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[abida-lifestyle-beauty]

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[strawberrystepmom]

MDNI. pro hero!deku x f!reader are married. divider thanks to cafekitsune.

Your house has been nothing short of a war zone since this morning.

Everything has gone wrong since sun up and your current spat with your husband is no exception. You don’t remember what set you off in particular but you remember feeling like he couldn’t wait to get away from you when it all began so you decided to give him a reason to. To close him out, to make him feel like he needs to be elsewhere besides at your side.

“You have your choice of anyone you want, Izuku. Go bother them instead of me.”

He chuckles and shakes his head, arms folded over his chest. His shirt sleeves cling to his biceps to delectably you almost struggle to keep up your facade of anger but your commitment can never be questioned, even to the little things, so you fold your own arms and turn away to shield yourself from the exposing weight of his green gaze.

This is your way of telling him he isn’t meeting your needs and he’s bound and determined to figure out how to do it better. The thread that ties his entire day together every day is how much he loves you. How everything he does is for you. How he wants you. It appalls him you don’t realize what a gift you are, so busy downing yourself in an effort to raise him up.

“So do you.”

Scoffing, you return to typing on the small keyboard attached to your tablet. It isn’t enough he’s bothering you, he just has to do it while you’re working.

“Lie to someone who wants to hear it. I’m serious. Leave me alone.”

Well aware that you are rolling your eyes despite your face being turned from his view, he doesn’t bother to get offended by the gesture and instead unfolds his arms and wraps them around your body. Bending at the knees slightly, he rests his chin on your shoulder and holds your back to his broad chest, rocking you gently despite how you protest.

“You always assume you know what everyone else wants,” your husband tuts warmly. “But sometimes you have to accept that you’re wrong.” His voice carries no judgment or derision, just the air of a man who is stating facts. “Everything I want is right here and I’ll repeat it until you start to believe it.”

He’s an inescapable presence, large body enveloping yours; the scent of his skin filling your nostrils and making your resolve weaken with every passing moment. Lifting your arm, you wrap your hand around his forearm and smile when your fingers don’t touch.

What were you even mad about, again?

“If you say so.”

Another warm chuckle rumbles through him, shaking your body gently where it rests against his chest. Izuku moves his head to kiss your jaw, working open mouthed kisses down your ear and neck.

“I know so.” His retort is easy, that of a man who knows he has won today's battle, and you gasp when his arms leave their spot around you and he sinks to the ground, kneeling before you. His hands situate themselves on either of your hips and he pulls you toward him, already reaching to work the button of your pants open. “But let me show you, too.”

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if you should shove him away just to keep the argument going a little bit longer but the flash of those green eyes from below you changes your mind. Your breaths start to come in short pants and he leans in to press his nose against your partially covered mound, eyes fluttering shut as soon as he smells what he knows better than anyone is arousal.

Wordlessly, he rises again and hauls you over his shoulder, your squeaks and protests falling on deaf ears on his path to your shared bedroom to remind you what you really need after a stressful morning.

[slafkovskys]

can we have a little sneak about each of the boys and jealousy with angel

warnings: language, jealousy, mentions of sex/sexual activities

“oh,” she says before she can stop herself, eyes scanning over the notification. she thinks maybe she had said it quietly enough where it had gone unnoticed by the boys that she was sandwiched between, but she was wrong.

jack moves his head from where it had been resting on her stomach for the better part of an hour as she had corralled them onto the sofa to watch the great gatsby, “what’s wrong?”

“nothing, jacky. look, you’re missing the good part,” she tries to turn his head back to face the tv, but he quickly moves and lifts himself up on his elbows, “i’m serious-”

“you’re being weird.”

“he’s right,” luke chimes from where he was propped on her behind, a pillow in between his head and her ass because she swore he’d have a sore neck in the morning from his position. with a sigh, he pauses the movie and pushes himself up to look at her, “what happened?”

“nothing happened, you two. i-” their gazes that silently told her ‘cut the bullshit’ causes her to close her mouth and look down at her lap. she finds a loose thread on the t-shirt she had stolen from jack’s clean laundry and tugs on it, muttering under her breath. there’s a pinch to her thigh, a warning from luke (and a reminder to curse quinn about teaching the youngest his ways) and she frowns, “um, one of- one of quinn’s teammates just sent me an instagram dm. it’s fine-”

“let me see it,” jack demands and she hesitates before grabbing her phone, pulling up the message and handing it off. he rests a hand on her crossed legs as he takes his time reading the message before scoffing, “oh, that’s hilarious.”

