#technical security training

[voiider]

fake psychic Tim but its just. its just psych. Jason dies and batman goes off the deep end so Tim (instead of becoming robin) starts going ham on the 'tips to the police' bc if the police can deal with the smaller crimes then Tim doesn't have to worry about batman killing a petty thief.

Except he's running himself into the ground and he starts getting sloppy bc he's giving the local police info, and bludhaven info (bc dick) AND probably giving Nightwing info when he can and someone catches him or he leaves a paper trail and then Officer Dick Grayson apprehends him and takes him in for questioning and Tim is like "you can't talk to me without my parents or a lawyer present, I'm a minor. And my parents are in Guatemala, so you better call my lawyer."

and Dick is like "kid you're not in trouble i just need to know who's giving you this information." Because there is NO WAY this kid isn't working with someone. Someone who is using a child to drop off information, which while noble to help the police, is putting this child in danger and tim is like, pretty offended actually. That it's being implied that he COULDN'T do this himself.

So he's like "im not working for anyone."

and Dick is like "you have to be getting the info from somewhere. I just wanna help."

and Tim is like AUGH ADULTS "I just- i figured it out on my own" and its CLEAR that Dick doesn't believe him which is, first off, super insulting, never meet your heroes, and second he shouldn't be talking anyway or admit that he goes out at night or Dick will do something stupid like try to make him stop. So he's like (rolling eyes) "I'm psychic. Are you happy? Can I have my phone call now?"

[catenary-chad]

Here’s some links about amusement park trains (mostly US and mostly steam, it’s actually really hard to find much on non-steam ones)

Outdated but extensive list of Crown Metal Products trains

Relatively current list of only their steam engines

General amusement park trains site, dated but very thorough with what it has, lots of photos

The wikipedia list of amusement park railroads is very incomplete but a decent starting point for non-Disney parks with historic trains

(funny fact: I thought Hersheypark’s train was a fake with some attention to detail sound/motion wise…. it is not, just very small and clean burning)

[jobsnotices]

Notice of Call for Sealed Bids for Supply of Security Guards and Sanitation Staff

Notice of Call for Sealed Bids for Supply of Security Guards and Sanitation Staff. Technical Education and Vocational Training Council, Agroforestry Polytechnic School, Chhatradev – 4, Mathura, Arghakhanchi has invites Sealed Bids for Supply of Security Guards and Sanitation Staff by 18 Asar 2081. Date of First Publication of Notice: 2081/03/04 Notice of Call for Sealed Bids for Supply of…

[theasylumchild]

One thing I genuinely love about a long commute is I can close my eyes, vibe out, have no idea what station I’m at or what train I’m on, and still get to work no problem

[tsuma-senju]

Muai thai fighter Sukuna who only cares about winning, even if he has to be the biggest asshole in the world, ignoring anything other than the next fight.

Muai thai fighter Sukuna who runs away from interviews like the plague, flinching in his chair as he hears the usual inane questions. His manager, a man blessed by heaven to be able to put up with the fighter's persistently optimistic mood, tries to keep his composure, but every dry, monosyllabic answer from Sukuna makes the sweat drip down his temple.

“Sukuna, how are you preparing for the fight against the Thai champion?”

“Training”

“Any new strategies?”

“Fighting”

Muai thai fighter Sukuna, who was forced to be there against his will, stands up abruptly. The photographers are startled by the movement. The businessman tries to reach him, desperate.

"Sukuna! No! Only ten minutes to go!"

But it's no use. The champion is already leaving, with heavy, irritated steps, while the security guards try to clear the way. He ignores shouts, cameras, microphones and questions. And off he goes, towards the underground parking lot

Muai thai fighter Sukuna who is itching to get in and disappear in his matte black sports car.

He gets into the vehicle, starts the engine with a furious roar and begins to maneuver without paying much attention.

That's when you appear.

You, completely distracted, holding your cell phone and a shopping bag that almost falls to the ground.

The roar of the engine makes you look back, but it's too late.

Muai thai fighter Sukuna, driving like an impatient ogre, almost runs you over.

“ARE YOU CRAZY, YOU SON OF A BITCH?!” you shout, slamming your palm down hard on the car window. “WHAT KIND OF IDIOT RUNS OUT OF THE PARKING LOT LIKE THAT?!”

You're furious. Your blood is boiling. Without even thinking about it, you're already hitting the bodywork harder.

"GET OUT OF THAT FUCKING CAR NOW! YOU IGNORANT"

The window starts to roll down. You're still huffing and puffing, indignant and ready to curse, until you see... him.

Muai thai fighter Sukuna, who is enchanted by your courage and audacity, appears like a huge shadow inside the car. His red eyes stare into yours as if studying you. The crooked smile at the corner of his mouth reveals that he is not in the least annoyed. On the contrary... he seems to be enjoying himself.

“Are you always like this?” he asks, getting out of the car with an annoying calmness and a body that makes the ground seem smaller.

Muai thai fighter Sukuna who exudes imposing bearing, stretches himself to the maximum as he gets out of the car. His muscles bulge out from under his tight T-shirt, the tattoos decorating his arms like a dangerous map. You take two steps back, still holding the shopping bag as if it were a weapon.

"I-I... look, I'm sorry, okay? I... I thought you were some rich slacker"

“Technically, I am,” he replies, running his tongue over his teeth, approaching as if he were in a ring. “But your reaction... It was interesting”

Now that the initial shock has worn off, you realize who this is. Your eyes widen, the name slips out of your mouth like a secret:

"Ryomen Sukuna? The muai thai world champion?"

He shrugs.

"It depends. If I tell you no, will you keep shouting at me?"

You let out a nervous laugh, putting your hand to your forehead.

“Oh my God... I almost insulted you”

“Almost? You did” He smiles wider.

You try to apologize in every way, stumbling over your words, mixing up “I'm sorry”, “I really am sorry”, and “I didn't mean to”. But he raises a hand, cutting your apology in half.

Muai thai fighter Sukuna, who doesn't care about flattery or apologies, looks at you with a sharp look and says:

"Do you really want to apologize? Then give me your number."

You freeze.

“What?”

"That's it. Give me your number. I won't insist, but it would be a shame to let this story end in the parking lot."

You stare at him for a moment. He's not joking. And honestly? Maybe you're not either.

You take out your cell phone, type in your number and hand it over. He types something into his cell phone, and soon after, you receive a message:

Unknown number: "If I win the next fight, you owe me a coffee. If I lose... too. ;) - Sukuna."

Muai thai fighter Sukuna who gives you one last look before heading back to his car. Leaving you standing there, staring at your cell phone screen and trying to understand what the hell just happened.

Muai thai fighter Sukuna who never gets distracted by anything outside the ring, didn't expect to fall in love with a woman he almost ran over in the parking lot. In front of the strong-tempered woman, drinking a coffee that he certainly won't let her pay for.

Muai thai fighter Sukuna who, a few months later, is standing in the room he himself prepared with red petals scattered everywhere, lit candles emitting his favorite scent, the one you once mentioned casually one afternoon and he memorized as if it were the next technique that would save his life in the ring.

You open the front door thinking you're just going to find Sukuna grumpy and sweaty after training. But when you step inside, everything changes. The light is low, the sweet, familiar smell envelops you, and there, in the center of it all, is him, that man no one dares to contradict, holding a discreet ring in his calloused hand, as if it were made of glass.

"I almost ran you over," he begins, with that crooked, insolent smile, "and ever since then, I've never wanted you to get out of my way. Would you like to be my girlfriend?"

Muai thai fighter Sukuna, who used to be cold, rough and averse to any sentimentality, now wants to hide you from the press because you're his little, and not at all defenseless, girlfriend. The woman who shouted at him without fear and who now sleeps on his chest every night. And he keeps it as a precious secret. For months, no one knows he's with someone. You live behind the scenes, away from the spotlight, safe and loved.

When you ask, he replies with the same expression as always:

"Next question."

Muai thai fighter Sukuna who marries you a year later. It was a simple, private ceremony, with no paparazzi or magazine covers. The only flashes were from close friends and family. But there was too much sincerity in that exchange of vows. He wore a suit, his hair neatly combed, and a look that seemed ready to cry, even if he would never admit it.

"I'm yours. Forever. Even when I'm far away. Even when my fists are closed. Even when life wants to beat me down... you'll be the only thing that keeps me standing."

You cried. He held your hand tightly. And when you were pronounced husband and wife, the world stopped for a few seconds.

Muai thai fighter Sukuna who has a dry, impersonal Instagram, with only training videos, photos with medals and short phrases like “ready” or ���focus”. But one day, he surprised all of his almost six million followers with something no one expected.

One photo. No caption. Three hands.

His, scarred, rough, with knuckles hardened from so many punches.

Yours, soft, smooth, resting on top of his.

And between them, a chubby, innocent little hand, grasping Sukuna's finger as if it already knew it was safe there.

The comments explode.

“Is he a FATHER?” “Is this photo real???” “STOP THE WORLD I NEED INFORMATION” “Someone warn me that Sukuna has become a dilf”

Muai thai fighter Sukuna, who doesn't give interviews about his personal life, remains silent. He deactivates the comments hours later. He leaves the image there, alone, saying everything he will never put into words.

Muai thai fighter Sukuna, who could never have imagined that his life would change completely in four years, now wakes up at dawn to hold a baby on his lap. He sings, walks down the dark corridor with slow, careful steps, and holds the child like he holds his own heart in his hands.

He finds himself looking at you, sleeping exhausted after another difficult night, and feels his chest tighten with love.

"Thank you," he whispers softly, so no one can hear.

Muai thai fighter Sukuna, who used to think only of winning, now measures victories in quiet cries, small laughs and kisses on the top of your head.

He is still the champion. He is still feared. He still fights like a demon when he's in the octagon.

But at home, he's just the man who can't stop thanking you.

For you. For the baby. For the life he never planned to have, but which has turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to him.

[kashverse]

𝒴our first encounter with the 呪術廻戦 men 

⪩⪨ ✶ implied f!reader but can be read otherwise (use of "pretty" in choso's version), strangers to lovers, fluff, featuring ♡ canon! gojo, canon! geto, single dad! toji, modern au! choso, canon! sukuna in a modern au, corporate! nanami ✿ ⪩⪨ tried a new formatting style..! ib my dear @norikuna (∩˃o˂∩)♡

gojo doesn’t see you coming. not because he’s oblivious—though, sure, that’s part of it—but because he’s too busy making himself miserable, listening to some poor bastard on the phone cry about their ex. it’s barely noon, the sun’s out, people are living their lives, and this guy’s talking about how he let “the one” slip through his fingers. “bro, just get another one,” gojo had said, dead-eyed, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. the response was more crying. he sighed, hanging up.

and then he smacked straight into you.

not a polite bump, not even a nudge—full-on body collision, your forehead meeting his chin with a sharp crack. the impact was enough to send you both stumbling, but while gojo’s built like a brick wall, you had all the misfortune of being knocked back a few steps. “ow—what the fuck?!” your voice came first, and then, through the dizzying pain, you saw him. tall, white-haired, stupidly good-looking in an insufferable way, dressed like he was on some model’s off-day. sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, and even through the slight daze, you could see the sharp glint of his blue eyes peering down at you.

“ah, my bad—”

“your bad?” your voice rose, disbelieving. the pain hadn’t even settled yet, but your temper had. “you nearly took my head off!”

gojo blinked. “well, technically, if i took your head off, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” he pointed out. “unless you’re a talking head, which would be—"

“are you serious?” you cut him off, hands flying up in exasperation. “you’re just standing in the middle of the damn sidewalk—”

“crosswalk,” he corrected.

“—like a fucking lamppost,” you barreled on, ignoring him. “and then you hit me. no, actually, you collided with me like a fucking train, and now you’re just standing there?”

you looked ready to kill him. gojo thought you looked radiant. people don’t really yell at him. they get nervous, flustered, awkward. maybe they complain a little, but they don’t yell. not like this—not with this kind of raw, unfiltered rage that was directed solely at him.

and he was loving it.

“ohhh, you’re mad mad,” he said, grinning.

“no shit?” you spat, rubbing your forehead. “you’re huge! why do you walk like you don’t know how to control your own size?”

“i’m huge? that’s a compliment,” he mused. “also, you ran into me.”

“i did not—"

“you did, but it’s okay,” he waved off. “i forgive you.”

your mouth dropped open. your jaw clenched so hard you swore you heard it click. “i don’t need your forgiveness,” you snapped. “i need you to watch where the hell you’re going!” gojo just smiled. “i can do that,” he said. “but only if you tell me your name first.”

you squinted at him. “why?”

“so i know what to say in my apology,” he said smoothly. “y’know, something heartfelt, real personal. ‘i’m so sorry, dear stranger, for running into you with my big, strong, muscular body—’”

your scowl deepened. “forget it,” you turned to leave, shaking your head.

gojo grabbed your wrist. lightly, like he was afraid you’d shake him off (which you probably would). “wait,” he said, less teasing this time, more curious.

you stopped, staring at him warily. “what?”

he grinned. “you’re fun.”

you yanked your arm out of his grip. “you’re annoying.”

but you weren’t yelling anymore. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

toji doesn't believe in love—at least, not in the way people like to romanticize it. to him, love has always been transactional. people want things: security, pleasure, a warm body to cling to at night. he provides, they take. simple.

commitment? fuck no. he’s been there, done that, and all it got him was a headache and a kid who looks at him like he’s a walking disappointment. not that he blames megumi—he knows exactly the kind of man he is. relationships, from what he's seen, are just another job. another obligation. more shit to deal with when he's already stretched thin making sure megumi doesn't starve or turn into a little menace. and he's already got enough on his plate. 

raising megumi is work. the kid is sharp, stubborn, and way too perceptive for his own good. keeping up with him is exhausting. fulfilling someone else’s expectations on top of that? hell no.

people ask if he’s lonely. he laughs. lonely? he’s got freedom. no nagging, no obligations, no answering to anyone but himself and, on the worst days, a grumpy eight-year-old who somehow thinks he’s smarter than him. love, in his experience, is just a distraction. and toji fushiguro doesn’t do distractions.

and toji swears he only looked away for a second.

he was just checking the damn price tag on some overpriced brand of instant noodles, and when he looked back, megumi was gone. poof. like a magic trick, except it wasn’t a trick, and the rising panic in his chest was very, very real. “shit,” he muttered, scanning the aisles. nothing. just a bunch of old ladies and college kids looking for cheap meals. no messy black hair, no tiny scowl. he ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep calm. he didn’t want to make a scene. people lost their kids all the time, right? it wasn’t a big deal. he just had to—

and then he saw him.

megumi was at the end of the next aisle, small hands clenched at his sides, his mouth pressed in a thin, stubborn line, like he wasn’t scared, even though he definitely was. and right next to him, crouched down to his level, was you. “you’re really good at this,” you said. megumi blinked up at you. “huh?”

