lifted her into his arms and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. He would get a new one anyway, he never wanted to think of this night again. 

She fell asleep in his arms on the ride home and he carried her up into his studio. Vox and Velvette met him at the door. 

“Did you call my wife?” He asked as he carried her through the studio, down to the nurses office. “Did you tell her what the fuck our daughter has gotten into?”

“I left a message on her phone. But she’s probably with Lucifer, dealing with some shit.” Velvette said. “But we’re here.”

“Her vitals are more stable now, what did you give her?” Vox asked, checking his phone as the nurse rushed over. 

Valentino laid her on the hospital bed on her side as he filled the nurse in on what was in her system. She left to go pull supplies and Valentino set to work on getting a catheter in her arm. 

He felt her shake under his touch. “Daddy? Daddy, I don’t feel good.” 

“I know, baby girl. Daddy’s trying,” he replied soothingly. “Daddy’s here.” 

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Vox gently pulled him back. 

“Val? Let the doctor step in and do his job.” 

“It’s my daughter.” 

“Yeah, and unless you’re about to put a tube down her throat, you need to step back and let him work on her. You’ve done everything you can at this point. She’ll be okay because of you.” 

“That’s my baby,” he growled.

“Val,” Vox said with a warning in his voice. His eye began to swirl. “Val, look at me.” 

Valentino knew better, but he looked to Vox. A false sense of calm washed over him. “Vox, that’s my daughter.”

“Yeah, and that’s our niece about to have her stomach pumped. We’re upset too, Val. But you’ve done all you can right now. Who did this?”

“I killed the friends that slipped it to her.”

Vox sighed. “Of course you did. Then all you can do is wait. Doc thinks she’ll be fine.” 

Waiting wasn’t Valentinos strong point. He paced back and forth, anxiety washing over him. This was bad, almost as bad as when he had to wait for his wife to bring her into the world. No, worse, because at the heart of this he caused it- he caused something that he would derive no joy from. 

After what felt like too long, the doctor walked out of the back room. 

“She’s alright. She’s awake. She’s asking for you, Valentino. And you two,” he nodded to Vox and Velvette.

“Here, fill me in while Val and Vel go back.” Vox said as he pulled the doctor off to the side. 

Valentino followed Velvette as he tried to keep himself in check. Now that he knew she was okay, anger washed over him. 

“Val? Not the time,” Velvette said quietly outside her door. “Be angry later. Love her and Let her talk now.” 

Valentino took a deep breath and exhaled as he pushed the door open. 

“Daddy, I’m sorry I didn’t know,” her raspy voice choked out and she burst into tears. “Daddy, don’t be mad I’m so sorry.”

“Beibita. Babygirl. Shush, it’s okay. Daddy is here. Daddy isn’t mad at you. Shush,” he sat on the bed next to her. “Babygirl, calm down. You’re going to be okay and that’s all that matters.” 

“Daddy, I didn’t know,” she sobbed. 

Valentino felt his heart begin to break. He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her to his chest. “Tell us what happen, beibita.” 

“I went to Lucia’s house to study and then, Emila showed up and she suggested we go to Jax’s house and I know I’m not  allowed at Jax‘s house so I went but instead Jax’s brother took us here and I wanted to go home but all the sudden I didn’t feel good and, and,” she burst into harder tears. “Daddy I’m sorry.” 

“Baby I’m not mad. It isn’t your fault,” he said soothingly as he cradled her. “I’m just not sure how it got into you. Did you get a drink at the bar? Tell me true, I’m going to review the footage with Uncle Vox later.” 

She shook her head vehemently. “No, Daddy I know better.” 

Velvette looked up from her phone. “Her water bottle,” she said, showing them both the video clip. Together they watched as one of them turned her to talk to them. Behind her, the other lifted the lid of her water bottle. Valentino watched as they poured something into it, gave it a good shake and slid it back. Velvette closed the phone. He could imagine the rest. 

“I’m just glad I got to you before it was too late,” Valentino said quietly. “But why did you go in in the bathroom and call me to come get you right away? You knew where you were. You knew you didn’t belong there.” 

“Val…” Velvette said in a warning voice. 

“I didn’t want to get into trouble, Daddy. I just wanted them to take me home.” She replied quietly. 

“Bebita, you will never get into trouble for calling one of us to come get you. I promise, okay?” He pressed her head to his chest. “I would rather come get you and you be safe than ever see you in this situation again. You could have died, Princessa.” 

“But she didn’t,” Vox said as he walked into the room. “Doc said the bloodwork they pulled looks good and she can go home tonight as long as we keep a close eye on her.” 

“Please, Daddy, can I go home?” She pleaded. “I promise I’ll never, ever…”

“Baby. Stop, you’re not in trouble. Deep breath, inhale. Exhale,” Valentino said gently. “Come on, let’s get you home in your own bed. Come to Daddy.”

Valentino lifted her up effortlessly and carried her up the elevator. As she laid against him, a new fear knotted inside of him. 

How was he going to protect his teenage daughter from the world he worked in?

[midseo]

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[inky-writing]

Chapter 5: The 72nd Hunger Games

Cato Hadley x reader

Warnings: sparing, weapons, blood, kills, violence, fear, dictatorship, it’s the Hunger Games lol

Word count: 2,989

Masterlist

<<< Previous part

Cato's pov

Cato sat at the long dining table in the Capitol apartment, a heavy silence in the air. Before him was a breakfast fit for a king: steaming eggs, crispy bacon, fresh bread with creamy butter, and exotic fruits he had never seen in District 2. He picked at his food, his appetite dulled by the weight of the morning. Across from him, Clove was eating mechanically, her expression blank, but her fingers were clenched tightly around her fork. Brutus and Enobaria sat at either end of the table, watching them with unreadable expressions.

“Eat up,” Brutus said finally, breaking the silence. “You’ll need the energy.”

Cato forced himself to eat, knowing he would regret it if he didn’t. The food tasted like nothing. All he could think about was what was to come. The blood, the fight, the survival.

After breakfast, they were escorted down to the launch area. The hallways of the Capitol building were eerily quiet, only the sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls. When they reached the transport bay, a sleek, white hovercraft was waiting. A Peacekeeper checked their identifications and motioned for them to board.

Inside, the hovercraft was cold and sterile. Cato took a seat, Clove beside him. Across from them sat the District 1 tributes, Lucian and Selene, both looking as focused as he felt. No one spoke.

A woman in a white uniform approached, holding a small silver device. Without a word, she grabbed Cato’s arm and injected the tracker just beneath his skin. He barely flinched, only watching as she moved to Clove next. The Capitol always wanted to know where their tributes were. Always watching, always in control.

The hovercraft continued its journey in silence. Cato tried to push all thoughts out of his mind, but a pair of piercing eyes haunted him. Y/N. Was she watching? What was she thinking? He shook the thought away. There was no room for distractions now.