“my turn,” luke snatches the phone from his brother and she takes her lip between her teeth as she awaits his reaction, “‘i can’t remember if i told you, but you looked beautiful last week. we should hang out the next time you’re visiting if you’re down?’ the fuck? is this how people flirt?”

“you slid into my dms,” she points out and luke sends her a glance, “but yours was better than that.”

“obviously because here you are, but back to our current situation,” jack points a finger at the phone, “who is he and why is he messaging you?”

“kids these days,” luke mumbles like he wasn’t much older than the culprit.

“we were talking when i went with quinn to the canuck’s charity thing for like, five minutes max. i didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” she explains. she watches as jack stares, nods, then reaches for his phone. her eyes go wide, “what’re you-”

“i have to call quinn.”

“please don’t,” she pleads and the line starts to trill once, twice, and then,

“hel-”

“one of your rookies just slid in angel’s dms,” jack interrupts and she swears she hears quinn’s phone clatter to the ground.

“they did what in her where?” he asks after a moment of rustling on his end. “who? what did they say?”

“one of your call-ups thought she looked really beautiful at your little gala last week and wanted to know if she’d be willing to go out next time that she was in town,” luke has a smirk on his lips as he relays the message that they all had scanned over by this point, “because apparently the q around her wrist doesn’t mean much to you?”

“okay, fuck you,” quinn spits, “angel, can you hear me?”

“hi quinny,” she starts nervously playing with jack’s hair now that the oldest’s attention is on her.

quinn sighs, “did he say anything to you?”

“i mean, we were talking while you were doing your captain things, but i was friendly! i’m always friendly, you guys know that-”

“we’re not blaming you, angel-”

“just some people don’t know the difference between flirty and friendly. i introduced her as my date,” quinn defends himself, though he didn’t have to. jack and luke just liked to make their brother squirm whenever the opportunity presented itself. “i’m sorry that i can keep it in my pants and don’t parade her around public functions covered in hickies or with my cum running down her leg.”

“there was that one time-”

“please,” she pleads, clenching her legs at the thought. jack and luke share a smirk before jack gently pats her leg. she huffs, “just- block him, luke. i won’t even respond to him and that can be the end of it.”

“oh, i’ll be saying something, angel. then that can be the end of it,” quinn says and she can hear the annoyance in his tone at the mere prospect of the pending conversation.

“quinny-”

“what are you all doing?”

and it wasn’t ten minutes after they hung up the phone and got back to their movie that she got another instagram notification. her stomach drops as she sees quinn had tagged her in a story and when she clicks it, she feels a small grin grace her lips. it was a picture brock’s girlfriend had taken of the two of them and while both of their heads were conveniently clipped off at the top, her back and dress were still very visible. just as visible as the hand quinn had on her ass, much too low to be considered friendly.

and that was that.

[astroboots]

EYEM #12

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Miguel has to face his worst nightmare, again and again.

Word count: 8,600

Content: body horror, violence, angst. please come in prepared.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

Everything is gone.

It's pitch black in here, and it's the only thing he can see in this cramped and confined darkness that's pressing in on him.

There's no air in this congested space. Everything tastes of sulfur and it burns in his lungs. His heart is pounding. Alarm gripping the base of his spine.

He's afraid, but he doesn't even know why. He shouldn't be.

Miguel hasn't been afraid of the dark for a very long time.

With his optical photo-sensitivity, he's more at home here in the twilight than he is in the light.

So why is every inch of him screaming out that something isn’t right?

He moves, trying to make his way forward, but all there is to navigate him is more seemingly infinite darkness.

The only sound in here is a loud beat of a drum that crowds his ears and he can't pinpoint its source. Everything is obscured and he is trapped in this endless eclipse.

There’s no noise that accompanies his footfall in this space. With each step his feet sink into the mire of unsteady ground. If he stops to rest, it would bring him under and swallow him whole. Even a second of delay here is going to cost him.

The thumping noise is still there... It comes harder and faster now, refusing to leave him.

Taking another step, there is something from the dark that tugs at him from behind. It feels like a grip. An unseen hand that he cannot make out in the thick inky shadows trying to grab onto his limbs.