“the whole ‘not panicking’ thing,” you smiled at him. “most kids freak out when they lose their parents. you’re staying calm. that’s cool.” megumi looked away, like he wasn’t sure if that was actually a compliment or not. “i don’t wanna cause trouble,” he muttered.

“aw, but that’s what parents are for,” you teased. “causing them trouble.” megumi almost smiled. almost. toji, still frozen in place, narrowed his eyes. who the hell were you?

“c’mon, let’s go find your dad,” you said, standing up and holding out a hand. megumi didn’t take it, but he followed you anyway, his short legs working hard to keep up with your pace. and toji? well. he wasn’t sure why, but instead of stepping forward, he let you find him.

he let you do the whole thing, watching as you walked with megumi, asking him questions—where he last saw his dad, what his name was, what he looked like.

“he’s really tall,” megumi said. you hummed. “tall, huh? that helps.”

“and he’s got a scar on his mouth,” he added.

“even better. anyone who looks scary is easier to spot.”

megumi frowned a little. “he’s not scary.” you smiled, ruffling his hair. “i bet he isn’t.”

toji snorted under his breath.

by the time you turned the corner and finally spotted him, megumi exhaled in relief. toji pretended not to notice how fast he ran up to him, grabbing the fabric of his shirt like he wasn’t just saying how calm he was. you, on the other hand, stopped a few steps away, hands on your hips. “you must be the scary, not-scary dad,” you said.

toji raised an eyebrow. “and you’re just a random saint, huh?” you shrugged. “not a saint. just someone who doesn’t like seeing kids upset.”

he looked at you, really looked at you. you didn’t seem put out by any of this, like helping some stranger’s kid wasn’t an inconvenience, but just another part of your day. like it was normal. toji let out a breath, then tilted his head down at megumi. “you good, kid?”

megumi nodded, though he still wasn’t letting go of toji’s shirt. toji sighed, glancing back at you. “guess i owe you, huh?”

you waved him off. “don’t worry about it. just keep an eye on him next time.”

toji huffed a laugh. “easier said than done.”

you grinned, giving megumi one last look before turning to leave. and toji? well. maybe being responsible for two people wouldn’t be so bad after all.

nanami never thought much about being single. it wasn’t a matter of pride or principle—just reality. his job was time-consuming, his patience was thin, and the thought of entertaining someone else’s needs after a long workday felt exhausting. he wasn’t lonely, just… fine. indifferent.

until he got sick of his office food.

“this is inedible,” he said flatly, staring at the sad excuse of a meal on his plate. his colleague, barely looking up from his own tray, mumbled, “it’s fine.”

nanami’s eye twitched. it was not fine. rubbery chicken, dry rice, and a soup that tasted more like dishwater than anything edible. this was not a meal—it was a punishment.

so, he made a change.

he found a small business that delivered homemade meals, something personal but convenient. it promised variety, quality ingredients, and, most importantly, flavor.

what he didn’t expect were the notes.

the first one came tucked under the neatly packed meal.

“hope today isn’t too exhausting! eat well!”

nanami stared at it for longer than he should have. then, at the food—real food. properly cooked, properly seasoned, steaming with warmth that no canteen meal could ever replicate. he didn’t think about it much. a kind gesture, that was all. but the notes kept coming.

“long meetings? i packed extra today.”

“rainy day! hope this brings some warmth.”

“rough week? your food will always be good at least.”

and then—

“your order is always so precise. you must be someone who likes routine.”

nanami paused mid-bite. he did like routine. he thrived on it. and yet, this—this unexpected kindness, these little messages—was beginning to throw him off in a way he couldn’t explain. weeks passed, meals came, and nanami found himself looking forward to them—not just for the food, but for the words that came with it. one afternoon, after another insufferable meeting, he opened his meal to find:

“do you ever take breaks? hope you’re not working too hard.”

he let out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. he was working too hard. but how did you—someone he’d never met—seem to know that better than the people around him? finally, curiosity got the better of him. he grabbed a pen and, for the first time, wrote back.

“who are you?”

the next day, his meal came with a note, just like always.

“just someone who wants you to eat well. but i wouldn’t mind knowing who you are too.”

and for the first time in a long time, nanami thought—maybe being single wasn’t so fine after all.

geto doesn’t believe in love. not in the way people romanticize it, anyway. he’s known desire—used it, wielded it like a tool, a means to an end. a well-timed smile, a hand grazing a wrist, a whispered promise—all of it was just another step in expanding his cause. people were easy to sway when you made them feel special. and being single? it wasn’t something he mourned. it was efficient. no attachments, no complications, no wasted energy. everything he did, every conversation, every encounter—it all served a purpose.

until you.

“you’ve been talking for a while,” you said, tilting your head at him. geto smiled. “am i boring you?”

“not at all. just wondering if you’re going to get to the point.”

he chuckled, swirling his drink. clever. impatient. interesting.

“what do you think my point is?”

you leaned back, thoughtful. “well, you’re charming, you have that practiced ease of someone who’s very used to getting what they want, and yet…” you narrowed your eyes. “you haven’t tried to get anything from me yet.”

his smile twitched. perceptive too. “maybe i’m just enjoying the conversation.”

“hmm.” you didn’t look convinced. “i doubt you talk to people without a reason.”

he laughed, shaking his head. “you wound me. am i not allowed to simply appreciate good company?”

you smirked. “do you?”

and that was the problem, wasn’t it? he did.

he was supposed to be recruiting you. that was why he approached you in the first place—he had assessed, observed, picked you out for your potential. another piece in his grander vision. but now? now, he was talking to you about books, about philosophy, about things that had nothing to do with his cause.

he liked your sharp tongue, your quick comebacks, the way you saw through people but humored them anyway. and he was enjoying this. more than he should.

“you’re thinking too hard,” you noted.

“am i?”

“yeah. for someone who flirts so easily, you seem oddly distracted.”

he chuckled, shaking his head. you had no idea. for the first time in a long time, geto suguru had forgotten his purpose. and strangely enough, he didn’t mind.

choso doesn’t really get love. it’s not that he doesn’t feel it—he does, deeply, messily, all-consuming in the way only someone who has lived too long without it can. it’s just that he doesn’t understand how it’s supposed to work. his friends talk about relationships like they’re puzzles, like you’re supposed to fit into someone else’s life piece by piece, no gaps, no edges sticking out. but choso? he keeps forcing the wrong pieces together. he’s had his heart broken by so many situationships, and he doesn’t even know what that word means. all he knows is that people like him enough to stay for a while, but not enough to stay forever. and when someone ghosts him? it’s over.

“why would they do that?” he asks yuuji, completely distraught. “i thought we were getting along.” yuuji winces. “yeah, but… sometimes people just disappear, man. it’s not your fault.”

“but why not just say they don’t like me?”

“because people suck.”

choso frowns. love is confusing. people are confusing. nothing makes sense.

until he meets you.

more specifically, until you send a pug flying in his direction. one second, he’s minding his own business, sipping a coffee, staring blankly at nothing. the next—

“watch out!”

and then—THUD.

a very round, very squishy pug collides with his chest, knocking the air out of him. he blinks. looks down. the pug is fine. choso, however, is shaken.

“oh my god, i’m so sorry,” you pant, running up to him, looking horrified. “he’s got the speed of a missile and the weight distribution of a sack of potatoes. are you okay?”

choso is still holding the pug. he has not processed a single thing except that you’re talking to him, and you’re really pretty. you snap your fingers in front of his face.

“hello? earth to guy who just got body slammed by my dog?”

he swallows. “i—i’m okay.”

you sigh in relief. “good. i don’t think my insurance covers ‘pug-related assaults.’”

he stares. then—

he laughs.

it’s an awkward, slightly delayed laugh, but it’s real. it bubbles out of him, because suddenly, everything is just… simple. you’re still talking, apologizing, trying to pry your dog from his grip, and he realizes—love doesn’t have to be this big, complicated thing. it can be a stranger, a runaway pug, and a stupidly perfect moment where he thinks, 'oh. this is it.'

sukuna has never cared for love. love is mortal, fleeting, an indulgence for the weak. he has lived for centuries without it, conquered, destroyed, thrived—all on his own. why bother with attachment? why waste time on something that promises nothing but vulnerability? he’s always been perfectly fine like this.

until the night he meets you at the bar.

he doesn’t even mean to notice you at first—just another human in a crowded room, laughing, talking, lighting up the space with an ease he’s never possessed. 

and then he hears you speak. your voice is smooth, effortless, like you’re meant to be heard. every sentence flows into the next, words never fumbling, never uncertain. you make people laugh, pull them in, keep them hanging on to every syllable. sukuna watches, listens, enthralled, before someone leans in and calls you by name—your full name. followed by—

“aren’t you that talk show host?”

and it clicks. you are. he’s seen your face before, flickering on a television screen, a passing glimpse at a life so far removed from his own.

and now he’s irritated. because you talk so easily with everyone but him. and that won’t do.

so he tries. for the first time in centuries, he tries to talk to someone—like a normal person, like it’s something he’s done before, like it’s as easy as you make it look.

but it’s not. it’s a disaster.

he waits until the crowd around you has thinned, takes the seat next to you, and—

“so.” he clears his throat. “you talk to people for a living.”

you turn, blinking, mildly amused. “i do.”

he nods, confident. good start. then nothing. his mind goes blank. shit.

you raise a brow, waiting. sukuna glares at his drink like it’s betrayed him. “how do you do it?”

you tilt your head. “do what?” he gestures vaguely. “talk. keep people engaged.”

you blink. “are you asking me how to hold a conversation?”

his jaw tenses. “no.”

you laugh. he scowls.

he tries again. “what makes a good interview?”

“oh, that’s easy,” you hum. “you have to be genuinely interested in the other person.”

he deadpans.

you smirk. “which means you have to actually listen to what they’re saying.”

“i listen,” he grumbles.

“really?” you lean in. “then what were we just talking about?”

silence. your smirk widens. “you weren’t listening.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face. this is hell.

but he keeps trying. keeps failing, keeps making an idiot of himself, keeps suffering through every one of your knowing smiles—because for the first time in his miserable, ancient existence, he actually wants to learn.

he wants to talk to you.

and maybe, just maybe, he wants you to talk to him, too.

[zhelin-thames]

Bruce has another kid........but this one is not adopted #2

Danny lounged on the couch in the Batcave, his feet propped up as he casually flipped through some of Bruce’s files. Damian stood nearby, arms crossed, scowling.

“It doesn’t matter,” Damian huffed. “I am Father’s heir. It is my birthright.”

Danny smirked, glancing at him over the top of the tablet. “Hate to break it to you, little bro, but I’m older. By all of three minutes, but hey, it still counts.”

“You have no proof,” Damian snapped, his voice sharp.

“Actually,” Tim interjected, walking in with a file in hand, “it’s right here. Clockwork dropped the records off yesterday. Danny’s technically the firstborn.”

Damian’s face twisted into a mix of shock and outrage. “This is preposterous! I trained for years in the League to be the heir. He—” Damian gestured at Danny, who was now grinning smugly, “—is a half-ghost nomad raised by peasants!”

“Whoa, peasants?” Danny said, holding up his hands. “I’ll have you know I was raised by two highly educated ghost hunters who built portals to alternate dimensions in their basement. So technically, I was raised by nerds.”

Jason, leaning against the wall, barked out a laugh. “This just keeps getting better.”

Things escalated when Danielle made her debut in Gotham. She’d been causing a bit of chaos in Amity Park, and Danny figured bringing her to the Manor might help her channel her energy.

When Dani strutted into the Batcave, grinning like a gremlin with her wild energy, the reactions were... mixed.

“She’s my clone,” Danny explained, his tone casual. “But I kinda see her more like a daughter.”

“Daughter?” Damian repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “You... have a daughter?”

Dani, ever the instigator, threw her arms around Danny’s waist. “Yup! My Dad’s the best!” she chirped, shooting a cheeky grin at Damian. “He’s way cooler than you, by the way.”

Damian bristled, his hands curling into fists. “You’re barely older than me, yet you have already claimed an heir?” His voice trembled with a mix of indignation and something close to panic.

Danny raised an eyebrow. “She’s not an ‘heir.’ She’s just... Dani. And technically, she’s my clone, not my biological kid. It’s complicated.”

But Damian was already lost in his own spiraling thoughts.

Late that night, Damian approached Jason. “Todd,” he said, his tone serious. “I require your assistance.”

Jason blinked. “Uh, with what?”

“I must find a suitable candidate to bear my child.”

Jason stared at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. “You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I am not,” Damian replied, his expression unyielding. “If Daniel has already produced a successor, then I must act swiftly to secure my own lineage.”

Jason clutched his stomach, wheezing. “Oh, man, this is rich. Demon Spawn wants to have a baby just to one-up his ghost brother.”

“It is not a matter of one-upmanship,” Damian insisted, though the faint pink tinge in his cheeks said otherwise.

The next morning, Danny caught wind of Damian’s... ambition. He found his younger twin in the training room, furiously sparring with a practice dummy.

“Hey, Dames,” Danny said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Do not call me that,” Damian growled, landing a particularly vicious strike on the dummy.

Danny held up his hands. “Okay, okay. But I heard a little rumor. Something about you wanting to, uh, find a lady to have a kid with?”

Damian froze mid-strike, then turned to glare at Danny. “Who told you that?”

Danny smirked. “Doesn’t matter. Look, man, you don’t need to go all ‘League heir’ about this. Dani’s not my biological kid. She’s a clone. Like, literally made from my DNA. I didn’t exactly sign up for the whole ‘parent’ thing—it just kinda happened.”