After what felt like an eternity, the hovercraft landed. They were led through a series of underground hallways, eventually being split up into individual preparation rooms. The walls were stark white, the only thing in the room being a chair and a large glass tube in the center. His stylist appeared shortly after, giving him a quick once-over before nodding in approval. There was no need for any touch-ups; the Capitol had already ensured he was in peak condition.

“Good luck,” the stylist said simply before stepping out.

Cato stepped into the tube, heart pounding. The glass slid shut around him, and suddenly, he was rising. The platform beneath his feet hummed, and he gritted his teeth as light flooded his vision.

When the world came into focus, the first thing he noticed was the rain. Heavy, torrential rain. Water pounded against his skin, soaking through his clothes instantly.

Then he looked around.

The arena was vast, stretching as far as he could see. It was designed to resemble a ruined city, overgrown with thick vines and vegetation. Crumbling buildings stood at odd angles, some barely intact, others completely collapsed. The ground was slick with mud and water, the streets filled with deep puddles.

But in the center of it all, standing tall and imposing, was the Cornucopia.

His pulse quickened as he scanned the golden structure. Weapons. Food. Supplies. He could already see the glint of blades, the handles of swords sticking out like a beacon.

Perfect.

He glanced at the other tributes, all standing on their platforms, drenched and waiting. Clove was to his left, her eyes locked on the Cornucopia with the same hunger he felt. To his right was Lucian, jaw clenched, body tense. Across the clearing, the weaker tributes were already shifting on their platforms, nervous, uncertain.

The countdown began.

Sixty seconds.

His muscles coiled, ready. His mind went blank, focusing only on the strategy he had been trained for his entire life. Get to the Cornucopia. Get a weapon. Kill anyone in his way.

Thirty seconds.

The rain blurred his vision slightly, but he didn’t care. He had fought in worse conditions before.

Fifteen seconds.

The sound of blood rushing in his ears was the only thing he could hear now.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The horn sounded.

And Cato ran.

Y/N’s pov

The moment the countdown hit zero, Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. The screen in front of her flashed as the tributes launched into action. Cato was the fastest. He moved like a predator released from a cage, his powerful legs propelling him across the wet ground. Rain poured down in thick sheets, making the ruined city arena look even more unforgiving. But Cato was undeterred. He reached the Cornucopia first, his hands gripping the hilt of a massive sword the moment he got there.

Lucian from District 1 was next, just a step behind, followed closely by Clove and Selene. The four of them wasted no time. While the weaker tributes hesitated or ran, they armed themselves and began their ruthless work. The Careers had trained for this their entire lives, and now, the bloodbath began.

Y/N felt her stomach turn as Lucian swung a battle axe, embedding it deep into the chest of the male tribute from District 7. The boy barely had time to scream before crumpling to the ground, blood pooling beneath him, mixing with the rain and mud. Selene, the District 1 girl, had a spear in her hands, and with perfect aim, she hurled it at the female tribute from District 5. The spear struck true, piercing through her stomach. The girl gasped, a horrified look on her face before she collapsed, unmoving.

Clove moved like a shadow, her knives flashing as she attacked. The female tribute from District 9 tried to run past her, but Clove was too quick. One blade to the throat and the girl went down instantly. Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding. She had known Clove was lethal, but seeing her best friend kill someone so effortlessly sent a wave of sickness through her.

But nothing compared to watching Cato.

He was a force of destruction. A hurricane of power and skill. The male tribute from District 3 had made the mistake of grabbing a weapon, thinking he could fight. Cato didn’t hesitate. He brought his sword down in a brutal, swift arc, slicing through the boy’s chest. Blood sprayed, mixing with the rain, and the tribute crumpled, lifeless.

More tributes tried to flee. The girl from District 4 sprinted away, but Lucian was faster. He tackled her to the ground, pinning her before slitting her throat with a dagger. Selene cut down the female tribute from District 11, her blade quick and merciless.

Y/N wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Every time she tried, her gaze was drawn back to Cato. His sword swung again, and another body fell. The girl from District 9, a desperate look on her face, tried to make it to the treeline, but Clove threw a knife that struck her in the back. She hit the ground face-first, unmoving.

Y/N's hands clenched into fists in her lap. She had known this would happen. Had known what Cato and Clove were capable of. But seeing it—watching them kill so easily—made her chest tighten painfully. She had trained for this, had sparred with them both, but there was a difference between training and reality. Between friendly matches and life-or-death battles.

Her mother placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, but Y/N couldn’t react. She was frozen, watching the chaos unfold. The Cornucopia had become a graveyard, bodies scattered across the wet ground, rain washing away the fresh blood.

Only a handful of tributes had made it out alive. The tributes from 12, 10, 8, and 6 had all fled, along with a few others from different districts. They had chosen to run rather than fight, and for now, they had survived.

Cato stood at the center of it all, chest rising and falling steadily. He wiped the blood from his sword on the clothes of a fallen tribute before looking up, scanning the area. Even through the screen, Y/N could see it—the wild, dangerous glint in his eyes. This was what he had been made for. What he had trained for.

He had never looked more like a victor.

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat. She should be proud. Cato was proving himself to be the strongest, just like she always knew he would. But all she felt was cold dread settling in her bones. Because the Games had only just begun.

And there was still so much more blood to be spilled.

Cato’s pov

The bloodbath was over, leaving only the strongest standing. Cato, Lucian, Clove, and Selene wasted no time. While the arena around them was soaked in blood and rain, they focused on what mattered—securing supplies. The Cornucopia was theirs. Weapons, food, medical kits, even survival gear. Everything they needed to dominate the arena.

Cato slung a heavy bag of supplies over his shoulder, scanning the area. “We should move before nightfall,” he said, his voice firm. “There’s a river nearby. We set up camp there.”

Lucian nodded in agreement, grabbing another backpack. “Good call. We’ll need water.”

They each took what they could carry. Clove stuffed extra knives into her belt, while Selene gathered rope and other essentials. When they had everything they needed, they left the Cornucopia behind, making their way toward the river. The rain had finally started to let up, leaving the ruined city damp and eerily quiet.

They reached the river within minutes. The water flowed steady and clear, reflecting the artificial sky above. The arena was a masterpiece of controlled destruction—half nature, half ruins.

Selene stretched, tossing her damp hair over her shoulder. “Not a bad spot,” she said, eyeing Cato with a smirk. “Guess we’ll be spending a lot of time together.”

Cato forced a smirk, leaning casually against a broken pillar. “Guess so,” he replied smoothly, meeting her gaze. He could see the interest in her eyes. She was playing the game, just like he was. And that was fine. If he had to play along to secure sponsors, so be it. But she meant nothing to him. Only one person did, and she was far away, watching this nightmare unfold.

Selene stepped closer, tilting her head. “I saw you at training,” she murmured, dragging a finger down his arm. “You were incredible.”

Cato chuckled, making sure the cameras saw. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

It was all an act. He played the role of the arrogant, charming Career, just like Brutus had told him. He flirted, smirked, made sure the Capitol saw someone they could adore—or fear. But in his mind, all he could think about was Y/N. Was she watching this? Did she believe any of it? He hated himself for even pretending.