Gritting his teeth, Miguel pushes back against the force holding him, but it’s not letting go. His claws extend, primed for a fight

The loud thrashing beats pulsing in his ears isn't stopping. He knows this panicked rhythm, will never forget it for as long as he lives. It's the sound of your heartbeat as you fell...

He turns in the darkness, and the sight that greets him makes him freeze.

It’s you.

His heart stops.

Your body is wrong, sprawled against the ground, mangled and broken as your arm reaches out trying to clutch at him.

"Don’t go,” you say.

His lungs drop to his stomach. He can’t breathe. Bile floods his throat. He doesn’t understand what is happening.

“Save me,” your voice calls out to him, this time coming somewhere from his left.

He turns towards the second voice to see another you. You are covered in blood. Dried and crusted on your bruised and ruptured skin.

All the fight bleeds out of him. His hands fall limply to his sides.

"Why didn’t you help me?" you repeat.

Your voice echoes in the blank empty space. It ricochets and bounces off the nothingness and returns back to him with a sharp strike to his ribs.

"You promised," you say and the accusation is repeated and threaded into the next, as he hears your voice again, this time from behind him.

"You let me die," a third of you says.

This you is missing an arm. The space where your right eye is supposed to be is hollowed out.

He falls to his knees, but he can’t feel the ground beneath. He doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to help or how to save you.

He can lift a 25,000 pound bus filled with school children barehanded. Can incapacitate a genetically mutated rhino-man in ten minutes flat. But he doesn’t know how to do this again. He’s already failed once and he is powerless in a way that a man gifted with superstrength shouldn’t be.

What are superpowers good for, if it doesn’t let him protect the one person he needs to.

Your voice is small and you sound terrified as you look up at him with those wide eyes of yours that will haunt him forever. "I don't want to die."

"It hurts," another you says. It's gargled and pained. Like there are bruises inside your throat.

"Please."

"Please."

“Save me”

The voices come in a chorus. They swarm him in a cacophony of sobbing pleas and angry accusations. He squeezes his eyes tight, trying to hide from the black void but the only thing that greets him is more darkness. There is no escape from this.

A thick tar rises from the ground and covers him in it, sealing off his mouth and nose. It fills his lungs with a cold viscous liquid until he can no longer breathe.

This is going to drown him, collapse his lungs with the weight of it, and there’s a part of him, if he’s being honest to himself, that wants it to. At least that would make it stop.

This grief in his chest that refuses to leave him. The sound of your heartbeat that fills his every waking moment. It would all finally stop... right?

The darkness swallows him whole. But it doesn't end. It never does.

The weight eases from his chest. Instead of an end, he re-emerges through the heavy muck and grime and slimy darkness, and there is nothing.

Everything is white. A blank empty void of space where nothing else exists.

You’re gone. Every single one of you. And that is so much worse.

Panic rises in him and he calls your name. There is no response, only the echo of his own feeble voice.

He calls and he calls until his throat is sore and raw, but there’s nothing here. Slumping down, he shuts his eyes, trying to forget how he has somehow managed to fail you all over again.

Then he hears your voice calling him. Soft and singular from all the rest.

"Miggy."

He opens his eyes again, and all he sees are your familiar eyes. Warm and loving and the only comfort he’s ever known.

“Nena?” he whispers.

He reaches up until you’re within his safe reach. He holds you, wrapping his arms around you and pressing you closely to every inch of him, trying to make sure you’re real.

You’re warm in his arms. Soft and precious. He presses his face into the soft crook of your neck, and you smell like the ridiculously expensive shampoo you get from that hipster store in Tribeca and it makes the homesickness he’s buried deep inside of him all this time crawl up through his chest to the surface.

He will always know you. This you. The you imprinted in his memory for the rest of time. The you that he wakes up every morning missing. The you he misses so much it hurts him to breathe when he thinks of you.

It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you, it’s you.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Nena, I’m so–”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, your arm curls around his neck as you pull him down closer to you. “Stay with me here.”

He nods into your neck where he’s buried. Because why would he ever want to be somewhere you’re not?

“I’m sorry. I was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to –”

You shush him before he can finish the rest of his sentence. “That doesn’t matter, you don’t have to do that anymore.”

Your fingers thread through his hair, and it tingles pleasantly as you press a soft kiss above his ear. “Just stay with me here. Forget about her.”

Forget?

He freezes in your arms, trying to process your words.

He can’t do that.