Damian’s glare softened slightly, though his posture remained stiff. “And yet, you claim her as your own.”

“Yeah, because she’s family,” Danny said simply. “She needed someone, so I stepped up. That’s what family does.”

Damian lowered his gaze, his fists unclenching. “I see.”

A few weeks later, Talia’s clone assassins made their move. But instead of eliminating them, Damian captured and brought them to the Manor.

“Father,” he declared, standing proudly before Bruce, “I have decided to take responsibility for these clones. They are my family, and I will train them to uphold the legacy of the League.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damian—”

“Not bad, kid,” Jason said, clapping him on the back. “But you might want to workshop the pitch. Sounds a little murder-y.”

Tim groaned. “Great. Now we have more mini-Damians running around.”

Danny, watching from the sidelines with Dani by his side, couldn’t help but laugh. “Guess I’m rubbing off on him.”

“You think he’s doing this to one-up you?” Dani asked.

“Absolutely,” Danny replied, grinning. “And I love it.”

While the Bat-family adjusted to the sudden influx of clones, Danny and Damian’s relationship began to shift. Though their rivalry remained, it was tempered by a growing mutual respect.

“I still do not approve of your cavalier attitude,” Damian said one night as they patrolled Gotham together.

“And I still think you need to loosen up,” Danny shot back.

Damian huffed but didn’t argue. Deep down, he was starting to appreciate having an older brother who wasn’t afraid to challenge him—or support him.

And for Danny, seeing his once-distant twin slowly open up was worth all the sibling squabbles in the world.

[lilacxquartz]

RIVALS;

satoru gojo x f!reader

summary: you always thought that satoru gojo hated having you as a rival, but after getting to know him, it turned out to be something so much worse.

tags/warnings: abduction/kidnapping, betrayal, rough sex, non-con, yandere, one shot, drugging, kissing — w.c: 1.6k

ao3 • masterlist

In some ways, it was exhilarating.

Being the second best to the strongest, that was.

From the very first day that you enrolled in Jujutsu High, you weren’t quite sure where life would lead you exactly but it certainly wasn’t to where you were now.

Everyday, after all, was an endless pursuit of an achieving both academic and combative excellence. Everyday, you pushed your body and mind above and beyond, seeking out the strength you didn’t know you had. You always assumed that by the end of it all, you would end up as maybe a grade two or even one with your efforts, but to your surprise, you got the recommendation to graduate as a special grade at just eighteen.

Just like him.

However, with every step forward, a creeping exhaustion settled in, dragging you down a path you couldn’t quite handle the journey of. Through the endless training that forced you to keep up with your prestige and the missions that the higher ups threw at you—it didn’t take too long to wear you out—leaving you weary, tired and almost even jaded as a result. Your mental state was one slight push away from the verge of a total collapse.

It was infuriating in some ways because you couldn’t help but compare. You were only human, after all. Sorcerer or not. Being a step below Satoru Gojo soon felt insulting and even though you didn’t consider him to be a rival, it still felt like… a drag, almost. His power was ingrained within him, whereas for you, it was a never ending grind.

It wasn’t quite envy, but you wished it could be easier. If even for a single day.

However, when your graduated classmate seemed to acknowledge your efforts, it technically felt like he appreciated you after all. A validation beyond anything you could dream of; his attention feeling almost intoxicating as he delivered what felt like genuine praise upon your believing ears.

But then it all started to go wrong and you weren’t sure why.

How were you supposed to know however that beneath his easy smile and casually friendly demeanour laid something else beyond what he presented you with? That through your rise to the top, the expectations that followed, he saw you as nothing more than a threat? Another cog to add to the failing machine, a system that he wanted to take down as his own. True, he played the part of a supportive friend, feeding you words to help you feel secure in your success, but there was something darker that lurked beneath his cheery surface.

How were you supposed to know that after he invited you over for coffee, that you’d soon fall asleep from the spiked liquid, only later to wake up with your hands and wrists completely bound?

It was a sickening realisation as you soon understood that behind those friendly words that you thought were spoken in confidence to you as his friend were nothing more than fleeting sweet nothings that he lied into your ears, leading you believe in a version of him that didn’t exist. He had everyone fooled, but especially you, into thinking that he could coexist with his rival.

Tucking you away into a small closet, at least for now, the room felt awfully confining as it housed you. You knew you were in deep trouble, especially as his words now came out cold, unforgiving and almost mocking.

“Don’t cry,” he spoke, “I’ll keep you company. I’ll make you feel like the spotlight always stays on you, but unfortunately, nobody else will ever see or hear from you again.”

Quickly stifling your protesting lip that quivered in response, pausing your voice that urged to fight past the horrific situation you had found yourself within, he didn’t let you. Instead, he spoke on your behalf.

“Don’t cry,” he repeated with more emphasis this time, “I’m saving you. Being the strongest shouldn’t be your responsibility to bear alone, that’s why I’m lifting the burden for you.”

And with that he closed the door, watching your trust fade away as the world around you darkened.

But it was for a good cause.

To keep you safe.

Satoru however grew needier and needier the more often he visited you, keeping you all locked up in his room, somehow perfectly bound and unable to leave. It was only a matter of time before he grew curious about you in that sort of way, seeing you as both something to protect as well as demanding stress release from you.

It was so exhausting keeping you as his big secret, after all. You had no idea what he had to go through to keep this all under wraps.

So when he sprawled you out over the bed, it wasn’t as though you didn’t anticipate it after all that he had otherwise done to you, but it still hurt all the same.

You grunted as it happened, taking a hit face down into the mattress; your whole body sinking over the soon crumpled bedding. You tried to fight him off—yet even as strong as you were—it wasn’t enough, even for you.

He pulled you up, raising your hips to meet with his own building excitement before peeling your jeans down and sliding your underwear away too. All he had to was shuffle out of his own clothes, dropping the fabric down to his knees. You couldn’t see a thing as he forced you to face away, but you could feel as his cock pressed against your sex and forcefully slid inside.

It didn’t matter how much you writhed around and begged him to stop, nor how much your legs thrashed or how your hands tried to pull themselves away from his pursuit; he wouldn’t pull away—instead however—he would push forward, again and again and again.

He grabbed at your hips and dug crescents into your skin with his fingernails for stability, wrapping his palms around you as he slammed himself back and forth your soon bruised ass. It felt insulting as he shushed you through your involuntarily whimpers, because what else were you supposed to do… especially in a situation like this?

“Please,” you gasped out.

Yet he never kept giving you the response you wanted, his voice deceptively warm as he spoke behind you, “You have no idea how good you feel.”

He would continue to cut you off with every protest with a praise, yet nothing about how he complimented you felt good at all.

“Such a good girl, taking me so well.”

“You’re so incredible, I knew it was a good thing I kept you around.”

“So good, so good—“

All it would do was make you feel sicker and sicker, somewhat nauseating you as he continued to pound inside your abused cunt. You couldn’t help but feel nauseated, maybe even dizzied from what was happening because you simply couldn’t understand why. If this was the consequence from your academic effort, then you would have never tried to reach for the stars, if it was as bleak as this.

Satoru continued to spear his length into you; his size hurting you as it stretched against your resisting walls. His cock filled you out completely, feeling almost torturous with how he would relieve you from the pressure as he pulled out, only to impale you again, forcing tears to spill out of your eyes when you felt it all happen again.

Each and every single thrust felt rougher than the last, as if he was beginning to lose himself in the sensation. He would bury his hips as far as he could into the cushioning of your ass, chasing the addiction of the release he wanted so goddamn much.

Soon enough however, he flipped you around to your back, taking in the sight of your dishevelled appearance; your messy hair, your tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes and both the best and the worst of all, the overall look or hurt and betrayal.

Satoru didn’t give you a warning as he started it all up again, positioning himself in between your legs while maintaining eye contact with you. Those chilling blue eyes were no longer serene, but painful as they bored into yours and yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

He moved into you again, wrapping your now tired legs around his shoulders, enjoying the sensation of your surrendered weak state. He lifted you ever so slightly yet again, pushing his cock into your core and melting into you once again.

Satoru was relentless as he pounded into you, bucking his hips feverishly as he chased his almost strained release. The entire time, he wouldn’t break eye contact with you, forcing you to watch as he mercilessly took you again and again. Your insides clenched around him, longing for him to stop but he wasn’t quite ready just yet.

He picked up the pace regardless, shuddering out shaky breaths as he pushed himself to his limit; slowing down with each remaining thrust, yet rutting at a more impactful rhythm. He was close too, he was so fucking close. It was an addictive sight to him after all, to see your body convulse and quiver from him overwhelming you, to watch as you longed for his release too (even if it was for a completely different reason).

Leaning down for both comfort and the rising sensation, he pumped his length forward one last time before going limp. His hips grinded themselves a little more however, attempting to milk himself as much as possible into your shuddering body.

Yet, it didn’t seem to be entirely over as he pulled away from you ever so slightly.

Perhaps you were naive for thinking that this would be the end after he got what he wanted.

As his lips brushed against your ear, you couldn’t help but feel almost frozen from the delusions he whispered forth.

“I’ll promise that I’ll never leave you now,” he assured you, meaning every last word, because after all, there was no greater love than something so sickeningly obsessive as something unrequited.

At least to him.

[roanofarcc]

THE BLEEDING, BEATING HEART

pairing: yelena belova x reader (requested)

summary: yelena struggles to find her footing in a team dynamic after so many years of working alone, but when things get tough she has you to lean on.

warnings: self-doubt, sad yelena, a little bit of hurt with comfort! mentions of the OG avengers

word count. 1.2k || masterlist

It was early, too early to be awake, but your mind decided to wake long before your body was ready to take on the day. With a groan, you forced yourself out of bed and dragged yourself to the kitchen of the Watchtower, desperate for a mug of coffee. 

It was a rare day off for the team, as long as no major threats decided to sweep in, so you believed everyone to still be sleeping until you noticed a pot of coffee already made and at least two cups missing. 

No one was in the kitchen or the living room. Curious as to who was awake at such an early hour, you quietly made your way through the spots in the tower where anyone else could have been. Landing outside the training room, which was still half under construction, you heard repetitive grunts in time with hits on one of the punching bags. 

Stepping inside, holding the warm mug of coffee between your hands, you spotted Yelena. She was wide awake, dressed in her training gear, and a good while into her set. Her blonde hair was slicked back and sweat beaded her forehead. 

“Yelena,” you called out. She stopped, holding her balled fists at her chest. “This doesn’t look like taking a day off.” 

She rolled her eyes playfully. “I’m relaxing.” 

You raised your brows, stepping closer to her. “You seem awfully tense, actually.” It looked as if her whole body was pulled like a rubber band waiting to be snapped. You had noticed her odd behavior for the past week, but you had chalked it up to the shit-show that was the latest mission. 

As the ‘woman in the chair,’ you weren’t on site for their missions, but rather managing comms, taking down intel, and acting as their eyes from above if you were able to hack your way into a security system. Even without being on site, you knew the mission hadn’t gone as everyone had hoped. It was messy, dangerous, and almost resulted in major injuries if it hadn’t been for the team's watchful eye for one another. Despite the mission being completed and deemed a technical success, when they arrived home, you knew their mistakes and missteps weighed on them. You especially saw it in Yelena. 

Yelena huffed, dropping her hands at her sides before grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from her face. “You know, I could ask you the same question. Why are you awake?” 

“Well, I thought it was because my mind refuses to shut off for too many hours, but now I’m thinking it was gut telling me to check up on you.” 

“I don’t need to be checked up on,” Yelena said, turning her back to you as she rummaged through her training bag for a water bottle. 

If it had been months prior, you would have let her be after that, but you had grown to know Yelena over your time spent living at the tower together. She was impossibly tough, but there was a softness that wasn’t often taken care of and overlooked by other herself and everyone else. But you saw it, a little weakness that made her human, much to her dismay. 

You placed a hand on her shoulder, half expecting her to shrug you off, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned around to face you and hung her head. “Fine,” she muttered. “I screwed up. I made a bad call during the mission, and I…I don’t know what I was thinking, but now I can’t think of anything else. Okay? Happy?” She fell back on the bench, and you followed, sitting beside her with enough space between you so as to not make her feel suffocated. 

“You’re not perfect, Yelena. No one is. You made a call that you thought was right, and it wasn’t,” you said. “It happens. It’ll probably happen again, but the important thing is you realized it and you corrected it.” 

“Yeah, but not before Walker took a bullet in the arm,” Yelena sighed, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. “They looked to me to take the call, and I…I let them down. I don’t know how to do this.” 

You furrowed your brows, watching her intently. “Do what?” 

She didn’t meet your gaze but rather kept her focus forward. “Work as a team. I’ve been on my own, doing missions on my own for so long. Reporting to someone else is one thing, but being the one others look at to make decisions is pressure I don’t know if I can handle. Why me? Why do they look to me?” 

Despite the hurt that her words drew, you smiled softly, itching to reach out for her but refraining. Yelena was a complicated person with an even more complicated past. You didn’t want to push her, even if you ached to hold her hand, hug her, even brush some loose strands of hair behind her ear. 

“Probably for the same reason the Avengers looked at your sister during the Blip.” 

Yelena snapped her attention onto you, startled and confused. You had been there during the Blip, when the disbanded team crawled back together. It was Nastasha who called you in, once having you aid in undercover missions when you were a fresh-faced S.H.I.E.L.D operative who had a hunch something darker was going on within the organization. You had been young, inexperienced in the world of super-powered humans, betrayal, and complicated politics, but you had helped regardless, getting yourself in a fair amount of trouble. You had been lying low when the Blip happened, only to find Nastasha at your front door asking you if you wanted to help save the universe. 

You couldn’t give much, but you had nothing else to lose or to do. You watched the Avengers and company bring everyone back, only to lose Natasha and others in the process. 

“Steve had said, even before then, that your sister was the heart of the Avengers. The bleeding, beating heart. I think you, Yelena, are so much like her.” You turned toward her, bumping your knees against hers. “You’re the heart of this team; that’s why they look to you.” 