Night fell quickly. The rain had made the temperature drop, and a cold breeze moved through the ruins. The four of them sat in a circle, eating the food they’d claimed.

Then, a flicker of light in the distance caught their attention.

“A fire,” Clove whispered, her eyes narrowing.

Cato tensed, gripping his sword. “Idiots.”

Lucian smirked. “Looks like we’ve got more work to do.”

They moved swiftly, silently, weaving through the broken buildings. The fire was small, barely noticeable, but in the darkness of the arena, it stood out like a beacon. As they got closer, the voices of the tributes became clearer. The three of them—the male tribute from District 12, the one from District 8, and the female from District 3—had gathered together, probably thinking there was safety in numbers.

Fools.

Cato moved first. He was fast, silent, and before the boy from District 8 even realized what was happening, Cato’s sword was buried deep in his side. The tribute gasped, blood bubbling at his lips as he fell.

The girl from District 3 screamed, scrambling to her feet. Clove was on her in an instant, a knife slashing across her throat. She collapsed, choking on her own blood.

The boy from District 12 tried to run. He made it two steps before Lucian tackled him to the ground, pinning him beneath his knee. The tribute struggled, terror in his eyes.

“Please—” he started.

Lucian didn’t let him finish. He drove his knife straight into the boy’s chest, twisting it before pulling it out. The tribute went still.

Silence fell over the ruins once more, except for the crackling fire and the sound of the rain dripping from the broken buildings.

Selene sighed dramatically, wiping blood from her dagger. “Pathetic.”

Cato stared down at the bodies, gripping his sword tightly. This was the game. This was survival. But for the first time, as he wiped the blood from his blade, his mind wasn’t on victory.

It was on Y/N.

And whether she was still watching.

Y/N’s pov

The screen flickered, bathing Y/N’s dimly lit living room in a cold glow. She sat on the couch, rigid, hands clenched together so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. Her parents were beside her, silent, but she could feel her mother’s worried gaze flickering toward her every few seconds.

Caesar Flickerman’s voice rang out, smooth and theatrical as always.

“And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen, the Careers staking their claim! What a thrilling first day in the arena!”

Beside him, his fellow commentator, Claudius Templesmith, nodded. “Absolutely, Caesar. The bloodbath was nothing short of a spectacle. Our tributes from District 1 and 2 played their part well. And look at Cato! The way he moved, the precision, the sheer power—he’s a real contender.”

Y/N wanted to scream.

She had seen it all. Every brutal second. Every fatal swing of Cato’s sword. Every scream of the dying tributes. And worst of all, she had seen the way Selene touched him. The way he smirked at her. The way he played along.

Claudius chuckled. “And let’s not forget Selene from District 1! She certainly seems to have taken a liking to Cato. That little exchange by the river—well, I wouldn’t be surprised if we have some romance this year!”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

“Cato’s got charm, strength, and let’s face it, the looks,” Caesar added with a knowing grin.

Her chest tightened as she recalled his interview. The way he had looked directly into the camera, the way his eyes softened for just a second before he uttered that awful, crushing word:

“No.”

No one waiting for him back home. No one who mattered.

And now he was flirting with Selene like it meant nothing. Like she meant nothing.

Her breathing grew uneven. She wanted to tell herself she was being irrational, that it was just a tactic, that this didn’t change anything. But the image of Selene leaning into him, the way he didn’t push her away—it played over and over again in her mind.

“Y/N,” her mother whispered gently, placing a hand on her arm.

She flinched. “I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t fine. She wasn’t fine at all.

On screen, the scene shifted to nightfall in the arena. The rain had finally stopped, and the Careers were gathered around a fire, eating, laughing. Y/N’s gut twisted as she watched Cato sitting next to Selene. He wasn’t smiling, not really, but there was something practiced in the way he spoke to her, in the way he let her brush her fingers along his arm.

She felt sick.

“Look at them, completely at ease,” Claudius remarked. “And they should be. They dominated the Cornucopia. They have the supplies, the weapons, and let’s not forget—Cato was the first to reach the Cornucopia, making a clear statement to the other tributes.”

“He’s ruthless,” Caesar agreed, shaking his head with admiration. “The way he took down the District 8 tribute—brutal. Efficient.”

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to block it all out, but the sounds wouldn’t stop. The clash of metal, the cries of pain, the sickening finality of death. And worst of all, Cato’s cold, calculated movements. This wasn’t the boy she had grown up with. This wasn’t the boy she loved.

Or maybe it was. Maybe this was always part of him, hidden beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

The thought made her stomach turn.

And then the scene changed again. A flicker of light in the darkness—a fire.

“Oh, this is a mistake,” Caesar commented. “A huge mistake.”

The Careers moved through the ruins like predators hunting prey. Y/N’s heart pounded as she watched Cato lead the charge, his steps sure and silent. The tributes by the fire never even had a chance.

The boy from District 8—dead in an instant, Cato’s sword cutting him down before he could react. The girl from District 3—Clove’s knife at her throat, gone in seconds. And the boy from 12—he begged. He tried to run. But Lucian ended it just as quickly.

The camera zoomed in on Cato’s face. His expression was unreadable, but his grip on his sword was tight. Y/N knew that grip. She had seen it a thousand times when they sparred together. When he was angry. When he was struggling with something he wouldn’t say out loud.

But it didn’t matter. Not now. Not when his hands were coated in blood and the arena had claimed him completely.

She stood abruptly.

“Y/N?” her mother asked, worried.

“I need some air.”

She didn’t wait for a response before stepping outside, letting the cold night air hit her.

Cato was alive.

But she didn’t know if she wanted to keep watching.

Next part >>>

Tag list: @inky-bonnie @russianspy24 @whitlocklibrary

[arealphrooblem]

Kidnapped by the Boss Part 7

Hey guys! Sorry it's been like a million years since I updated anything! I got burned out for a while and I'm slowly getting back to it. Hopefully with summer break looming, you'll see more of me!

Synopsis: Civilian is a secretary to the Prime Minster. But when the political summit between the city states goes awry, she finds herself kidnapped by the very boss she tried to protect and nothing is what it seems.

Part one here

Part six here

"What is this?”

It looked harmless, a small metal rectangular wrist band with no buttons or engraving or adornment of any kind. She didn’t trust it, regardless, not that that mattered to Rook, who kept his explanations to himself as he grabbed her hand. She tried to jerk it back, but his grip turned bruising and iron tight as he latched it shut.  

It hugged tightly on her, a nearly imperceptible hum against her skin. Only a tiny seam remained on the bottom, with no button or latch or catch to open it.

“What is it?” she demanded, swallowing down a flutter of panic.

Rook rolled his eyes. “Relax, princess. It’s just a tracker.”

“A tracker?”

“Yeah. Consider it your freedom. Now you can go anywhere you want and no one has to worry about you slipping out to somewhere you shouldn’t be.”