Miguel made a promise to you, the other you. The you that is fighting your hardest to survive and live back in New York. The absolutely mad and crazy you that jumped off the Chrysler building and fell from the sky just to lure him out. The you who makes weird sour faces while staring at excel spreadsheets all day long. The you that makes him feel something again. Who makes it feel like everything is going to be okay after all, every time you smile.

He can’t just abandon you.

“No, I can’t. I–I can’t stay here. I still need to protect her,” he murmurs into your skin.

“Stop, Miguel.” The arms around his neck squeezes down around him harder, and to his surprise he can’t get free.

This isn’t right. He tries to move away, gently prying himself off. He needs to save you. Has to help you. Needs to–

“Nena, please, I need to–”

One hard hand cups his jaw, tilting his head until he meets pitched dark eyes he doesn't recognize that are nothing like yours. “You can’t save me, Miggy. You never could. Don’t you understand? It’s your fault I keep dying.”

The voice is cold and unforgiving, and the grip tightens on him until it’s painful.

“You’re just gonna make it worse.”

Sharp nails digs into his forearm until it ruptures the skin. “How many more of me do you have to kill before you stop?”

“I didn’t, I–”

He didn't... right? Is it his fault? Is it–

"Miguel!"

He hears his name. It’s muffled and far away. Like someone is calling him from the outside.

Distracted, he looks up into the void, easing his grip. The warmth and weight pressed against him fades. He looks down to see the outline of a torso and arms crumbling in his arms. The features of your face fading before him into nothingness against the infinite blank white.

No, no. no. Tears and panic wells up in his throat and pushes against the corner of his eyes.

Why does this keep happening? He shouldn’t have let go. Shouldn’t have–

“Miguel, wake up.” It’s soft and familiar and he hears it again. There’s no anger in the voice this time. No pain.

The whiteness fades away back into darkness. It’s warm here, wherever it is.

Blinking slowly, he opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is your face. The warmth of your eyes, the soft curve of your lips.

"You looked like you were having a nightmare again," you say.

You are here right in front of him, real and solid and alive.

He shoots upright in bed, arms reaching out before he can stop himself from grabbing you as he drags you into his arms, clutching you hard to him.

"Miguel–" you yelp.

Too hard, and he knows it, he can hear the small squeak of surprise as your breath is squeezed right out of you.

He’s such an idiot.

He should let you go. At this rate he's going to crush you. He’s a big clumsy oaf that doesn’t know how to handle you carefully, but he can't make himself let go. Can't risk that you'll start to crumble into dust the moment he eases up, or that the universe won't find some way to rip you from him again.

“Are you okay?” you ask breathlessly.

Bile of anxiety pushes against the sides of his throat, but he swallows it down. Forces himself to relax his grip on you and let you out of his arms.

“Yeah,” he answers, but it doesn’t sound anything like his own voice. When has his voice ever sounded that weak? When has it ever trembled like this? Why are his hands shaking?

You observe him with worry, then you reach up, resting one hand on the crown of his head, patting gently. Warmth spreads down to his chest and lingers.

It feels good... nice.

All he wants is to lean in and linger in it.

Instead his mind refuses to let go. A thousands thoughts pushes its way to the front.

How did this happen? Did he fall asleep? He was supposed to watch over you while you slept. How did he end up being the one falling asleep?

"I won't let anything happen to you,” you say. Your hand slide down to cup his cheek, searching for his eyes.

“Anyone messes with you, you let me know. I'll beat them up for you.”

He blinks down at you dumbfounded. The absurd image of you, with balled up fist trying to fight a supervillain flashes before his eyes. Then he bursts into laughter. It's so sudden he surprises even himself and the tremor in his hand stops somehow.

You pull your lips into a soft and playful smile.

“What? You don’t think I can?” you lean in closer to his face, as you continue. “Yeah, maybe you’re right, but I know this spider-guy, he'll beat them up for you. He's really grouchy and mean and he bites.”

The smile on your face is so bright it’s radiant even in this dimly lit room. You’re beaming from it and his heart starts to swell, chest feeling full and warm at the sight of you.

He wishes he could hold onto this moment and make it last forever. You look like a polaroid picture the way you’re bent over in front of him, framed by the window behind you and the pink glow of light around you like a halo.

Pink sky.

His smile freezes. He turns his head to look back at the eerie sky behind you. The fractured cityscape of cracked purple and pink, with its warped gravity and jagged skyscrapers that signals the end of the world. The universe is calling time up and it’s going to try to take you with it.