Many emotions flickered across Yelena’s face, but she landed on a glossy-eyed gaze with her lips pointed downwards in a frown. “My sister was a hero. She helped save the universe. I could hardly lead the team through a standard intel removal.” 

“Everyone else seems to think you’re a hero.” 

She laughed humorlessly, looking up at the light like she was trying to prevent any tears from leaking out. “Because Valentina set us up so we wouldn’t kill her right there on the street.” 

“Fair, but that was after you guys saved Bob and the city. That sounds like a hero to me,” you said. “This team trusts you because they can see what I see. What the Avengers saw in your sister, they see it in you.”

Yelena’s head tipped down, a few tears falling with it. She grumbled under her breath and wiped her cheeks. “Shit. You cannot say things that make me cry this early.” 

With a hesitant hand, you softly squeezed Yelena’s knee. She stared at it for a moment before letting herself linger in her feelings a little longer. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around you, her head falling onto your shoulder. You hugged her back tightly. 

“Maybe you should start doing the pep talks before missions instead of Alexei,” Yelena mumbled into your shoulder, tired body heavy against yours. 

You snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, you try telling him that.”

[foone]

Have you heard about the Polish Train company, Newag, and the bullshit it turns out they got up to?

So, the regional rail operator Koleje Dolnośląskie bought some Newag Impuls back in 2016 . In late 2021, some of them need to have major maintenance done, as they've been in service a while. So the company SPS (Serwis Pojazdów Szynowych) gets the contract to fix them. They basically take the train apart, replace a bunch of it, following all the rules in the documentation Newag gave them, and... it won't move. The train says everything is fine, the brakes are off, there's plenty of power, but you push the throttle up and it won't move.

SPS spends a while trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong, with no luck. So they hire some hackers from the Polish security group Dragon Sector. Dragon Sector figures out how to get into the code of the computer system that runs the train, and OH MY GOD.

So it turns out there's a secret train-lock system. If it's on, the train won't move. This will be triggered in some situations you might think are normal: the clocks are wrong, the serial numbers of the various parts have changed, and a firmware mismatch between the main computer and the power system. Now, the fact that it makes sense to not run the train in these situations until someone can check it? that doesn't extend to the fact the train uses a SECRET lock system, rather than just popping up an error message telling you what's wrong. There's also the problem that while these are all potential error problems, they can't be cleared by anyone with the technical manuals, which are supposed to cover everything about how to run these trains. Only Newag themselves can reset this system.

Which, you know, keeps SPS from properly fixing them. Only Newag can fix them now, but not because SPS lacks any technical ability, but because Newag sabotaged their own trains. But don't worry: it gets worse.

So now that Dragon Sector knows what's happening, they get to look at other trains. It turns out the trains aren't all running the same software, and there are other tricks in there.

One of them is a "how long has the train been stopped?" check. If the train hasn't hit 60 km/h in 10 days, the train locks itself and won't move until Newag can clear it. So, like, if a train is ever out of service, like it's going to a repair place... it'll break itself. Unless the repair place is owned by Newag.

But two of the trains go further: See, these trains have GPS built in, right? You may be able to guess where this is going...

THEY JUST MAKE THE TRAIN CHECK IF IT IS PARKED AT THEIR COMPETITORS' REPAIR YARD AND BREAK ITSELF IF IT WAS.

The sheer audacity of this move. This is frighteningly bullshit anti-competition self-sabotage.

This has, obviously, made some parts of the Polish government to start investigating this. Newag may be (and hopefully will be) in a lot of trouble.

For more info, there's a great video of a presentation by the three people from Dragon Sector who did the hacking, which was presented at the 37th Chaos Communication Congress in Germany.

Ars Technica also has an article on it, but it predates the presentation so it doesn't have some of the later details.

Anyway, the good news is that in the end the hackers at Dragon Sector were able to unlock most of the trains: A few had additional trickery that they didn't want to hack around, because it might break the train's certification. For the others, they discovered undocumented "cheat codes" in the software that they could use to bypass the secret lockouts... presumably the same ones that Newag would have used when they "repaired" trains.

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #41

Say Uncle.

Imagine dis…

I don’t have much to say about this one just the fact that when you are buying alcohol to celebrate New Year just make sure not to drink it all at once despite the holidays…

Ah, the hangover: nature's way of reminding you that your liver is not, in fact, a miracle worker, and your brain did not sign up for the tequila marathon.

And no, this prompt is not about just that. I want to get this idea off my list before I completely forget about it.

…

The night when both Martha and Thomas Wayne met their demise Alfred already swore himself to protect the two young masters that were left behind. Bruce at the young age of eight witnessed his parent's murder and death, just because the boy insisted on watching the latest film with only the three of them young master Daniel’s insistence. Daniel, who was only 5 years old caught a nasty cold and was prompted to stay inside the manor to get better. Young master Daniel insisted on the three of them enjoying the film instead of staying at home just reminding them to bring him souvenirs to not be completely left out.

Tasked with raising two young boys both boys felt sadness and guilt for each of their own despite not having to feel guilty about it. Young master Bruce for insisting to go at the theaters and young master Daniel for insisting on a souvenir.

The media with all of its cameras stared down at the Wayne name and manor as it was the tragedy of the century as the Waynes are not only the wealthiest of the socialites but also one of the founders of Gotham City. All metaphorical eyes went to Master Bruce, why only him you ask? It is all because young master Daniel had not been introduced to the public eye as it had been some sort of tradition to the Wayne’s to teach their children at the age of 7 to have them enjoy privacy and have the children at a certain age to understand the dangers of media.

With young master Daniel still technically hidden Alfred made the hard decision to further hide the young master through the system. Both boys of course protested through tears and shouts from both boys. Of course, Alfred tried to explain to the boys for their protection and Alfred assured the boys that he would use his connections to watch over Daniel.

…

Fast forward and the two brothers despite having a secure line of communication simply strayed apart. Maybe it’s because of the distance or maybe it’s because of talking to each other less when both entered their teens, but I say because of secrets…

With Bruce, he had traveled the world training to become somebody, somebody who can prevent tragedies like his can ever happening again. To protect and make a difference to the place that took his parents away. He kept silent about Danny, his training, and his turning into a crime-fighting vigilante. He wanted Danny to stay safe the last family he had, to stay in the life he had built, from what Danny had told him from the rare chances that they both got the time to chat. Bruce kept on thinking to himself that it was safer for Danny. The lack of knowledge of both the public about his bio brother and Danny’s knowledge about his nightlife made Bruce’s nightly chant to himself justified.

…

Danny scanned the manor, it had been a while since he adjusted the cuff of his fitted suit. He hadn't been here in years, and Bruce hadn't gotten in touch with him outside of Alfred's regular chats and the rare times the brothers even called the other.

As far as the world was concerned, Bruce was "dead." The family he hardly knew was shocked to learn that Danny was named guardian of the remaining Waynes in his will. This prompted Alfred to explain who the supposed relative of theirs and began tidying the manor as if the queen herself was going for a visit.

The moment Danny entered the manor both Dick and Jason had their eyes on him. As the two who had been with Bruce the longest apart from Alfred, they should have already heard something about the man from Bruce, even a slip of the tongue but nothing, so they have every right to be wary of their supposed uncle who has actual biological connection to Bruce.

Their apprehension was only increased by Danny's striking similarity to Bruce. He had the same sharp blue eyes, but his expression was gentler, and the same sharp jawline, but it was tempered with fatigue rather than unwavering resolve.

Danny made significant adjustments during his brief time as their new guardian. Without Damian ever hanging onto Dick like some sort of life Line, Dick has now the time to properly sort out his feelings and mourn for Bruce. Jason despite the bad blood between father and son is also seeking professional help as per Danny’s wishes to sort out his thoughts and with Danny slowly filtering out his ecto to a much healthier one. Tim finally had a sigh of relief when he saw their supposed uncle handle the board like an iron fort. He had managed those elites as if Danny had the experience dealing with old men that thought to be the center of the universe. Finally, Damian, who at first struggles with the supposed usurper to his supposed birthright begins therapy that focuses on undoing the works of a cult, as per the suggestion of the usurper’s foster sister.

Slowly but surely they finally had a sigh of relief to the civilian side of their lives, as Danny kept the Wayne co flourishing and the nosy journalist away from them especially Damian since he is the only biological son of Bruce Wayne despite adopting Dick, Jason, and Tim first.

 On the other hand, their vigilante life is full of tension, as Tim supposedly found evidence of Bruce being alive. Dick and Jason kept pushing on to Tim that he is full of grief to accept Bruce’s death and brush his claims. Of course, Tim tried to find more definite evidence but was later banned from the Batcomputer for his mental health.

…

It all came to a head when a sleep-deprived Tim stumbled into the dining area for breakfast with the rest wearing his robin suit and sweatpants and a haphazardly worn domino mask on his face. As Danny is about to ask Tim about his sleep, Tim not recognizing who he is talking to begins a floodgate of information.  The partial evidence, Gotham’s criminal activities, the number of vigilantes needed to wear the cowl to ensure no one could suspect that something happened to Batman and so much more.

By the time Tim ended his rant he saw a pale-faced Dick looking at him with pure disbelief, Jason and Damian looking at him with murder in their eyes, and finally, Alfred holding a tray of freshly squeezed orange juice so tightly that it began to shake.

Tim is now dreading whatever expression the person is in front of him. Tim now slowly looked at Danny’s… Contemplative face?

All of them are now holding onto their breaths looking at Danny waiting but for what?

Danny blinked, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he muttered something under his breath, too low to catch. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and tore open the air, as if cutting something in midair.

A green rift shimmered, pulsing with an eerie light reminiscent of the Lazarus Pits, though a bit brightener. Before anyone could react, Danny reached into the rift with the ease of someone retrieving a misplaced item and yanking a battered figure through.

Bruce Wayne, still wearing his Batman suit, though, stumbled into the hallway, his cowl pushed back to reveal a rare expression of wide-eyed shock.

The rift closed as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving only each of them with their respective jaws dropped and wide open.

Danny looked at Bruce as if scanning any injuries and let out a deep sigh of relief.

And uttered a single sentence that seemed to come from Danny’s inner mind.

I can't believe you turned into a furry fruit loop.

Immediately turned around and left the still-shocked family with their minds still rebooting at what had just happened. Bruce, for his part, could only stare after him, his mind racing to catch up.

…

Danny on the other hand is mildly a bit stressed, don’t get him wrong. Having Dan, Ellie, and Klarion as his kids is the most wonderful thing that ever happened to him, he just wished that the kids the rare chance they have their truce would send their home straight down the deepest rings of hell. As much as he had a clear reason to fight off some demons after so much adventure in terms of retrieving their house it got so old that it became a hassle.

 Let's also talk about how chatty Mom and Dad have been ever since his older brother Bruce became a crime-fighting furry, and when he started adopting kids as if they were Pokemon. Bruce doesn’t have to catch them all, and stop encouraging him, Danny wailed to his ghostly biological parents. As much he adored his nieces and nephews, he densest need to know from his ghostly parents how many flips Dick did with one hand or how many books Jason added to the library or how many albums of pictures Tim had, or even how adorable Damian is.

So imagine his surprise that in the middle of him sorting out paperwork, he is now an official guardian to his nephews since Bruce had “died”.

At first, he was hesitant on top of his children, for, he has an entire realm to sort out. Add to the fact that he didn’t feel Bruce’s spirit enter his domain. Bruce’s kind of lifestyle along with his nieces and nephews already guaranteed them a spot in the realms.

So when Tim exploded out of sleep or just needed someone to vent it made him send out a silent question to Clockwork. There he was, his dumb older brother, falling through each timeline, he simply grabbed the scruff of his neck and pulled him back to the present.

As Danny left the manor, he silently wept for the added paperwork that he expected to be added as well as damage control to whatever chaos his children got themselves into.

….

 PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

[em1989ts]

𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒑𝒕. 3

five hargreeves x reader

word count: 2.4k

part one. part two. part three. main masterlist.

summary: you head back to the academy with your timeline's five in order to save the world, in hopes that once this is all over, you can run back to max's delicatessan.

author's note: i tried to post this on oct 1st for five's birthday but i'm an hour late lol. but that's it for across the universe! thank you to everyone who left a comment or reblogged i appreciate it so much :) please let me know some more fic ideas in the comments or in my inbox

You heard the bell reverberate as the door shut firmly behind you, yet it was still welcoming as you looked back through the deli windows as all the Fives waved you farewell. 

The Five that was still technically your husband held a harsh grip around your wrist as he pulled you away from the warm lighting of the deli and back into the cool chill of the time-traveling subway station. 

Once the two of you reached the top of the stairs onto the platform, you dug your nails and bitterly as possible into the veiny flesh of his hand. 

He grabbed your other hand to separate your sharp manicure from him. You snatched your hands back and took a step away from him with a sneer. 

He looked down at you as if you were an animal cowering in defense. He sighed with a heavy chest, weighed with guilt, as he said, “Look, I don’t want to upset you anymore than I already have. Can we save the world and then discuss this?” 

As you glared at him, a subway train pulled into the station, whirring loudly as its strong gust blew your hair past your face. It screeched horrendously as it halted, the door alighting with your stances. 

You simply nodded with a furrowed brow as you walked past, hitting him with your shoulder, and boarding the subway car. 

As you sat down with folded arms and a firm stare at the floor, you ignored him as he sat directly across from you, holding his face in his hands. 

He took the time to memorize your face, this time in the privacy of the train car rather than watching a more deserving Five hold you close. 

He wanted to save the world for you. So you could be happy. Yet there was a lingering part of him that wished the world would cease to exist, knowing there was no chance you’d be happy with him ever again. 

You felt his gaze on you burning your cheeks. It felt like ages since he had looked at you with such care. 

You had always known how much he loved you. Even though public displays of affection were quite rare he had always made you feel seen and heard. You were life partners. You did everything together, you shared everything with the other. You thought you were so lucky to find such a soulmate, believing the two of you being the only people in the world left alive was such a test of fate that there wasn’t a doubt in the universe your names were written in the stars. 

You were so sure. So confident and secure. 

Yet, you were also sure he would’ve never considered breaking your heart the way he did today. He would’ve never considered Lila of all people. 

Your head throbbed from the confusion and the flickering lights from above. You were so tired from dealing with the Cleanse, Reginald, Jean and Gene. You wondered if you’d ever catch a break. 