She gave him an appraising look. “Are you going to come fetch me if I go somewhere I shouldn’t?”

“No. I’m just going to push a button and an electric current will take you out until someone finds you.”

He gazed back, utterly impassive, and Val couldn’t tell if he was trying to scare her or not. She refused to be cowed though.

“How strong of a current are we talking about?” she asked

A smirk spread slowly across his face. “Why don’t you get near an airport and find out? If it doesn’t kill you, then you’ll have your answer.”

Val jut her chin up, meeting his smirk with a glare. “Do you get a kick out of trying to make me afraid? Does it make you feel tough?”

He snorted and stepped closer to her. She stood stock still as he linked their arms together.

“You’re in enemy territory, Val,” he murmured, ducking his head down close to her ear, like he was sharing a secret.  “I’m just trying to keep you on your toes.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted up. “My king wants you down for lunch in his office. I’ll show you the way.”

The king’s office looked much the same as it did when he was Eugene the Prime Minister. Papers scattered in random piles, post it notes scribbled with cryptic notes only he understood. Reminders taped on walls, the desk, the door.

A table was cleared off, the papers clearly dumped on the desk. A spread of soup and sandwiches sat on it, the king sitting in one of the chairs, waiting. Val was hit with a pang of nostalgia, because this set up looked exactly like the ones they had during campaign season. She didn’t know if he did it deliberately or if this was just how he ran his life.

“Afternoon, Val,” he said with a smile. “I see you have your tracker now.”

“And potential execution device,” she added dryly.

He shrugged. “Only a stupid person would need to worry about the electric shock and you are not stupid.”

“That makes me feel so much better.”

He smiled again, ignoring her sarcasm. “Have a seat.”

She reluctantly joined him and helped herself to a sandwich, knowing this whole charade was just to watch her eat. Rook did not join them, preferring to lean against the wall next to the king. It felt a little unnerving to eat under both of their stares but she knew there’d be hell to pay if she didn’t.

And she had to admit, the food was painfully delicious.  

“You now control the lock on your door,” the king said (Aris? It still didn’t feel right but neither did Eugene). “You may stay or leave your room as you please. All unlocked areas of the castle are open to you, as well as the grounds. If you wish to head into the city, Rook will escort you.”

Rook’s mouth fell open in outrage. “You cannot be serious! I babysit her enough as it is and you want me to take her out for ice cream and shopping? Who is protecting you while I run bullshit errands with her?”

“Hey! Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I have a shopping addiction,” she snapped.

“Like you wouldn’t jump at the chance to blow all the king’s treasury just to fuck us over.”

“What the hell am I going to be buying to drain it — a super yacht?”

“Children, please.” The king — Aris — held up a hand. “It’s not an ideal situation for any of us, but the two of you will have to give each other a little faith.”

Val and Rook let out twin snorts of derision and then shot each other matching glares.

“As I was saying,” Aris said with a warning look, “you have been given a probationary amount of freedom, Val.”

“Probationary?” So this was temporary?

“Yes. Your privileges will change depending on your actions. If you stay obedient, prove yourself, then you freedoms will grow. If you try to circumvent your restrictions, you will lose your freedoms and live in a cell much less cozy than the rooms I’ve given you.”

Obedient. Like a toddler. Like a dog. 

Not for the first time did helpless rage well up in her throat like acid. So many retorts and screams crowded her mouth that it rendered her speechless, unable to choose which to say first and terrified to say any of them.

Eug— Aris — looked at her in such smug satisfaction, as if proud of himself for bestowing a phenomenal gift. If Rook wasn’t in the room, Val could have hit him. Her fingers curled in on themselves to fight the temptation regardless.

“Do you have any questions?” Aris tilted his head slightly, studying her.

She used to love having his full attention on her — something made rare and precious because of his busy schedule and bouts of scatterbrained day dreaming. Right now it made her skin crawl, adding fuel to the feeling of constantly being under surveillance, never able to relax.

“Can I go now?” she asked tightly.

His gaze ducked down to her half-eaten lunch. “You haven’t finished your food.”

The rage leaped up, like a kerosene drenched campfire. She felt reckless and wild with it and without a second thought, flipped her plate off the table to watch it shatter to the floor, food spraying over the lush carpet.

“I’m done,” she said. “Now?”

She had no idea what her face looked like at that moment, but whatever Aris saw on it made him sit back in his seat.

“Yes,” he said slowly, warily. “Of course.”

Val stood so far that her chair fell backwards. “Thank you,” she bit out, dripping venom, before striding out the door.

She had no idea where she was headed, and she didn’t care. Val picked a direction and walked as fast as she could towards it. If it led her to a so-called restricted section of the palace, then maybe that would put her out of her misery.

The padded footsteps sound too close and too late to react before a hand grabbed her shoulder. Val whirled around, fist striking out in pure instinct at the warm body behind her. In less than a second, that body gripped her wrist and shoved her against the wall of the hallway.

Rook.

Of course.

“Someone is very cranky today,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a smirk.

“Let me go,” she snarled, pushing ineffectively against him.

Rook complied, releasing the bruising grip on her wrist and taking a wide step back, hands up in mock surrender.

“Not many people can scare the king, but I think you managed it just then,” he said.

“What the hell do you want? You have a tracker now. You don’t need to stalk me anymore.”

“We never finished our tour. I wouldn’t want you wandering somewhere you shouldn’t and getting electrocuted on your first day.”

“I’ll figure it out on my own, thanks.”

Rook gave her that same kind of stare Aris did — an assessment. Complete with head tilt. They must spend a lot of time together.

“You’re very angry for someone who was just given a significant amount of freedom that they quite frankly don’t deserve,” he said slowly.

She gave him a poisonous look. “I am not talking about this with you.”

And now that smirk again. “Thank god. I’m not paid to be a feelings person. But I think I know what you need.”

“A long walk off a tall cliff?”

He snorted. “Tempting. But no. Follow me and find out.”

It was probably a stupid decision to follow the most untrustworthy person she’d ever met, but having more opportunities to hate Rook offered her a welcome distraction. So, against all sanity, Val followed him down to an elevator and watched him push the basement button.

“Is that where you keep the torture chambers?” she asked, half joking, half . . .not joking.

“Sometimes it feels that way,” he muttered back.

The elevator dinged and opened to gleaming wooden floors and bright lights. It looked like the reception of a swanky business more than a typical basement. Down a short hallway sat an interior room lined with windows and inside sat various mats, weights, and other equipment.

“You brought me to the gym?” she asked dubiously.

“Yep.”

He made a bee line to a tall metal cabinet and pulled out boxing gloves. “Catch.”

Too fast for her to react, they hit Val square in the face and fell to the floor. She sent him another glare as he snickered before bending down to pick them up.

“You want me to hit something?”

Which actually sounded great, come to think of it.

“I want you to hit me.”

Oh even fucking better.

It felt too good to be true. But Val watched as he pulled out two wide padded circles and fitted them over his palms before he stepped onto one of the mats.

“You gonna put them on or are you chickening out?”