It wasn’t just a dream.

Shit! He’s not gonna let this happen to you. He can’t lose this. He’s not going to fail you. Not again. Never again.

The smile on your face falters. “Where did you go?” you ask and your eyes track his, trying to re-establish contact. “Did I lose you again?”

He shakes his head, putting on a smile to reassure you.

“I’m fine. Just groggy. Slept too long.” His eyes flicker away from the window, and glances at the clock: 7 A.M. the two of you better get going.

There is no more time to lose. He was never supposed to fall asleep in the first place. He’d only wanted for you to get some sleep last night after the broken sky appeared to calm your nerves. The plan was for you to rest for an hour, max two, while he watched over you, before the two of you would check out of this hotel and be gone for good. He hadn’t counted on his streak of sleepless nights finally catching up to him.

“Go pack, Cielito. We better get going soon.”

You hop onto your feet, shoving the handful of your surviving clothes into your backpack in minutes.

His eyes roam over the hotel suite. As pompous and luxuriously decorated as it is, it’s altogether temporary. It’s just a showroom, nothing in here is lived in. It’s nothing like your tiny cramped little apartment in the Heights that is now just a pile of rubble.

He misses your apartment.

The place you call your home, and in another time and another place, it is near identical to the one he used to come home to every night.

The one with janky second hand furniture you picked up from Craigslist adverts. With a table that has uneven legs that you have to prop up with books so things don’t slide off its tilted surface. Or the surprisingly nice sofa you found on the side of the street one summer which led to the infamous bedbugs wars you so dramatically retell.

In front of him, he sees you stop and scan the room and Miguel knows damned well it’s because you’re considering pilfering any free stuff you can fit inside that tiny bag. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he sees you duck into the bathroom.

Then he can hear the clang and clutter of you shoveling everything that isn’t attached to the wall into the backpack.

Miguel doesn’t have anything to pack. There’s no point, he’s been doing this for years now by himself without hoarding belongings. If he needs clothes or personal hygiene products, Lyla always takes care of it for him. Easier than lugging things around with him from dimension to dimension.

The only thing he’s ever kept is his wedding ring that hangs around his neck.

He eyes the small crumpled up ball of paper, that is your poor attempt at practicing origami, perched on the bedside table.

God, the thing looks messed up and ugly.

Reaching out to pick it up in his palms, he stares at it for a long suspended moment, at its warped folded lines and squashed head. Doesn’t understand how you manage to still be so bad at this even with all the time you spend at it. Origami isn’t hard.

He smiles as he continues to stare at it, before pocketing the sad looking Frankenstein-frog.

It’ll be okay to keep one more thing won’t it? A piece of paper doesn’t weigh much.

From beyond the windows, the sky has cracked open, with a menacing glowing splinter positioned right above the hotel. It’s like a billboard sign, pointing right at your location. It feels purposeful.

“You ready?” you ask, as you pop out of the bathroom with an expectant look on your face. “We better hurry up. We don’t want to stick around when the Avengers come by.”

You say it lightheartedly as a joke, but he can see the unease in your smile, the way your eyes flicker towards the window with traces of fear.

His hands curl into fists at his side against the sheets, and whatever smile was on his face slips away at the sight of you like this.

His fangs itch. Screw the Avengers. They are not going to come close to you. He won’t let them.

"Cielo, it's okay. You have nothing to worry about. If they become a threat to you, I'll take care of them," Miguel says.

You scoff with a small laugh, as you try to zip up the overfull backpack, but the fancy complimentary soaps keep spilling from the top.

"What do you mean "take care" of them? What are you Michael Corleone, what're you going to–" You stop mid sentence.

The playful smile drops from your face. Your hands come to a halt above the flap of your bag, and Miguel watches the realization sink into your eyes.

“No. Don’t be silly,” you say empathetically, shaking your head. “You can’t fight the Avengers.”

“I’ll eliminate them if I have to.”

You drop your bag to the floor, where it lands with a thud and you stare at him in disbelief.

"No. No you're not. We're not killing any Avengers. Jesus! That’s some textbook supervillain shit, Miguel. They’re earth’s mightiest heroes!”

Your fingers wrap around your wrist, fiddling with the smooth surface of the device, as you turn back around and look out over the sky.

"I don’t understand. Why aren’t we just using the watch? You said you were done fixing it. Why do we need to be on the run? I thought that so long as I leave this dimension that will solve everything right?"