You thought you already had. Six years of domestic bliss which included sharing an apartment with your lover and frequent date nights. You thought you finally got the rest you both deserved after years of endless struggle for survival. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize was trapped in your lungs as you sat up straight and met his stare. 

He didn’t say a word so you decided to speak the only one that was on your mind. 

“Why?” 

His jaw tensed as he tried to find the words. He had been trying to justify himself to you in his head ever since the moment he kissed Lila in that greenhouse, yet now it was hard for him to come up with an explanation. 

After a moment, he spoke, “I didn’t think we’d make it back.” 

Your eyes narrowed, “You were gone for 7 years Five. You mean to tell me you just gave up?” 

“I,” he cut himself off, not wanting to admit his first instinct of a response. 

“You what?” you pressured. 

“I wanted to stay.” 

He looked down at the grimy floor which contrasted with the shine of his dress shoes. You felt as if barbed wire was slowly being pulled around your throat as you held back tears. He didn’t seriously just admit that to your face. He couldn’t have. The Five you grew old with would never have done this to you. After visiting the deli, you knew those Five’s had given up on their timelines, but their reason was that they lost you. They lost their spark that ignited their call to action. They lost their love, the one person who kept them strong enough to endure hell just to save the world for. 

You were speechless. 

Luckily the train slowly came to a screeching stop at your timeline. An unintelligible announcement was made in the overhead speakers as you rushed to stand up and make your way out the train. 

Your Five didn’t immediately follow you. He hung his head and sat for a few seconds before slipping through the closing doors. 

You quickly made your way through the dimly lit station as Five jogged to catch up with you. He took your arm and blinked you up both to the academy in a flash of pink light. 

He let go of your arm as you took a pause to calm your dizziness. You had gotten used to his old blink fairly quickly but this new power messed with your head which already suffered an ache. 

The group quickly acknowledged your presence as the two of you walked into the living room where they were all consulting with each other. Lila’s family and Claire were huddled closeby. 

Five immediately greets Lila as she whispers his name in return. You side-eye them with a scoff, hoping to get this done as soon as possible so you never have to see them again. 

With his hands on his hips, Luther says, “Why’d you two come back? Things are pretty bleak here.” 

“Trust me, we weren’t planning on it,” Five explains. 

You step in, “Fortunately, we had a very informative conversation with an alternate version of him which led us to form a plan that could stop all of this.” 

You began explaining everything to them. You told them that the marigold inside each of you was what caused the destruction of the timeline and how the timelines were bleeding into each other which provided evidence for those like Jean and Gene to believe in the Umbrella effect. You explained that if Viktor could remove the marigold from you all and combine it with the durango inside the Cleanse, the timeline would go back to its original, unbroken state. 

Viktor interrupted your explanation, “That would work, but I’m not entirely sure I have enough power to do that.” 

“I can help,” Lila stepped in, “I’ll copy your power.” 

“What happens if they can’t get the marigolds out of us?” Klaus questioned.

“We will have to merge with the Cleanse with the marigold still inside us,” Five paused before continuing, “which will make us cease to exist.” 

Klaus didn’t exactly like this answer as he responded, “Old Klaus might have been down for some recreational hara-kiri, but it turns out that I’m really not into killing myself.” 

Five explained that if Viktor didn’t remove our marigold and you all had to merge with the Cleanse then none of you would have ever existed, erasing you all from history and the memories of your loved ones. 

They group went silent, tearing up at the thought of that fate. 

“Okay,” Viktor said firmly, not wanting to think about that outcome, “Let’s do this before the Cleanse finds us.” 

Him and Lila met in the center of the room, chests and eyes glowing as they brought forth their powers. The rest of you met around them, preparing yourself for the extraction. 

A glow of orange and blue lights illuminated the room as they began to swirl around all of you, whirring by your ears as they surrounded your body. You could feel the power rushing through you, feeling similarly to doing a cannonball in a hot tub: an initial burn from the impact but soothing more and more as you relax. Your eyes were squeezed tight as you felt a pressure lift from your chest. Before you know it, the wind has stopped and the lights that shined past your eyelids had left, returning your sight to eigengrau. 

You opened your eyes to find your marigolds huddled together, swirling in a warm glow which resembled fireflies on a summer night. 

“What do we do now?” Luther let out. 

Five put his hands in his pockets as he responded, “We wait.” 

Everyone avoided contact with the marigolds as they left the living room. Allison returned to Claire and Lila made her way to her family who engulfed her in a loving hug. 

You watched them have their moments. You were glad Lila had such a loving family after living under the Handler’s manipulation for so long, yet you wondered how it would be now that Five had homewrecked her relationship with Diego. How would this situation affect their kids? Would they see their mom any differently? 

You didn’t realize someone was watching you as you contemplated your inner monologue until your shoulders were turned and a pair of arms were wrapped around you. You refocused your eyes as you looked up to see Diego, understanding he must feel the same pain, wondering what would become of the family he’s made over the last six years. You brought your arms up to return his hug as your squeezed your eyes shut as a dam to not allow any tears to pass through. 

A crumbling noise grew louder and louder as you two broke apart. An orange hue penetrated through the makeshift curtains as Klaus went up to the window to peel them back, allowing you all to see the Cleanse was destructively making its way towards the marigolds. 

Five’s face hardened as he watched the monster grow nearer. He turned to Lila and held her arms, instructing her to take her family and Claire into the subway until the Cleanse took the marigolds to ensure their safety. She looked into his eyes and nodded before breaking away to round everyone up and mimic his power, blinking them away. 

The rest of you took cover as the Cleanse broke through the windows and entered the academy. You watched as it reached out and collected the bundle of marigolds, letting out a fearsome screech and glowing brighter. The light became so intense it was all you could see until you blacked out. 

You awoke on the floor of the academy, your face sticking to the shining tiles. As you sat up, you noticed everything was pristine, unlike the abandoned academy you were just occupying. Sunlight shone through the windows as you looked around, noticing all the others adjusting to the light and new surroundings. You all looked around, thankfully seeing no sign of the Cleanse. No destruction. No glow. 

As you all stood up, Five rounded you together as he blinked everyone into the subway. 

Allison immediately ran over to Claire, crying happily as she held her daughter. Lila and her children ran over to Diego, tackling him with a loving hug. You saw Five in the corner of your eye, looking on at the scene with a stone face yet with hurt in his eyes. 

As the family regrouped, you remembered what the offer that waited for you back at the deli. You remembered the Five who was waiting for you to save the world so he could see you once again. You ran between Klaus and Luther as you made your way towards a train that was waiting to take you back to Max’s Delicatessen. You never looked back as you boarded and sat down. Surely you’d see them again, but you didn’t want to watch your Five look like a lost puppy following Lila any longer. 

You wanted to find a certain Five that reminded you of your husband before he got stuck in the subway. A Five who had his eye on your and only you. Luckily, you had already found one. 

You didn’t even wait for the train to fully come to a stop as you jumped up from your seat and anxiously waited in front of the door for it to open. Once it did you bolted through the station to the stairwell that led to the deli. As you ascended, you didn’t see the warm, welcoming glow. 

You stopped in front of the deli, dropping your shoulders as you lost all hope. 

The space where the deli once occupied was gone. In its place was a wall of tile. You finally let the tears you had been holding all day stream down your face as you realized your mistake. 

Saving the world meant saving the original timeline, the timeline where the only Five Hargreeves that exists is the one that broke your heart.

☕︎

bonus ending cause i can do whatever i want tehe: 

You dropped to your knees as the weight of everything that’s happened crashed upon you, and the fear of not knowing what to do next ate up rational. 

A whoosh was heard from behind you, echoing off the tile surrounding you. The last thing you wanted at this moment was the comfort of your Five. You didn’t want him anywhere near you, yet you wanted him to see how miserable his stupid delusions and actions made you. As you turned your face to look at him with a teary face, you saw Five standing there, making no move toward you. 

You wanted to berate him until you looked closer, there was something different about him. 

You couldn’t point it out until he smiled slightly and said, “You saved the world.” 

A look of shock painted your face until your tears flooded back, this time of utter happiness as you ran into his chest, his arms enveloping you, his chin on your head. You didn’t question how this could even be possible, what this meant for the timeline, you got just what you wanted.

☕︎

author's note: oh my god i cannot believe i wrote this in one day i'm so exhausted and haven't had time to proof read this yet but i really really hope you enjoy! my inbox is open please let me know any requests for future stories!

taglist: @madscamp02@buttermilkpetals@leitor-sonolento@ren-ren23@alavit@tofueater78 @buzzbuzzlilbee @clownwritesfanfic @beanzwritez @pholuvre

[messenger-of-babel]

Jason Todd Who...

Summary: Thoughts about your relationship with Jason Todd.

Word Count: 1.6K

Notes: So this was supposed to come out a few days ago to maintain a 'one post a week' baseline, but my hometown kinda flooded, everyone got evacuated, I came back to work and my office building managed to flood and catch fire in the span of 24 hours. I'm still fine though! Currently splitting time with writing, work, and drying things out. Stay safe out there!

Love RiRi <3

━━━━━━━━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Thinking about a Jason Todd Who…

Has no idea how exactly he got into a relationship with you. Well, technically he’d like to call it a situationship, since neither of you have decided to put a label on it yet. He’d helped you out post patrol one evening, Bruce doing his head in as usual. He didn’t plan on drinking that night, but he still pushed open the door to the bar, hoping he could at least chat to James, the bartender, if he was on that night. It turns out that James was, in fact, on shift and currently occupied in the back corner near the pool table. His ears switched into overdrive hearing the ruckus, the years of vigilante training making his senses kick in keenly to try and respond. That’s when he saw you, being restrained by James and pool cue in hand.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Laughs to himself as his first response to seeing a bar fight, your opponent curled on the ground from where you had jabbed him with the cue. When his eyes met yours, your form wriggling in James grip, he was oddly delighted to see the challenging glare you sent to him. After about twenty minutes of exchanged words and threats of security, James lets you go and you sit at the bar, fingers tapping the wood in irritation.

“You shouldn’t drink if you get angry, you know.” He grins, following your shadow to the bar and leaning on the nearby stool.

“I’m not drunk.” You defend, eyeing him up and down. “I made that decision completely sober.”

Jason’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, really? Do tell me what he did to deserve being attacked then.”

“He was being an asshole.”

Yeah, Jason was going to like you.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Calls it a relationship to himself silently after a while but is still too nervous to say it in front of you. What if you didn’t think about it the same way? What if you were platonically getting coffee together every Thursday? That you only held onto him that tight when you rode with him because you were worried about falling off? That you were just friends that crashed in the same bed after a night out? He couldn’t help the flutter in his chest and the grin he wore so easily when you were around. He didn’t realise how much baggage he wore on his shoulders until you showed up and he felt like he could lift his neck for once. He knew he was fucked up, dying and coming back would do that to you. Yet he didn’t notice how the heaviness of it kept his eyes trained on the pavement, neck craning under the weight.

Yeah, Jason really liked you.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Dreads you coming over to meet the family, protesting the entire time. Not only because it was pouring outside meaning he had to take the car (meaning he couldn’t feel your arms around him), but because he still doesn’t know what you are. He’s been meaning to clear it up with you, wanting to ask so desperately, but every time that he’s tried the words catch in his throat. Like he’s back to being Robin, the young boy now trapped in a body way too big for him. So instead he just tightens his hands on the steering wheel, lost so deep in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice the lovestruck glances you steal from the corner of your eye, or the nervous playing of your hands in your lap.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Is completely taken aback when you announce yourself as his partner at the door when Alfred asks who you are. His brain blanks out, just staring down at you with a wider than usual glance. His hands are frozen to his side, unsure of what he could do. What to even say. The old man just smiles when Jason flicks his gaze to meet his grandfather figure, the old man’s eyes crinkling in mirth.

“Then welcome in. Master Dick and Tim will be delighted to hear it.”

You smile so easily, so effortlessly as you take his hand and lead him into his own home (or ex-home as he liked to call it).

God, he liked you.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Scowls when he sees Tim pay Dick a $20 under the table as you introduce yourself again, his older sibling figure sending him a shit eating grin as he pockets the cash in his front jacket pocket. He doesn’t miss the way that Bruce’s eyebrow twitches up curiously as you say you’re his partner, before that critical gaze flicks to Jason, silently asking if the information is true. He gives a short tense nod, and the billionaire grips his chin in thought before running a hand over his face.

That makes a flare of anger peak in Jason, but he squashes it down for the sake of Alfred and the dinner he worked so hard to wrangle everyone in for. You’re too distracted introducing yourself to Steph and Duke to see the critical glances Bruce sends you, the duo more than eager to engage you in conversation. He hates the way that Jason can feel the gaze of Bruce bore into his cheek, like he was trying to carve a his own bat-shaped scar next to the white ‘J’. He hated that gaze. The gaze that he could feel before he was told to ‘take it from the top’ or to ‘do another set’. The gaze he used to try and thrive under when he was younger, pushing himself to the limits in the hope that it would soften up if he excelled. The gaze that felt like it was doing nothing but waiting for him to mess up, so it could devour him with sharp teeth and harsher words. He knew Bruce didn’t approve. Jason knew he didn’t care.

Jason liked you too much to let Bruce scare away his chance of happiness.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Has his breath stolen the moment you kiss him in the car. He feels like he’s drowning, but it’s the most blissful torture he’s ever experienced as you lean across the car console to cover his lips with yours.

“You were distracted at dinner.” You murmur softly when you pull away. Jason has to blink the stars from his eyes, his scarred hands twitching to rest at the back of your neck and pull you to him again.

“I was just lost in thought, that’s all.” He says back, fighting the tremor in his voice. Once again he feels like a young boy piloting a hulking, clumsy body, his mind and muscle out of sync. You hum in response, not fully taking his answer.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped, calling myself your partner.” Your murmur after a slight tense silence. “I should have asked first.”

Jason swallows thickly. “I don’t mind.” He says quickly, a little too quickly if he was honest with himself. “I’m happy to try, I mean, if you want that.”

You smile, the sight that makes his chest flap. Like he had said the funniest thing imaginable, your sparkling gaze focused all on him.