She yanked them onto her hands, their weight surprisingly heavy and then followed him onto the mat.

Rook held up his hands in the mock surrender pose.

“Hit these as hard as you can.”

“You’re serious?” She eyed him dubiously. “What if I hit you in the face?”

“You won’t.”

“You sure? It seems real tempting.”

He grinned. “The day you land a hit on me, I’ll smuggle you back home myself.”

As much as she wanted to deck his face, Val knew a trap when she heard one. Instead, she followed his instructions, landing a blow square against the right hand pad.

He didn’t even budge.

“Come on, Val, I know that’s not all you got. You were so full of rage earlier. Don’t tell me it left already.”

Oh, it didn’t. But she felt nervous putting her full effort in. Either it would hurt him and he’d make her pay or it would be pathetic and he’d mock her.

“You can’t laugh,” she said.

“Oh, I’m going to laugh. Now fucking hit me already.”

She took a deep breath and then slammed her fist against the pad with all her might. He never lost his footing, but she was pleased to see his body sway a fraction.

“Much better. I knew you had it in you. Do it again.”

“What’s the point of this?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Stress relief. I love hitting things when I’m mad. And if you’re hitting me then you’re not hitting my king. So come on, Val. Give me everything you’ve got.”

He asked and she delivered. Val channeled all the injustice, the fear, the grief that the last week had brought her into her fists, driving them over and over into Rook’s padded hands. She didn’t stop, not when her arms started to shake, not when sweat soaked her back, not when a lancing pain hit her shoulder with each impact. It was mindless violence with no victim and it blocked out everything else.

“Ok, okay, Val. That’s enough.”

His voice echoed distantly and she dismissed it instantly. He took a step back and she chased him. It wasn’t until he wrapped his arms around her from behind, trapping her arms against her sides.

“That’s enough Val,” he said in her ear.

She was breathing like a winded rhinoceros, her chest burning with it. But with each slowed breath, exhaustion threaded itself through her limbs and tugged. Eventually she slumped against his chest, happy to let him take all the weight of her. Even then he did not budge.

She was too tired to be angry now.

“Your form is absolute dog shit,” he said, his grip cautiously loosening. “But you have some potential. I could train you, if you wanted.”

“Train me?” With supreme effort, she pulled away from and turned to face him. “Train me in what?”

“Boxing. Mixed martial arts. Basic self defense. You can have your pick.”

“You want to teach me how to fight?” She crossed her arms. “Is this some kind of trap? What’s the catch?”

He raised an eyebrow. “There’s no catch. It would get you in shape, get your mind off things. Give you some sense of control.”

“And then I could use it against you.”

He had the gall to laugh at that, head thrown back. “Not in a million fucking years.”

“You think I could never be a threat to you?” Now she felt insulted. “Is it because I’m a woman?”

Rook rolled his eyes. “The scariest people I’ve ever met have been women. But a few weeks or months of the basics is never going to match years of intensive training. If you ever manage to hit me, it’s because I let you for your pride.”

He held out his hands for her gloves and she pulled them off with surprising reluctance.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the way back to your room. You need a shower.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly.

But a tiny flicker of gratitude wormed its way through her chest as she followed him back to the elevator. The exercise had cleared her head. She felt soothed, the tightness in her chest dissipated. Rook undoubtedly had ulterior motives for helping her, but he still could have let her drown in her own rage until she did something stupid that he’d gleefully punish her for.

Instead he gave her a much needed outlet.

She didn’t know how to feel about that.

Let me know in a comment if you want to be tagged!

Part 8 here

Taglist

@rivalriotrenegade @sunyside-world @fishtale88 @those-damn-snippets @suspiciousmuffin @thats-alittle-gay @girl-of-the-sea-and-stars @tobeornottobeateacher @burningkittypoet @kurai-hono-blog @clover-sage

[tradgedyinwaves]

Touch - Ch. 8

tw: mentions of stalking, the boys are a wee bit toxic, ex is a jackass, fatphobic comments, reader is a bit vindictive, suggested kidnapping

Dating four people was exhausting. Especially being the newest addition. They all wanted to spend their apparently endless free time with you and frequently, you found yourself on a date with more than one of them. All because they couldn’t be patient. 

Johnny had actually whined when he found out just how far things had progressed between you and Simon, jealous that he’d been talking to you the longest and not even gotten a kiss. So you spent three days dedicated to spending time with him alone. By the time the two of you left your flat at the end of the third day, you were sore, exhausted, and covered in love bites. Johnny was so pleased with himself, he was practically skipping. 

After that, you took a break from the boys completely as you needed time to recharge and recover. Better believe that when you came back to them, they’d already taught Johnny a lesson in self-control and you were greeted with an apology from him for not playing nice with you. You’d told him you forgave him, even though you hadn’t seen an issue with his insatiable appetite for you. 

They learned patience after that, dedicating specific weekends to a single man for dates and fun while the week was spent casually hanging out. Your stalker only showed when you were alone, which the boys insisted was never. Even if physically you were alone, they knew where you were since Simon had slipped a tracking device into the lining of your purse and they connected your GPS in your phone to their own. But even those trackers couldn’t see when the shape lingered on the roof across from you, studying you. 

A few weeks into your new normal, an invitation arrived in the mail. The paper was pure white, gold writing informing you that you were cordially invited to Kit and Heather’s wedding. You had choked on the fact that you’d received an invitation, feeling like you should be more upset that he was moving on so quickly, but then you remembered the four men that had spent the last few weeks devoting their time and energy to you, adoring you, and making you feel like the most important person in the world to them. 

With a smirk, you shoved the invitation into your purse and headed over to the boys’ flat, forgetting to change from your work clothes. By this point, you had a key and the passcode to get into the building and burst into the flat with a wide grin. “Look at this shit,” you announced, dropping the invitation on the coffee table where the boys leaned over and looked over it. 

“He’s got some balls to be inviting you,” Price grunted, leaning back in his chair as he swirled his whiskey. You walked over to him with a pretty smile and climbed onto his lap, straddling his wide hips. “I want to go,” you stated simply, looking down at the big man below you with the prettiest puppy dog eyes and Price was caving immediately. “Acht, fine. But who’s going with you?” he asked, raising a brow while his hand found it’s way to your hip. “All of you?” you answered timidly, a light blush coloring your cheeks. 

“All of us, petal?” Johnny queried, leaning back on the couch with his legs over Simon’s lap. You looked over your shoulder and nodded, biting your bottom lip. “Why’s that, dove?” Kyle asked from his spot in the other armchair. “Well, I-it’s petty, really. Just wanted to show off how much better I am without him,” you answered, dropping your eyes to your lap as Simon let out a low chuckle. “I’m in. He’s met me without the mask, I’d be glad to show off for you, luv,” he stated, raising his eyebrows at you which only served to darken your blush. 

“Sounds like a plan then. We’ll have to contact Laswell and let her know, so she can avoid sending us out around that time if possible,” Price squeezed your hip as he spoke, taking a swig of his whiskey. You leaned forward and laid on his chest, his arm moving to drag his hand up and down your back. 