A flash of endless white invades his mind. The blank infinite void and your face crumbling underneath his fingers.

Fear grips his spine, and he feels sick at the thought. Has to grind down on his jaw to swallow the bile pressing up against his throat.

"No," he grits out.

"Miguel, what do you mean ‘no’?"

He shakes his head, and his lips itch with irritation, “We can’t use it, Not until we know it’s safe. It’s still untested.”

“Well, yeah? But the only way to test if it works, is to actually use it.”

“Not on you,” he grits out.

“Okay,” you sigh, clearly frustrated with him. “What do you suggest then?”

“We need to test it on someone.”

You tilt your head, brows drawn together in deep thought. “What, like… animal testing? Are we going to find a rabbit or something?”

“No, not a rabbit. Their physiological and genetic make-up is too different. Even if they make it through, it doesn’t give us an indication it’s safe for you. We’d need to test it on someone human.”

Your eyes widen at his answer, and he can see the moment it clicks for you. You take a step back away from him, seemingly without conscious thought, as if some remnant survival instinct is telling you to keep your distance.

“We can’t just grab an innocent person off the street.”

Miguel snaps, veins flashing with heat as his hands curl into fists at his sides, and a blinding white crowds his vision. “You wanna go back to the void!? Is that what you want?”

“No, but what if it doesn’t work? What if they get hurt? Or worse, what if they die and disappear?”

Something cold drips through his chest and he feels strangely numb and devoid of empathy for the thought of those other people.

“Better them than you,” he says.

Your mouth drops with an expression of disbelief as you run up to him.

“No, that’s not right, and you know it! Let’s just use the watch Miguel, we’re running out of time.”

There is a faint phantom sound of a beating pulse burrowed in his brain that won’t stop. He tries to bite down against his teeth to make it stop but it does nothing to mute it.

Fuck, fuck. His head hurts, streaks of white pain lashing against his temple. “We’re not taking any risks,” he grits out.

Something touches his cheek, and the suddenness of it makes him flinch until he realizes it’s you.

You and your soft hand splayed across his face as you tilt him down to meet your gaze.

“The world is literally ending outside because of me. People are going to die if I don’t do this. It’s not up for debate.”

He doesn’t understand.

Why don't you see that none of that is important. That's not where your focus should be. After everything that’s happened. After everything you’ve been through, you need to be prioritizing yourself. It’s the only way you’ll make it out of this alive. Why can’t you see that?

“People are always going to die,” he tells you. “I can’t save them all. But I can save you. You’re the only one I care about.”

Your hand slips from his face and he walks across the room, picking up your discarded backpack from the floor and stretches out his hand towards you.

“Come on, let’s get going,” he says.

You don’t take his hand. Your eyes are glued to the floor, and he can’t read your expression. The jarring beating noise in his head is getting louder now. It aches and threatens to split his skull apart with it.

“I’m not going to leave,” you say, without moving.

A bitter sound crawls out of his throat and it tastes like mud. “I thought you said you wanted to live. You asked me to protect you, remember?”

“I know, but not like this. Not at the expense of other people’s lives.”

God this is ridiculous.

“Let them die! This world would turn on you in a second!” he snaps.

It already did once, and he doesn’t know why you would care about the lives of people who never did the same for you.

You bite down on your lower lip as if gathering courage before you meet his eyes again.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me so far,” you say.

Miguel can feel his own brows draw tight in confusion. You sound so formal and unlike you, like he’s a stranger to you. You’ve never spoken to him like that, even back when he first met you and you didn’t even know him.

“What are you talking about?” he sneers. Some part of him doesn’t want to understand what he’s hearing even as you’re saying the words.

You smile, sad and disingenuous and it breaks his heart all over again, cause he’s seen this smile on you before and it nearly killed him.

“You only promised me three months until the universe collapsed. It’s happening now, so our time is up.”

His heart sinks at your words. So this is how it ends up again huh? You’re not going to let him save you.

He can’t even imagine it. Or rather, he can. Can imagine all too well the myriad of ways you could die. All the ways that he could fail to save you again. Knows he wouldn’t survive holding your broken body in his arms a second time.

“Cielito,” he says quietly, tipping your face up to his with his fingers on your jaw. “Please.”

The unease in your eyes is still there and he has to look away. Drop his own eyes, and just stand there feeling like his chest is caving in and taking the universe with it because…. because….