You liked him.

Thinking about a Jason Todd who…

Holds nothing back as soon as you two become an actual couple. He’s doing what he can (albeit it clumsily) to keep you around. He’s mostly mimicking other relationships he’s seen, readings articles on how to be a good partner late at night. He knows to be himself, he’s not an idiot. He knows that you would scold him if you saw the things that he was doing, but he couldn’t stop. He had had relationships before you, of course. Yet the difference this time was that this was you, and he wasn’t going to risk it going sideways the same way the others had.

The biggest thing he had found was trying to keep you away from the other side of him. The side that donned a mask when the sun went down and staked out rooftops with a blue and black spandex clad chatterbox, and a caped brat. It had been easily enough when you were apart, but now that you were living together in his little apartment, it was getting harder and harder to sneak out of your arms at night and crawl back into them in the morning. He cursed the fact that you were a light sleeper, leading him to nearly being caught one too many times. He knew that you were getting suspicious, but keeping your reservations to yourself in the morning.

Bruce still didn’t like you, even more so now that you were closer to Jason’s true side than ever. But maybe Bruce did like you. That was a thought that plagued him, preventing him from falling into the sleep he so desperately needed after a long patrol. You were curled into his side, chest rising and falling softly.

Maybe Bruce did like you, and he was trying to protect you. Trying to keep you away from the potential heartbreak of losing him, which was a constant threat in this line of work. Maybe he was trying to keep you from being harmed, something that Jason feared constantly about having you close. Maybe Bruce was trying to save you because he did like you, and Jason was condemning you by being with you.

You move slightly when he shifts, eyes flicking opening groggily. Your normally bright eyes are cloudy with sleep, and you meet his gaze.

“Jay?” you mumble.

He grins softly, calloused fingers brushing a piece of hair from your forehead.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Maybe Bruce did like you.

But Jason loved you.

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter thirteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: things end in tragedy.

⤿ warning(s): character death, graphic descriptions of blood and violence, graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.5k

Jack is too late to stop the fall, but just in time to witness the aftermath.

For an instant that will brand itself forever, the world goes eerily still. He reaches the railing and leans out, and there you are: crumpled on a tangle of construction scaffold two stories below, Dorian’s body twisted beneath you like a grotesque cushion. Sodium floodlights paint everything sepia; the hum of city traffic wafts up as if nothing extraordinary has happened.

You’re not moving.

The sight punches the air from Jack’s lungs. His fingers clamp the cold rail so hard metal creaks. An animal noise claws up his throat, but training strangles it.

He then sucks in freezing air, pivots, and bolts down the service stairwell three steps at a time. On the landing he nearly collides with a pair of ICU nurses already hauling a backboard. Words crash out of him—“She’s on the scaffolding, eighth-floor façade”—before he vaults past, feet barely touching concrete.

On the seventh floor he bursts onto the scaffold walkway—the world roaring back to motion. The two nurses scramble at your side, desperate hands feeling for pulses.

Jack drops to his knees, palms skidding on grit, and braces your head between shaking hands. Tears blur his vision for half a heartbeat, but then the old medic clicks on: airway, breathing, circulation. Your chest rises in ragged little gasps; a pulse flutters at your neck—the faintest drum, but there.

“C-spine!” Jack barks. Robby is suddenly at his side—face blanched, hands steady—sliding the rigid collar beneath your jaw while a night-shift nurse anchors your skull. Jack’s fingers quake, but his voice stays level, murmuring between commands: “Stay with me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Breathe.”

Just a yard away, Dorian’s body lies where it landed—arms splayed, eyes fixed on the blank sky. No one spares him more than a glance; purpose funnels toward the living. An ESU tech tosses a silver casualty blanket over the corpse—an afterthought glittering under flood-lights—then hurries back to help Robby steady the backboard.

Straps cinch tight; splints cradle your ruined arm; IV lines snake from bruised veins. The moment the stretcher locks and lifts—your weight finally secured—Jack’s composure splinters, a raw, half-voiced sob ripping free before duty slams the door on it. Robby is there, bracing a steady hand between Jack’s shoulder blades—an unspoken stand fast, brother—and the lance of grief folds back into purpose.

Robby’s hand stays planted between Jack’s shoulders as they seize the stretcher handles—Jack with one hand steadying the dripping saline, Robby matching his grip on the opposite rail. Together with the team they surge for the stairwell. Behind them the scaffold creaks; wind rattles the foil over Dorian’s abandoned corpse. Ahead, sirens and shouted clearances funnel toward the harsh, saving brightness of Trauma-bay lights.

The freight elevator bangs open onto the surgical floor, and the gurney rockets out into a corridor already cleared to disaster footing. OR 3’s doors stand wide, lights blazing like a white-hot maw. Your stretcher rolls past stacked crash carts, through teams who yank instrument trays from sterile wrappers with frantic precision.

“Prep time is blood time—move!” Dr. Walsh barks, snapping fresh gloves on. She jerks her head toward Dr. Garcia and Dr. Miller—both technically off shift, both refusing to leave. Garcia yanks on a fresh sterile coat, while Miller chases the circulating nurse for a vascular tray, face chalk-pale beneath exhaustion but set like stone.

Jack jogs beside the rail, one hand on the IV hub, the other cradling your barely-there pulse. Your face, normally lit with sunrise jokes, is gray as surgical steel; respirations hitch against the vent. The monitors scream—heart 140, pressure free-falling despite pressors. Blood oozes past the chest-tube dressing, runs in black rivulets along the mattress seam. For one lurching second Jack thinks he can see your sternum move independently—flail segment snapping like a broken birdcage whenever the bag squeezes a breath.

Inside the suite, an anesthesiologist slams the vent into the wall gas. “ETCO₂ tanking—she’s blowing off nothing. Tubing clear, switching to pressure control.” A tech sponges the brown spill of gastric contents from your cheek where the fall forced bile up your throat.

Before Jack can take another step forward, Walsh is there to plant a palm on his chest. “Line of departure,” her tone’s a scalpel but her eyes flicker with something fragile. “You watching through glass keeps me honest. Get there.”

Jack’s knees try to root themselves to the floor—leaving feels like desertion—but he obeys, stumbling back to the anteroom. Robby drags him aside, shouldering a silent barricade, as the scrub nurse slaps a No-Entry sign across the doors.

Inside OR 3 chaos becomes choreography. Dr. Garcia slides an ultrasound wand over the upper-right side of your stomach; the screen blooms black—blood drowning your liver. “Big tear—she’s bleeding out,” she calls.

“Get every unit of blood we have!” Walsh fires back. A tech slams thawed plasma onto the rapid infuser; Fin, sleeves soaked crimson, races in with more O-negative.

Miller squeezes the breathing bag with one hand while reading the monitor with the other. “Blood pressure sixty, heart racing, oxygen crashing,” he warns. His glance to Walsh is clear: we’re losing her.

Walsh answers by drawing a long line down your belly with the scalpel. Metal meets skin; bright red floods the drapes. Suction roars as Garcia stuffs sponge after sponge inside, trying to keep pace with the tide.

From behind the glass, Jack sees it all in slow motion: Walsh’s hands diving into the wound, fresh crimson soaking gauze, Miller’s shoulders knotting as he forces each breath into your lungs. Alarm tones layer over each other—howling that time is almost gone. Robby’s fist clenches Jack’s scrubs, tethering him. Dana appears beside them, tears sliding unchecked.

Inside, Garcia’s shout fractures the moment. “Heart’s out of rhythm—paddles, now!” Gel slaps your chest; your body jerks under the jolt, then flattens. The screen still scribbles chaos. Another shock. A beat… another… the wavering line steadies at 40 beats a minute.

Walsh never looks up. “Clamp that liver,” she mutters. Miller drops a clamp into her waiting hand; her fingers disappear into the bloody cavity. Seconds crawl. Then—a sharp, certain “Got it.” The suction pitch drops; the gush slows. Your pressure inches up—seventy, then eighty.

Jack’s knees buckle with relief so bitter it tastes like metal. Only now does he notice he’s biting his lip so hard its started to crack and bleed, Robby’s arm still the only thing keeping him upright.

Inside the glass, the storm quiets but doesn’t clear. Garcia calls sponge counts, Miller pushes life back through IV syringes, Walsh asks for closing stitches. The spleen still has to be checked, your arm is splintered, your head injury lurks unseen—but the bleeding that wanted your life is finally caged.

Walsh lifts her gaze to the gallery. Her nod to Jack is small—barely a tremor of her chin—but louder than every alarm. She’s still here.

Jack presses his palm to the pane, breath fogging the glass—an unspoken promise to the broken figure on the table: I’m still here, too.

The last suture goes in at 03:17 a.m.

Walsh’s shoulders hunch, her cap soaked through, but the wound is finally closed and the bleeding quiet. You’re wheeled straight to the Surgical ICU under a tower of pumps: blood, antibiotics, pain drips, vasopressors. A ventilator sighs at your bedside; a padded brace keeps your shattered arm aligned; your leg is already swaddled for the ortho plate you’ll need tomorrow—if your numbers hold.

They don’t hold for long.

03:42 – Your blood pressure nosedives. Garcia—still in the same stained coat—bolts a syringe of epinephrine to the line. “Come on,” she murmurs, eyes locked on the monitor until the numbers claw back into the 80s.

04:19 – You spike a jagged heart rhythm. Miller arrives with the crash cart; two shocks later the sinus beat staggers upright like a boxer on the ninth round. He leaves without a word, too tired to make a joke, too relieved to curse fate.

05:05 – A neuro resident slips in, pupils your eyes, frowns at the sluggish response, and orders another CT scan. The porter wheels you out; every corridor looks bruised by night-shift fluorescence, the hush broken only by the rattle of your ventilator.

Everyone is on overtime on Surgical. Jules runs sponge counts from muscle memory, Fin brews coffee that tastes like burnt hope, and Margot prowls the quiet bays, snapping gloves just to keep her nerves from screaming. And Jack never sits; he circles the ICU glass, charting every tiny rise in your blood pressure like it’s a sunrise.

Downstairs, the lobby still glows with crime-scene klieg lights. Police techs comb the pathology lab where Dorian Moylan worked. Detective Patel—hair pulled into a weary knot—is giving Gloria and Security Chief Ramirez the bullet points:

Moylan had quietly transferred between three hospitals in five years, each move following a “personality conflict.”

He spent night breaks pulling unused visitor badges from shredders, soldering chips to clone them.

Two weeks ago he piggy-backed a vendor to the roof and wedged the alarm sensor with a folded coffee stirrer—so small maintenance chalked it up to wind malfunction.

His apartment wall is plastered with photos of you: cafeteria line, parking deck, charity fun-run. Thread between the prints spells an obsession bigger than anger, almost devotional.

“How did he know shift rosters?” Gloria snaps, exhaustion sharpening her words.

Patel taps her tablet. “Key-logger on a volunteer computer in the HR nook. He read every schedule change the moment you clicked Save.”

Ramirez blows out a breath. “He made our cameras blind with coffee stirrers and still waited a month. Why?”

“Because Jack Abbot was on nights,” Patel answers. “Our profile says Moylan wouldn’t act while a protective figure was consistently present. Abbot’s single day off became the window.”

Gloria’s jaw tightens, grief shading into rage.

Upstairs, at 06:12—the ventilator alarm yelps; your chest tube kicks out a dark surge. Garcia dashes in, adjusts suction, sighs when the numbers settle. Jack hovers behind her. She glances back, voice hoarse. “Go breathe, Abbot. She’s stable enough for twenty minutes.”

He shakes his head. “Was supposed to meet her on the roof at sunrise. I owe her the view.”

Garcia’s tired eyes soften just a fraction, her usual bite gone. “Then save it. There’s another dawn coming.”

He grips your badge, his nail playing with the edge of the freshly pressed scalpe sticker, the plastic warm from his sweat, and watches the steady pump of the ventilator. There he sits—until pale daylight begins to leak along the ICU windows.

Your vitals bob in a fragile rhythm. Odds still tilt against you, but each beeping heartbeat writes a promise: not finished yet. And for everyone gathered—surgeons running on caffeine fumes, detectives piecing together the how of horror, friends refusing to blink—the night becomes a vigil, a shared refusal to let the dark have the last line.

Down the corridor a clock clicks to 07:00. Shift change. Another dawn Jack will never see from the roof—but he glances at you, bruised and breathing, and decides this sunrise is happening right here, in the hush between monitors.

. . .

Darkness feels solid, almost architectural—an endless corridor of closed doors. You float somewhere in its center, weightless but not free, a body suspended by medicine while your mind paces on its own.

The first door cracks open, and you are twelve again, kneeling on your bedroom floor with a shoebox of mismatched screws. Other kids build forts; you sort hardware by length, head-type, finish—order blooming under your fingers. The quiet thrill of finding the system beneath the mess settles into your bones like a blueprint. If everything has a place, nothing feels out of control.

Another door: high-school cafeteria. A friend’s asthma attack sends panicked teenagers scattering. You don’t run—you kneel, prop her shoulders, count her breaths, coach her through the wheeze until the nurse arrives. That same thrum of purpose swells in your chest, louder than fear. Method birthed into mercy: There is always something you can steady.

Door three: nursing school, surgical rotation. You memorize clamp sizes the way others memorize song lyrics. Surgeons bark, but your trays are flawless. Patients bleed, but your hands don’t shake. Every precise motion says the same thing: Chaos can’t own me if I meet it with order.

The corridor bends. Lights dim. A door creaks that you don’t remember installing. You push through, and the air shifts—sterile at first, then sour. Cell-phone glow reveals walls papered with photos of you: walking to the parking deck, laughing in the staff lounge, rooftop at dawn. Each image is neatly labeled in handwriting that isn’t yours.

Your limbs feel heavy, dream-slow. Footsteps echo behind you—soft, deliberate. You turn, but the visitor stays just beyond peripheral vision, voice drifting like breath in your ear. “I watched you keep everyone else safe. Even him. But who keeps you safe?”

A glint—a scalpel tip catches the thin light.

Panic splinters the method. You reach for old anchors—breath counts, mental checklists—but the floor tilts, photos sliding like loose tiles. One after another the earlier doors slam shut, trapping you in this room of obsessive order twisted into threat.