The room quieted as the boys resumed their previous activities. Kyle was in the kitchen cooking up dinner while the game played in the living room. Johnny and Simon resumed watching as well, yelling out to Kyle when he needed to come watch a play. Price sipped his whiskey while you napped in his lap, the sounds and scents lulling you to sleep while his massive paw warmed your back. 

New information had plans changing, red strings moved about until a perfect scheme was created. 

Arriving in New York had hit you with a wave of nostalgia and you weren’t sure how you felt about it. Your family wasn’t from there, so the only memories you had were with Kit and those memories weren’t ones you were thrilled to revisit. 

The morning of the wedding found you sitting in the bathroom, waves of panic ripping through you. The last time you’d seen Kit was in a courtroom where you’d looked pathetic as you cried over the loss of your marriage and the new couple sneered at you. What if he just invited you to humiliate you again? Just to rub his happiness in your face. 

But wasn’t that what you were doing here? To show him that you had moved on to much bigger and better things? Successfully talking yourself out of the panic attack, you finished getting ready, only stepping out once you felt everything was perfect. 

When you finally did leave the bathroom, four heads turned towards you with different versions of shock and awe painted on their faces. A dark burgundy dress adorned your form, a modern version of a 50’s formal dress that settled off your shoulders, cinching your waist and flaring around your hips to end mid calf with little black kitten heels so your ankles didn’t end up broken. You’d really leaned into the decade's inspiration, enhancing the look with a pearl necklace that sat right at the base of your throat and pretty pearl earrings sat on your ears. 

“Say something!” you gasped out, feeling like their eyes were burning holes through you. Kyle was the first to snap out of it, approaching you with the warmest smile. “You look beautiful, dove. I think I speak for all of us when I say you’re the most gorgeous woman we’ve ever seen,” he reassured you and you heard some small agreements from behind him. 

They were already dressed, each of them sporting simple black suits that had to be tailor made to fit their massive forms properly, wrapping muscles in the dark fabric. Briefly, you wondered if you needed to make an appearance at all, wanting to spend the next few hours undressing them with your teeth. 

When the five of you arrived at the wedding, Kit’s family greeted you with wide eyes. They’d tried to keep you from being all four of them in, but when Simon peered down at your ex-father-in-law, daring him to open his mouth, the five of you were let in without any more fuss. 

Hiding in the back, you watched them marry in silence, having no more tears for your past. Simon and Price watched your face for any sign that you needed a break, but the resolute stillness had them more concerned. Normally a pretty emotional person, the cold look in your eyes made them a little nervous. 

When the happy couple turned towards the crowd, your eyes met Kit’s cold gaze and you smiled, waving at him while surrounded by your men. His gaze shifted from you almost immediately as his new bride started to rally him down the aisle. 

The five of you were the first ones out the door once guests were allowed to leave, finding a quiet spot along the edge of the woods outside. You separated yourself a bit, watching from afar while Kit and Heather were having their photos taken. It reminded you of your own wedding and it made something pinch in your heart. 

“You doing alright, luvie?” Simon’s voice startled you from your preoccupied thoughts, turning to look up at the dark eyes settled over a plain black gaiter. Despite wearing essentially the same suit, each man had customized it in some way. Simon added the black gaiter, only comfortable going without his mask in his or your flat and black leather gloves.

From where you stood, you could see Price’s boonie hat settled on his head where he’d put it when they escaped outside. Johnny had a tartan pocket square that matched his tie, the pattern subtle with the dark palette. Kyle’s suit was pristine, pressed to have a crease down the front of each pant leg and shirt cuffs that adorned silver initial cufflinks. 

“I’m alright. Just reminiscing, I guess. This is a lot more than I got for our wedding. It was small, but I suppose marrying an heiress would warrant this extravagance,” you stated, turning fully away from the scene out on the lawn. “Well, heiress or no, she has nothing on you,” he reassured you, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. 

When they finally opened the open air hall for the reception, your group waited until others were in, hoping to sneak in once things got going. Unfortunately, going anywhere with four massive men following you around didn’t work for flying under the radar. So when you stepped into the room, all eyes turned to your group and you flushed, darting for the corner to hide. 

Kit and Heather made their rounds, blissfully ignoring you and the guys until your ex-in-laws insisted it would make them look good if they at least greeted your lot. You were three glasses of champagne in while the boys were stone cold sober so when the couple approached, you gave them a wry smile while your eyes flashed with something dangerous. Even though you’d moved on, you still hated your ex with every fiber of your being. 

“Kit. Heather. Congratulations,” you stated, the tone almost seething despite the edge of civility. Their noses turned up at you, disgust on their faces. “Let me introduce my boyfriends, John, Kyle, Johnny and Simon,” your tone changed as you listed them off, fondness pushing out the anger.

“Requires more than one to handle all of you, huh? Now you really are just-” Kit’s words were cut off by Price’s low growling voice. “I’d watch what you say next. She’s worth more than either of you ever will be.” Kyle had to put his hand on Simon’s chest to keep the man from lunging for Kit’s throat. You knew what he was going to say and surprisingly it didn’t bother you.

“At least they know how to make a woman cum. Obviously, you don’t or your beautiful bride here wouldn’t be fucking David behind your back,” you broadcasted, raising your voice ever so slightly as Heather’s eyes bugged and Kit looked like he was going to kill you. “Not my fault you’re oblivious. I clocked it the second I walked in and saw her making heart eyes at him while you were talking to her parents,” you shrugged and turned to walk away before you felt the familiar feeling of his fingers wrapping around your arm. 

“I suggest you take your hands off of me before you find out exactly what my men will do to you,” your voice was low, full of warning. He scoffed and tugged on your arm, a massive mistake. Johnny’s hand shot out to rip his hand from your arm while Kyle removed his hand from Simon’s chest, letting the furious man loose. 

The leathered hand wrapped around Kit’s throat and squeezed, slamming the man against the back wall and subsequently gathering everyone’s attention to the group. “If you ever lay a hand on her again, you’ll find out what true nightmares are,” Simon growled, nose to nose with your trash ex. 

You sniffed at the sight, watching Heather screech and plead for Simon to let him go. “Alright, alright. Please, just let me go,” Kit begged and it made a piece of your heart heal, watching Kit get his ass handed to him. Simon huffed, growling at the man before looking over his shoulder, looking for your eyes. You nodded and he dropped Kit, stepping back as you stepped forward. “This is for putting your hands on me,” you stated before reeling back and decking him in the nose. 

Kit crumpled, stumbling over to Heather as he dripped blood on her dress. “I hope you treat her better than you did me, no one deserves what you did.” You made eye contact with Heather before turning on your heel and walking out, the boys following behind. 

No one spoke as your troop traveled back to the hotel, all of them staying close. They hated that the night had turned the way it had, but the man-child had deserved it. They wanted to praise you for the fantastic punch and the way you’d stood up for yourself. But you were withdrawn, mind replaying the moment over and over again.

You disappeared into your room, citing a need to be alone for a little bit. When they came to check on you an hour later, the room was empty. Except for a hundred masks just like Simon’s and pictures of each of the boys with you. 

A single picture of you laid on the bed with a large red x over your face with a word written under. 

Karma. 

Ope.

Thank you to everyone who is supporting this story. I appreciate every single one of you.

[fictionfanatic-wren]

The robin games.

chapter 3/7

The artificial lighting in the Watchtower dimmed gradually as the station shifted into its night cycle. A quiet hush settled over the vast halls, replacing the earlier chaos with a strange, uneasy calm.

Dick had wedged himself into his cozy little vent above the main deck, curled into a surprisingly efficient sleeping position that only years of acrobatics could make tolerable. His arms were folded beneath his head, and a thin thermal blanket was tucked around him like a burrito. From below, the faint hum of the Watchtower filled the silence. Every now and then, a screen blinked or beeped, but Dick didn’t stir.

Jason yawned, stretching out behind his stack of crates. He’d wedged himself into a cozy nook of unused gear, resting on a folded emergency blanket and using a deflated punching bag as a pillow. One hand still gripped the handle of a combat knife, old habits died hard. He wasn’t asleep yet. Just resting. “…If Barry cries about the pizza one more time, I’m stealing his whole fridge next time…” he mumbled, eyes drifting closed.

Tim sipped another cup of coffee, the fourth tonight. The room was bathed in soft light from his screens, reflecting off his tired eyes. Every camera was still under his control. Every sensor, every system, still his playground. Sleep was... irrelevant. He’d tucked a blanket over his shoulders like a cape, more out of habit than comfort. His eyes never left the screens. On one, Jason had finally stopped twitching. On another, Dick rolled over in his sleep and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “no, Babs, I didn’t eat your sandwich.” Tim grinned faintly. Another sip.

The soft hum of the Watchtower’s life support systems was the only sound filling the corridors. Most of the League had returned to Earth for the night, and the few remaining, Dinah, Bruce, and Arthur, were either asleep or in their quarters, leaving the station cloaked in a rare, heavy silence. Damian stirred awake in his vent hideout, stretching like a panther just roused from sleep. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked toward the glowing clock panel on his wrist. Nighttime. He slipped silently from the ducts and made his way down the dim hallway, every step precise and deliberate. His target: Dick Grayson. If Damian wanted to win this game, he needed an edge. And that meant hitting where it hurt most. The firstborn was tucked away in a cramped crawlspace above the observation deck, confident in his setup. But confidence, Damian thought, was a luxury he could exploit. He reached the access panel to the crawlspace, expertly unscrewing it without a sound. Inside, Dick’s gear lay neatly arranged: his Escrima Sticks, compact grappling tools, comms device, all meticulously placed for quick access. This was Damian’s game to win, and stealing Dick’s gear was a necessary evil. With practiced efficiency, he gathered the suit and tools, slipping them into a reinforced tactical bag. He paused for a moment, glancing at a small digital tracker Dick had forgotten on the wrist computer. Pocketing it, Damian smiled coldly. This would keep him one step ahead. The soft hum of machinery filled the dimly lit maintenance room. Tim was deeply focused, eyes flicking over streams of code on his laptop, fingers tapping commands with precision. His face was calm, but the faintest crease of fatigue lined his brow. The door slid open silently. Batman stepped in, his presence commanding yet gentle. In his gloved hands, he carried a small insulated bag. Tim glanced up, surprise flickering in his eyes. “B,” he said quietly. Bruce didn’t say a word, just set the bag down beside Tim and opened it to reveal a neatly packed meal, sandwiches, fruit, energy bars, and a bottle of water. “You’re too focused,” Bruce said simply, voice low but firm. “Even if it’s a game, you don’t get to starve.” Tim nodded, a small smile breaking through. “Thanks.” Bruce watched him for a moment, then turned and moved silently out of the room.

Bruce moved quickly but deliberately, stopping briefly at each camp. Near the observation deck crawlspace, he placed a wrapped meal and water bottle besides Dick’s head. In the cluttered storage bay where Jason hid, a similar package appeared next to a small pile of makeshift traps and empty crates. And finally, in the window of Damian going to sabotage Dick, near the vent junction where Damian spent his time, a meal was carefully balanced on the edge of his secured mat.

The cold silence of the Watchtower was broken by the sudden pulse of zeta tubes activating in rapid succession. ZETA TUBE ACTIVATION: GREEN LANTERN. GREEN ARROW. FLASH. WONDER WOMAN. SUPERMAN. With every flicker of light and arrival chime, the quiet sanctity of the station shattered into chaos.

Ventilation Shaft - Damian Damian’s eyes snapped open. He blinked once, alert immediately, hand instinctively reaching for a dagger before remembering where he was. The vibrations in the ductwork were unmistakable, people stomping, voices rising. He activated his wristpad, scanning audio feeds. “…I told you it wasn’t me!” Flash was already yelling. “I woke up this morning and my uniform had a ‘kick me’ sign sewn into the back,” Hal snapped. “Why would I even do that? I can’t sew!” “Exactly,” Diana deadpanned. “Which only narrows down the suspects to someone with too much free time and a needle.” Damian smirked faintly and moved deeper into the shadows, fully awake now.

Storage Bay - Jason Jason groaned, rubbing his eyes and sitting up slowly from behind the crates. He’d been mid-dream, something about Alfred’s pancakes and a flamethrower, and now the noise from the hall was creeping into his skull. He took a bite of the sandwich Bruce had left him and stretched. “…Can’t believe they’re still fighting.” From the hallway, he heard Ollie’s voice. “Okay, new theory: maybe it’s Clark. You’ve got heat vision, you could’ve fried the sugar into salt.” “That’s not how sugar works,” Superman replied, exasperated. “It could be magic sugar!” Jason snorted, leaning back again. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath.

Observation Deck Crawlspace - Dick Dick stirred with a yawn, groaning softly as he shifted in the tight space. He blinked blearily, then frowned as the argument filtered up from the floor below. “…someone hacked the training room and set all the difficulty levels to ‘expert’ without warning. I tore my suit, Barry!” “I didn’t do it!” Barry cried. “And why is everyone still assuming this is me?!” Dick dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “Still? They’re still on this?” He reached for his comm… Only to realize it was gone. Everything was gone. Damn it. Probably Jason’s work.

Tim was already awake, sipping lukewarm coffee from a thermos this time (thanks, Bruce), watching the League’s security feeds with bags under his eyes and a grin on his face. “Welcome back, chaos,” he murmured. One screen showed Hal arguing with Barry in the kitchen, another caught Diana pacing with murderous intent, and yet another showed Aquaman just… quietly eating cereal, eyes wide like he was stuck in a fever dream.