You run, but the corridor loops back. Same door, same photos, same voice. “Don’t run,” it coax-pleads, as though worry and menace share the same mouth. Shadows swallow your hands, steal your capacity to sort, label, fix. Pulse hammers your ribs; breath snags.

Darkness thickens until it’s syrup in your lungs.

Monitors far away chirp frantic warnings—yet they feel foreign, as if wired to someone else. In here, time is a wheel rut: your methodical past feeding the stalker’s meticulous terror, spinning, spinning.

You try to scream for Jack, but medication drags the sound to the floor. Only a thin exhale leaves your lips in the real world—just enough for the ventilator to notice.

In the black corridor, you press your back to the wall, palms bleeding invisible splinters. There must be a place for this, you think, wild and desperate. Even nightmares obey some order. Your mind claws for a schema, some way to sort fear as you once sorted screws, but the photos multiply, falling like snow, until every scrap of vision is your own image, your own vulnerability catalogued.

The voice fades into a hiss—tireless, self-justifying—yet beneath it, softer vibrations reach you: the steady pump of a ventilator, the ripple of an IV, a distant heartbeat stronger than your own. You can’t see Jack, but the memory of his hand on your pulse thrums like a beacon. It isn’t method—it’s devotion—and for the first time in this loop you feel something stronger than dread.

Somewhere outside the morphine fog, voices pledge that dawn is coming, that hands stand ready to guide you back. But here, in the induced night, you walk the length of your own history—methodical footfalls echoing against walls lined with fear—searching for a door that leads forward instead of back.

divider credit

[h109zone]

closer than you think—nsfw

synopsis. zayne was away on a trip that was cut short, due to the research's goal having been fulfilled earlier than expected, yet you have unintentionally given him a surprise. how else will he handle the sight of his wife in such a state?

pairing. Zayne x afab!reader

requested by. dawnbreakerbrokeme 

words. 3.2k

warning. porn with a lil plot, married life, zayne's a lil ooc, dom!zayne, fem!masturbation, light choking, slight humiliation/degradation but no slur, use of sex toy, rough turns soft, use of sir. also not beta read.

a/n. yuurrrr !!!! sorry i took forever to make this, i was busy and also was hella depressed lmfao, but im back tho. the plot to porn ratio in this is like 30:70, also idk why i made them married... it works tho lmfao. nevertheless, i still hope you enjoyed it!!!

minors do not interact. re-read the warnings before reading, as after clicking “keep reading”, i am not responsible for the media you consume.

This ended sooner than expected. 

Zayne thought to himself as he was approaching the train station, dragging his wheeled suitcase behind him, as he securely placed one of his hands in his pocket. The sterile-in-appearance station scents itself with the smell of mechanics and the baked goods of designated cafes scattered around, with potential passengers and employees roaming around to catch their stop or see if things are in top shape. 

The doctor was away for a medical research conference being held at an esteemed university in a different city—not far enough to take a plane, yet not close enough to drive to, hence the train was the optimal option—which they had invited him to, thanks to his impressive credentials. The trip was supposed to last for a few weeks, yet the mission ended within 10 days, which oddly yet pleasantly caught the young doctor off guard. 

Why pleasantly? To make it short and simple, he could go back to you, his loving wife. You were everything to him; you were his kryptonite, his confidant, his best friend, his carrot repellent, the icing to his cinnamon roll, you were the heart that pumps out his blood, you’re as precious as stones—simply put, no amount of similes and metaphors could ever descibe your status in his life. Naturally, he is more than ecstatic than one could be, at least in his way—it’d be a miracle if you spot him smiling widely. Nevertheless, he’s more than happy that it was cut short , and the train ride is only less than three hours, too long but better than hourslong drive, anything to see his darling again.

 He hasn’t informed you that he’ll come in earlier than expected, as he wanted to surprise you, which is not on brand, but he thought to use his “man of few words” quality, plus the constant excuse that this research is “taxing,” which wasn’t a lie by any means if we’re talking in technicality, but would it be true honesty if he simply just wanted his wife to not know if his early arrival? After all, these types of events are rare to come, so might as well take this chance.

Meanwhile, back home, there you were, waiting for the day your husband comes back. He has told you of his “busy” meeting, which you completely understood. You have always known that your husband is a workaholic and that work is one of his main priorities, after you, of course, which you highly admire. However, even with things you love can have a limit; your husband’s physical absence has taken its toll on you, and it is starting to appear on the surface. 

You missed every aspect of Zayne in both physical and emotional ways. You missed his warmth towards you, you missed his snarky remarks, you missed his caring nature, you missed having yourself lying on his chest while cuddling, you missed the feeling of your fingers entangling his soft raven hair, you missed staring into his green eyes as he looks down at you. You also have missed being on your knees for him, begging him to have him all in your mouth, you missed his struggled and choked up whimpers before he ravishes you on the spot, you missed the feeling of his cock sheathing inside you as you sat on him. You missed him in a way, like you have been deprived of his touch for so long.  

You feel very pathetic with this first-world problem you were having, but how can you blame yourself when you have a man like him? Ever since he has gone on that god forsaken trip, you craved him even more than you thought. It didn’t help that you two had had sex on he day of his trip, but you still craved him since then. You would resort to phone calls and sexting, but his work was too tiresome, so you couldn’t get any action out of him digitally due to feeling sympathy for him. 

So what choice do you have? You only got your desires and your dominant hand to do a quarter of the job. It’s gotten so bad that you have ordered in advance as soon as Zayne informed you, in fear of a situation like this were to happen, since you are completely aware of his workaholic tendencies. You two were not anti-sex toys, but weren’t up to it since you two were able to satiate your hunger, even with a simple dry hump with heavy make outs does the job exceptionally well, surprising the both of you.

Nevertheless, you did it, and it just so happened that your toy arrived yesterday. It was a vibrator with a contemporary look that claims that it could snug well around your clit and could “reach you to heaven faster,” so you were curious and bought it for the time being before it arrived right at your feet. You’ve already given it a cleanse and sanitized it, as you prepared your room to set the mood like you would if your husband were here; however, for today, it's just you and your toy—unknowing of what’s to come eventually.

You’ve lit up candles and worn your new set—the one Zayne bought recently that you wore once—as you’ve dimmed the lighting and closed the curtain. The sweet yet sultry scent of roses and vanilla permeates the room, while the warm glow of the fiery candles fills the space. The aura of your bedroom has created a sensation of seduction and concupiscence as your desires started to conquer your system. 

Your mind wanders with mental images of you and your virile husband has sent you over the edge. You lie across the mattress as you allow your imagination to take over, images of Zayne’s immense and dominating body lying on top of yours, his hands roaming over beautiful islands in your figure, as he whispers praises with his hushed voice while his lips ghost over your skin.

You spread your legs as you allowed your imagination to run wild, fondling your breasts as you were picturing your husband playing with them, pinching your nipples over the sheer material of your bra. This sensitivity you were exhibiting was prevalent, and while it wasn’t enough or as quick without Zayne’s talented skills in making you aroused, it was enough for you to feel a dampness between your legs. 

You began teasing yourself with your dominant hand wandering south onto your laced panties, rubbing from the exterior. You shuddered at how your fingers’ light touch created a slight buzz through the fabric, feeling the slick forming even outside the underwear—a scenery you only wish Zayne could see at this moment.

As you continued your languid rubbing, you glanced at your vibrator that lay beside you and pondered as you examined it, almost like you were second-guessing your purchase. You weren’t a frequent user of sex toys since you’ve been with Zayne, it shocked you when you realized that his cock did a sensible and much better job than your old dildo that you would pathetically ride to reach your peak, which your husband—and even when he was a boyfriend and a fiance— has helped your reach there even faster. 

However, desperate calls call for desperate measures, and since your husband’s not here, you’ll give in to old habits just to reach that peak again. After you’ve stripped off your panties, you pressed the button that’s in your toy, and it vibrated instantly in your hand at a swift motion. The default setting was not super fast, where it was overwhelming, but it wasn’t too slow for it to be rendered broken, feeling yourself clench. You sighed before you placed the toy right around your clit, making you gasp at loud volume, letting out versus amid your breathy moans. 

You’ve only let go for a few seconds to catch your breath, and you haven’t had a vibrator in a while, so the feeling of vigorous vibrations was too much at the start. Once the feeling of unfamiliarity turns to the opposite, you’ve continued your journey to the solo trip to the ninth cloud.

Meanwhile, Zayne has already arrived at Linkon and is currently sitting in the taxi’s back seat. He was looking down at his phone, debating whether or not he should continue with this surprise. He looked back at his messages that were sent to you, where he had mentioned that he would be busy for a few hours. He thought that this could help him not leak any of his surprises onto him. You only replied a simple “okay” with a heartbreak emoji, with no protest or objection, the emoji unintentionally represented his actual heartache at your simple response. 

He sighed as he placed his phone back to his pocket, as he glanced at the flowers that sat next to him like passengers, a bouquet of your favorite flowers with colors representing your aura and personality, he didn’t arrange the beautiful sets but he saw it and it was calling his name to give it to you. He smiled at it as he sniffed the flowers, its sweet aroma tickling his nose, the scent reminding him of his home, of you. 

The driver could see Zayne’s aloofness crack as a small smile peeked through, causing the old man driving to smile and shake his head. 

“Young love,” he muttered to himself. 

“I beg your pardon?” Zayne snapped himself out of his world and went back to his cold self. 

The driver could only chuckle whimsically, “nothing, son… nothing” 

— 

Minutes passed, and he’s already at your shared home. He paid, and he and the driver shared their farewell. As the car drove away, Zayne was left with his suitcase and his rapidly beating heart. He felt like a teenager once again trying to ask his date for prom, even after years of being together, and along the way, you two have already gotten married. You still don’t have any children since it was too soon, having you two only been married for a year now, but whenever you two are in the near vicinity of each other, it's like your infatuation towards each other was brought on again, fluttering each other’s hearts.

Zayne walks up to your home with excitement and anticipation. 

“Hello, my love—” Zayne’s announcement of greetings was cut short due to the eeriness of his home. Zayne praised himself for diligence and his eye for detail, because from a stranger’s perspective, one would not guess any abnormalities in the interior, but as the resident of your home and lover of yours, Zayne could tell. 

There was an indent in the leather couch, and an open bag of chips was abandoned on the coffee table, threatening to spill over the wooden surface and rug. You were definitely in the house, and what further confirmed it was when Zayne closed the entrance door, a faint sound of moaning echoed in the living room—your moans, to be more specific. 

Zayne’s heart began beating faster as his mind entered into a war of conflict, persuasion, and betrayal. He never doubted your loyalty, but he couldn’t help that it was getting tested at this moment. He was long gone, and you were naturally needy for his affection, but that didn’t mean you were going to step out and harm the foundation that you and your husband had built for a long time, right?…

Right? 

Zayne was not having it, yet he had to calculate his steps—violent and poor planning confrontations can wreak havoc worse than any volcanic eruption—thus, he had to approach the situation assertively yet calmly, as he always does. 

He places the bouquet to the side as he walks steps that a slick home intruder would envy at how subtle and quiet they are, and each step he takes, your whimpering sounds heighten their volume while his stomach sinks even further down in anxiety. 

He took notice of the door being slightly opened, not enough for you to notice, but enough for Zayne to peek through. Zayne’s fist unclenched as he went through at least ten different emotions all at once, but the main one was relief; no other person was the reason for the moans you were producing. 

However, that relief quickly changed into something else, something much more intense as he noticed what exactly you were doing. The rapid sight of you squirming and moaning out your husband’s name and strings of curse words has changed Zayne’s intentions for his return immediately. He took notice of the new object in your hand, which he had never seen it in either of your guys' inventories, which further made him want to do his impromptu plan.

He opens the door abruptly, with a crossed arm, his stand-offish stance has created a presence so strong that you’ve opened your eyes at the source. 

You gasped as you sat up, unbelieving of the sight you saw in front of you. 

“Oh my god, Zayne, you’re back—“ 

“Why’d you stop?” Zayne interrupted you with his cold, unemotional tone. The sight of Zayne looking unimpressed at the attempt to relieve yourself left you feeling like you wanted a gaping hole to come and swallow you down… but at the same time, you were ready for the wrath that he was about to unleash on you after unintentionally neglecting you for so long. 

—

It was an intense exchange, in one second Zayne, was standing in the door, mossy green eyes were replaced by the dark blown pupils filled with intense emotions that could suck you in like a black hole. The next is now your depraved husband lying behind you, clothes discarded across the room, his neck around your throat, forcing your head to face him while he hungrily clasps his lips onto yours with a fervent kiss. The toy was being held by the scarred hand of Zayne as he placed it right at your clit, this time at a speed you couldn’t handle. 

“Z-zayne~” You whined against his lips as you threw your head back. Your legs were shaking and threatening to be closed shut, but Zayne ignored your protest and instead he gripped the back of your thigh even further with his free hand, placing your knee up to your shoulder. You began shaking underneath him, yet Zayne made you stay out, making makeshift restraints with his body. 

As soon as he felt you getting closer with your announcing and shuddering, he would pull away the toy instantly, leaving you whining with an unsatisfied ache. 

He takes a look at the toy before he throws it away, gripping you even closer to his chest and roughly spreading your legs. You yelped at the sudden maneuver, and you started wailing as soon as Zayne began using his hand at your sopping pussy, his fingers spreading your lip, revealing you even more than you already are. 

“I know you wanted me so bad,” he gruffly whispered into your ears, nipping while his fingers teased the entrance with a little swirl around like it's a seductively secret code to enter, “so why didn’t you tell me, huh? Why didn’t you tell me you need me?” 

even though you were fogged up with pleasure, you still coughed a response, “I-I didn’t want y-you t-to—fuck~ leave you—“ your words were cut as Zayne’s nimble middle and ring fingers insert themselves inside your hole, finally opening up greet him with openness and warmth. 

Zayne’s other hand gripped your throat once again, forcing a lustful yet furious eye contact while his fingers started to move in and out of you in violent and rough intervals, “I don’t care. Next time, instead of wasting time on your toy, come to me, do I make myself clear?” 