The long table in the League’s command center gleamed under sterile lighting. The founding members were seated, Superman at the head, Diana to his right, Batman silent in his usual spot. Flash was bouncing one knee under the table. Hal looked bored. Green Arrow looked ready to nap. Black Canary sipped her coffee with the calm of someone who’d already accepted today was going to be awful. Aquaman was just there, still confused. “Alright,” Superman said, clearing his throat and projecting his voice with practiced authority. “Let’s focus. Star City’s been seeing unusual activity, seven coordinated attacks in the last two days, each targeting high-tech facilities.” He pressed a button. The holo-table projected images of figures dressed in black, blurry but menacing. “We believe it’s a new group. Possibly connected to the remnants of the Kobra cult.” “Oh good,” Ollie muttered, folding his arms. “Star City wasn’t chaotic enough already.” “We’ll form a task force and-” “You know,” Flash interrupted, eyes narrowing as he pointed at Hal, “This does look like the kind of distraction someone would create to shift attention away from themselves.” Hal blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?” “I’m saying,” Barry leaned forward, eyes sharp, “maybe you’re orchestrating all this just to get back at me for using your toothbrush six months ago.” The table went quiet. Diana blinked. “You did ?” Hal groaned. “Oh my God, Barry- you were the one who used it behind my back for a week and never thought to tell me!” “Hey! I thought you never used it, and that was a joke!” “So was switching the salt and sugar! But here we are, pretending to be professionals while someone keeps moving my goddamn chair!” Ollie sipped his coffee. “Honestly? Kinda sounds like guilt, Hal.” “I SWEAR TO-” Superman held up a hand. “Everyone. Please.” Batman hadn't said a word, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. Internally, he was screaming. Outwardly, he said nothing. Flash shot up from his chair. “If I find out you stole my pizza, Hal, I swear I’m going to-” “FOR THE LAST TIME, I DIDN’T TOUCH YOUR DAMN PIZZA!” “Then who did?!” In the silence that followed, Aquaman slowly raised a hand. “Unrelated,” he said carefully, “but… I just got back, and someone replaced my water filters with cherry soda. My fish are very confused.” Black Canary set her mug down with a sigh. “We’re a galactic defense force. Yet we literally cannot keep our stuff safe.” Superman rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Let’s… circle back to Star City later. Meeting adjourned.” As the team began filing out, muttering, glaring, and one or two openly blaming Hal again, Batman remained behind, expression unreadable.

[aliencatwafers]

Mouthwashing Survival AU

Daisuke’s mom, Maiya, uses her wealth and influence to push the government to search for the Tulpar and find her son

The rescue crew finds everyone dead and Curly in the cyropod

Swansea, Daisuke, and Jimmy are declared dead on arrival

There is not much news on Anya

Maiya then gathers employees screwed over by Pony Express and sues the CEO

She pays for Curly’s medical bills and rehabilitation home as the doctors said that he has no chance of living totally on his own

Curly has an electronic wheelchair with a bag of tools he can easily grab like a prosthetic to pull through body weight, an eye tracker device so he can talk, hearing aids, eye droppers, and gets cold very easily - he has skin grafts but he lost a lot of body weight. Curly wears a giant newspaper boy hat, a bandana around his mouth and to not unsettle onlookers, glasses to protect his one eye, and a jacket with loose pants.

Curly meets two young kids similar to himself and Jimmy - one is super impulsive, shakes off responsibility, resents his friend, and harasses women. The other one keeps quiet.

The reason Maiya keeps Curly alive is to get answers from him - what happened? Did he truly crush the ship? What happened to her boy?

Curly has hallucinations of Anya, Daisuke, Swansea, and Jimmy - he will see them no matter where they are

Curly complains that he has no company with him in his little apartment; he hears of a shortage and a new guest coming in

Maiya visits day to day to see how Curly is doing and asks more questions - she then tries to confront the areas in which Curly is afraid to answer like what about Jimmy? Why did he let Jimmy onto the ship

In the dead of night, Curly hears a knock and answers the door

It’s Anya!!!

She was admitted to the facility because her drug overdose caused her need an oxygen tank, liver damage, and permanent brain fog since she was in a coma

Curly agrees to be Anya’s roommate if she allows it

Maiya comes in and grills Anya about what she saw as Anya tries to remember but her brain is slow and numb

Curly has a bunch of flashbacks when Anya remembers Jimmy and asks about their friendship (it doesn’t justify Curly not doing enough for Anya, but she wants to know how close they are for her closure)

Curly flashes back to Jimmy and the many sleepovers they had as kids. Theres a lot of good times like when Jimmy beat up a bully bothering Curly and when Jimmy first learned how to drive. Curly remembers Jimmy’s mother was relentlessly talked down to, that Jimmy’s father was controlling and abusive, and Jimmy’s older sister looking back was raped by her father. Curly remembers waking up and seeing Jimmy’s older sister Sally packing up to leave, run away, get an abortion, and move in with a friend. She tells Jimmy to not be anything like his father. Jimmy is confused and thinks Sally is stupid and abandoned him, and he believes all the nasty shit his father and mother say about Sally. Curly is now realizing what happened and calls himself stupid for not figuring it out sooner.

Anya asks Maiya to find Sally since she wants to know Sally and check up on her.

Sally enters the place and wants to know what’s happening since she cut off contact with her family. Anya tells her everything in a private conversation as Sally is distraught and feels for Anya. The two of them bond.

Sally and Maiya scold Curly for being passive and not realizing the damage Jimmy is capable of until he was at Jimmy’s mercy.

Curly apologizes and explains that he must’ve been afraid of Jimmy, didn’t want to risk Anya’s pay due to Pony Express policy, and didn’t think Jimmy would actually crash the ship. He was banking on Jimmy trying to find the gun Anya hid and to come up empty handed to where Curly can talk him down and negotiate something.

Even with that idea in mind, Anya tells Curly she wished he did something and focused more on her rather than Jimmy’s feelings, and that they could’ve had it where Anya sleeps in medical or something.

Cue more hallucinations of Jimmy

Curly again apologizes and confronts his many memories of Jimmy - he writes a long harsh letter telling Jimmy how awful he was and that he won’t let Jimmy haunt him

Slowly but surely the impact gets smaller and smaller

Anya and Sally bond and slowly let Curly in as Curly finally finds peace

Curly finds the two kids and learns the one like Jimmy had been harassing a mutual friend, he tells the one similar to himself to not stand for this and tell his friend off, or report it, and to keep the mutual friend safe. When the kid is afraid, Curly tells him “how do you think I ended up like this?” This makes the kid stand up against his friend and refuse patriarchy and rape culture.

Even if Curly himself can’t undo the damage, he can make Anya feel heard and push for the younger generation to not do the same as what he did in Jimmy’s case

Maiya is heavily distraught but comes to terms with Daisuke’s passing, and appreciates Curly for at least giving Daisuke a chance to prove himself. She wishes Curly had done way more against Jimmy and protected Daisuke but understands that it was out of his control.

Shes pissed off at Swansea’s family and wants to sue them too, but she is grieving and realizes that at least Daisuke died a quick painless death