You thought that the question was rhetorical as Zayne’s finger moved in sync with his words. Each time it gets rougher and rougher, so you could only wail as his longer fingers reached places your fingers couldn’t. However, Zayne’s fingers halts inside of you while the hand on your neck grips even firmer, “I said do I make myself clear?” 

You panted as you nodded while choking up, “yes, yes, you do, sir…”

The ‘sir’ was accidental, but oh, did it do wonders to Zayne’s psyche, and his cock too, of course. Zayne pulled his fingers away, making you whimper due to the emptiness, before it was replaced by a gasp as he flipped you to your stomach, head hitting the pillow. He prepped you with his fingers, but he still wanted to stretch you out more. He takes a good look at your ruined pussy, he barely did anything and yet you were starting to drip out your essence down to the sheets. 

Oh, he can’t take it anymore.

You attempted to get up, only for you to feel an immense stretch, as Zayne didn’t hesitate to insert his tip inside you, uncharacteristically so.

He let out a breathy growl with the languid start when he inserted his inch little by little. No matter how many times you have had sex, you were still beautifully tight for him, and with this new side of your husband, who were you to complain? 

You moaned into the pillow as Zayne got deeper and deeper inside of you. Zayne can only look at your arch and how pathetically you were gripping the pillow to restrain your voice from escaping your room. 

He starts pulling you up by the stomach, and he begins thrusting upwards at a sudden, quick pace. You squealed as a result, and you tried your best to conceal it, but Zayne refused and urged you to stop your attempts to quiet yourself. 

“No, no, I need—mmh~ Need you to stop—“ he stops to allow a pleasured breathy moan escape his lips, “need you to stop… need—neighbors to hear—fuck!”

The ever-so-quiet doctor has flipped a switch on you as his head kisses your G-spot over and over again, sending both of you over the edge. 

The peak is drawing closer and closer, and the overwhelming warmth is approaching. You began to clench everywhere while your legs started to judder in the overwhelming feeling, yet Zayne showed no signs of stopping. 

You were seeing white as fireworks began to erupt all across your system, from your brain down to your stomach, while your eyes gave out as you rolled your eyes back due to the fierce climax your husband just gave you.

He pulls you in for a fervent kiss as he slows down, giving you time to calm after the extraordinary orgasm he gave you. However, that didn’t last long as he pulled away and pushed your back down to the mattress. His cock was slicked from your honey and his combined, angry and vigorous red tip stood as he teased and rubbed your pussy with it.

“If you think that I’ll stop, think again…” He whispers, as he places his hands between your head, “I need to make up for missed times…” 

“I missed you so god damn much”

You have no idea what has gotten into your husband, but had you known that a sex toy got him like this, you’d do it over and over again.

ⓒ 2025 all works done by H109zone do not repost, translate, modify, or plagiarize my work.

[francixoxoxo]

⋆.˚𓆝ℋℴ𝓂ℯ𝒸ℴ𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𓆉

Finnick Odair x Victor!Reader

You come home to District 4 after winning the Hunger Games more than a little damaged. Luckily, when you reunite with Finnick, he knows just what you’re going through— and knows just how to comfort you.

The victor of the 68th annual hunger games. Your face plastered on capitol billboards. Your name on every Capitolite’s unusually plastic-surgered lips. Your eyelids engraved with the faces of all the tributes— all the children— you killed to get your head above the water.

You hold it together on the train ride home. Zipping across the barren desert twixt the Capitol and the shoreline of District 4, you picked at your newly manicured nails (they wouldn’t let a victor go on for her post-game interview with dried blood on her hands,) and tried not to recount the events of the past week.

You were only sixteen. Still a kid, though you weren’t sure you could ever go back and find the youth in you that there once was.

At the train station, your mother welcomed you home with wide open arms and wet cheeks. Her fishhook bitten fingertips traced your features, laughing with relief. Once you were securely wrapped up in her embrace, she muttered her pride in you— you definitely didn’t feel proud. When you stooped to your knees to scoop your little brother into your own arms, you certainly didn’t feel like the rock his eyes mirrored when he looked at you.

There was a small crowd, mostly people from your hometown— you held a strained smile. Searching for one face in particular.

He wasn’t there, your sweetheart.

When you moved into the victors village, the windows of his house on the coastal lane were dimmed. For days, actually. You worked up the guts to ask your mother where he’d gone, she shrugged.

“He left a few days before all the publicity,” your mother hummed, her eyes on the rag she dragged across the new kitchen counter. It wasn’t as cozy as your old home, a quaint cabin further north on the shore. There, sand was perpetually scattered across the floorboards, and wind chimes twinkled on the porch. You hadn’t had a chance to put up those chimes yet, on your new and only technically improved porch.

But you supposed the house was nice enough— it smelled of the same sea-salt, and it was large enough that you didn’t have to share a room with your brother. Still, you asked him to lay in bed with you most nights since you got home— he was one of those kids who couldn’t shut up. Maybe that used to annoy you; now, you let him rattle into the latest hours of the night, just grateful to have his little back rising and falling under your palm as he laid on his belly. Girolamo made surviving the games feel a little more meaningful. You’d clawed your way through for him, for your mother, for Finnick.

You were almost frustrated with Finnick, though conjuring up the image of the sun-kissed blonde tended to soothe your nerves. You made him promise to take care of your mother and Giro if you didn’t make it out— and you were sure you wouldn’t. And yet, where was he? What if you hadn’t won the games? Where would your family be?

All the bitter questioning was dispelled when one night, the lights in the soft-blue paneled house across the lane clicked on. You resisted the feeling to go and knock at his door, pound your open palm until he had to let you in. You thought you were allowed to be a little desperate, seeing as you just survived a government-run murder-machine.

But you didn’t. No, you tucked your knees to your chest, and stared out the window as if waiting for Finnick to come outside, wave his hands and jump up and down on the front steps. Eventually the lights clicked off again. He always was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type of boy.

The next morning, you stepped barefoot through the sun-warmed sand downhill from your new house, a rolled beach towel tucked under your armpit and a small cooler in your other hand. You watch Girolamo as he sprints to the shore, his tan and wiry back gaining some distance on you. With a nervous bite out of your inner cheek you keep your eyes on him.

Even as you’re laying the towel down, tucking the corners under the sand against the whipping sea breeze, you think of Finnick. Where could he possibly be for two weeks? Why hadn’t you heard even a whisper from him, much less a letter?

You’re settling down on the rough, colorful material that felt nothing like the smooth, handwoven mat your mother had to trade to scrounge up some money (along with the rest of your hometown) to send you some fresh bread in the arena. To be fair, the pick-me-up paid off. Internally you hold yourself to weaving a new one later, but the promise is interrupted by a familiar voice calling out for you in a tone that makes you wonder if the boy it belonged to knew no other names besides yours.

Tossing your head over your shoulder and pushing yourself from your elbows onto your palms, your eyes settle on the source. Finnick. Your Finnick.

You’re practically scrambling to your feet, clawing at the sand around your towel to spring up. “Finnick!” You call back to him, wishing your voice wasn’t so raspy with desperation. Maybe he repeats your name, a songbird returning your notes in reply and recognition, but you can hardly hear over the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Finnick was bounding downhill, kicking up sand, casting a grainy veil between you and himself as it blew with the salt in the wind. He stumbles, and you almost find it in you to laugh at the notion that he’s falling over trying to get to you. Maybe it is silly, maybe you are just stupid teenagers sick with love. But it really just manifests in watery eyes as you run towards him with the same adrenaline that’s been blowing a whistle down your veins, nonstop since you’ve been reaped.

It’s not until you throw yourself at Finnick and he grabs you into his arms like you’re lighter than seafoam, that you remember this isn’t life or death.

Your fingers are pushing through his golden curls, his are smoothing over your dark tresses, his nose in your collar as he lifts you off the ground. A sound of surprise gets past your lips, but now you feel light enough that it delves into a real laugh.

“Sweetheart— baby— God, I knew you could do it,” Finnick praises as he finally lets your feet hit the sand, setting you down like you’re made of sea glass. His hands rove over your cheeks, your neck, shoulders, astonished laughter punctuating his words. “I knew you were strong, I knew you were.”

You know what he’s trying to say, yes, but God, you feel anything but strong. You don’t even realize tears were trickling down your cheeks until Finnick thumbs them away, and draws you back into his arms with a soft sound. A sob peals like a bell as it comes from your lips and directly into his shoulder. You clutch at his back, your fingertips threatening to tear into his loose navy shirt. His own hands, steadfast and fishhook-bitten, rub up and down your upper back.

“I know,” Finnick mutters, filling the silence and giving you something else to listen to besides your crying and the breaking waves. And, for the first time since you’ve been in District 4 since the games, you know it’s the truth. He does know. He’s one of the few who do.

“Finn,” you breathe, wiping your eyes on the fabric of his shirt. He hums as if he hears you, but you know he’s beckoning you to speak. He squeezes you tighter at the sound of your voice, smoothing over your hair again and looking out at your brother as he wades in the ocean to his knees. Looking out for him, as an extension of looking out for you. “Finn, it’s been terrible,” you manage to sob.

“I know, I know,” Finnick assures again. He wants to admit that it doesn’t get easier, not at all, but that’s not what you need to hear in the least.

“I can’t.. How do— D’you handle it? How?” You’re babbling, you know it. You sniffle, pulling away just enough to make eye contact with him. Oh, how you missed him. His eyes were even greener than you recalled, than you pictured at night in the games to soothe your jaunting nerves. The creases in his cheeks as his lips pulled taught, the light shock of hair on his forehead and the sunspots freckling his cheeks.. he was undeniable handsome. But it was more than this— he was your rock when the undertow came to drag, he was the saltwater lapping at your feet while you laid in the sun.

Finnick smatters kisses over your wet cheeks, your brow, your jaw, his hand holding you strong by the back of your head. You sniffle, but your hands squeeze his arms and the heaviness in your chest is lightened just a bit. “I don’t know.”

There’s a finality, in the way he presses forward for your lips. You sigh through your nose, which presses into his cheek as he kisses you like you’re all he’s been thinking of. It takes some effort for Finnick to part from you, he can’t resist a quick peck to the corner of your mouth as you wipe your eyes. “I don’t know, but misery loves company.”

You laugh bitterly, out of the unfairness of it all. Finnick slides his hand down your arm, clasping your hand and gently tugging you towards the towel you’d laid down. “C’mon.”

Maybe you could learn to handle it, you think, as you turn and the sea breeze gently brushes your hair behind your shoulders, some kind of welcome home.

The wind breathed and whistled past the shell of your ear, this and the rolling blue at your back would’ve been music enough even if Finnick wasn’t humming into the crown of your hair.

His hands are still woven tight with yours, though you’re certain he had fallen asleep for a bit somewhere in the two hours you’ve been sitting on your back porch. His fingers had become limp twixt your own, but at your slightest shift, squeezed as if you were going to slip through like sand.

You’d told him everything. It’s just slipped from you, water crashing down a cliff side, and you can’t take any of it back, whether your vulnerability has become embarrassing or not in hindsight.

Your tribute partner’s death. Your first kill. Real, evolutionary adrenaline that had made your head spin. The sound of a wrist bone crunching under your boot, of an ally crying when he thought you had fallen asleep (as if you could, in that arena.)

The bitterness had subsided, you’d been too relieved to just see Finnick to bring up anything prickly. Pouring your guts about the arena’s stain on you felt like enough of a damper on the reunion. But it still weighed heavily on you, balancing out the featherlight feeling of being back in his arms.

“Finn?” You find it in you to lift your face, prop your chin on his shoulder. You can feel the timbre of his acknowledging hum through his ribs. Steeling yourself, though you aren’t sure why, you mumble lamely, “Where were you?”

Finnick’s brows draw together and etch a small crease twixt them. “What?” His free hand moves from your shoulder to brush against a lock of your hair, but you shake your head to try and ward off the distraction.

“Where were you, when I came home? I heard you left while I was in the Capitol. Why?”

There’s something in the shift of his shoulder beneath you, in the brief flutter of his lashes, that tells you it’s not something you want to hear, nor something he wants to say. But he can’t deny you a thing, can he? He’s never been able to, not since you were children wading in the tide pools. Not now either, as he clears his throat and glances to the shoreline, as if the ocean could lend him a hand, for once, and sweep him out to open waters.

“I’m… Signed into an… agreement. With Snow.” Finnick speaks quietly, his eyes downcast with a kind of solemnity. He lifts his brows and you get the idea that he can’t believe it himself when he murmurs, “I couldn’t say no.”

Saying you weren’t curious, that you needed no explanation— it’d be a lie. You watch Finnick wave a splayed hand over his body in gesture, his lips pulling in an expression that cracks your heart and sends whistles down your nerves. “I, uh. To the highest bidder.”

He stops himself before his voice fails on its own, no sooner than it clicks together in your head. His body didn’t belong to him. Leaving an infinite and stretching silence that felt less like there was nothing to say, and more like leaving it unsaid was easier.

In a blink you see nothing but a little boy; with a sun-kissed face unmarred and green eyes shining from a type of fear that expels all hints of forced maturity you used to see. Just a little boy, shedding all the age the Capitol has shot into him.

You find space in the quiet to squeeze Finnicks hand. Neither of your grips loosen, not for a while, and not even when he could really use a free hand to brush away the saltwater rolling down his cheeks, because as long as you’re next to him he might as well have an extra free hand. You don’t let your own tears leave the barrier of your lash line.

“What a homecoming, huh?” Finnick mumbles after a long, long time spent in that blue. You aren’t sure how he finds it in him to smile at you.“What a homecoming,” you echo, hoping your agreement will make him happy.

You knew, deep inside, your home was changing. The ground was shifting under your bare feet and kicking up the once-sun-warm sand and doesn’t everybody know it’s silly to try and place each wind-blown grain back where it used to sit?

You couldn’t go back to before. The normalcy you were hoping might breathe warm on your skin again, it wouldn’t. You weren’t the girl you were before your name was plucked from that basket and you couldn’t consult her anymore. But you figure, maybe, this was your home anyway. This is what you have to come home to, and things could be worse, they’re already well down there, but Lord, atleast you have this.

You let Finnick dry the teardrop rushing down your face with a tender sweep of his thumb, a reminder that you aren’t crying alone.