“I can’t… do this.” The words come out in a hoarse whisper. “I can’t lose you again”.

“Then let’s use the watch. Now. No test bunnies,” you try again, eyes sparking with something like a glimpse of hope.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he knows you’re doing your best to convince him. Because up until now, everytime you’ve asked him something he’s always said yes.

He's never known how to say no to you.

“You might die.”

You give him a strained smile, as you look up at him and his chest aches at the sight of how sad and scared this one is compared to every other one you’ve thrown his way up until now.

“That’s a risk we’ll just have to take,” you say.

Images of you flash before his eyes, crowding his vision. Of your body, broken and mangled and wrong. Your lip split open and blood trickling down your nose. Of your broken bones and missing eye.

No.

Not this time.

Sadness gives into anger. It burns and simmers in his veins until it roars with an unquenchable flame.

“I’m not gonna let that happen.”

He steps forward towards you and at his advance, you retreat, walking backwards until your back hits the wall. You jolt in surprise at the contact, too focused on him that you’re not paying attention to your surroundings.

You have no survival instincts. You wouldn’t survive two minutes out there alone without him.

“Wait! Wait. Miguel, what are you–”

Your arms raise in self defense to fend him off before he so much as touches you. But it’s no use. It doesn’t matter that you’re using everything in you to try to push him away. Doesn’t matter that you’re summoning every ounce of force against him. It doesn’t make any difference.

He barely exerts any effort, circling one hand around both your wrists, and locks them there against the wall to hold you in place.

If you refuse to let him protect you, he’ll have no other choice but to make you. He parts his mouth, holding you firm against him as he bares your throat to him.

One bite. That’s all it’d take. He could keep you safe while he does what’s necessary, you wouldn’t even know what happened by the time you fully wake. It’d be so simple.

Would be.

But there's a familiar sound that invades his ears. The rhythm of your heart pounding painfully hard and fast. The very same sound that haunts him when he's awake and into his sleep.

He looks down at you, your eyes are wide, brimming with tears. There’s fear there.

You’re scared... of him.

His stomach sinks. This wasn’t supposed to be the way it goes.

He just wanted you safe. Happy. Alive. Why won’t the universe let him keep you alive.

“Miguel, please.” Your voice is small, trembling on the words as you barely get them out. “Don’t do this.”

He stops.

Releasing his hold on you, he lets your hand slide back down against the wall.

Fuck, what was he thinking? What was he doing?

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I–”

He stands in front of you, unsure of what to do or what to say as he gazes down on your frightened expression.

There’s a tremor in your shoulder and the wet sheen of tears threatening to spill from your eyes. All he wants is to draw you into his arms, to hold and comfort you to make it better. But how can he do that when he’s the cause of it.

He keeps his distance, staring down at you. He doesn't know what to do.

"Miguel–" you start.

Before he hears the rest of your sentence, there’s a strange sound that Miguel picks up from a distance breaking his attention.

A low hum of an engine, that makes his entire back tense. It’s the sound of something flying through the air. Not large enough to be another helicopter. But whatever it is, it’s moving at the speed of a fighter jet and approaching your hotel.

Everything in him roars to attention as he tears his eyes towards the window.

There is a small silhouette that grows larger as it approaches in the distance against the broken skyline.

Then it's here.

A plated armor of shiny gold and metallic red that hovers in the middle of the sky against your city view of 62 floors up.

A man covered in alloyed iron from head to toe.

Guess that’s why he calls himself Iron Man. Not very imaginative is he.

Miguel can feel you tense up next to him. Before you have a chance to get any funny ideas (like give yourself up) he puts a hand on your shoulder, cautiously nudging you back to stand behind him. He steps forward until his body blocks you entirely from view.

In front of him, Stark enters through the open balcony door moving forward until he’s standing some 10 feet away from you. It is entirely too close for Miguel’s liking.

There’s a crackle in the air as a distorted voice sounds through the speakers of the armor. “Step away from the lady, Big Blue,” the quippy voice that is unmistakably Stark’s says.

Miguel throws a glance at the Iron Man, the way he’s tracking dirt and scraping his clanky metal feet across your hotel room floors.

“I’ve been told by an old friend that these strange occurrences and the looming end of the world are related to our lovely Disney princess over here. So we’re gonna have to take her in.”

“Miguel,” you start from behind him, nudging at his wrist. “It’s okay, I should–”

He cuts you off. “And what are you planning on doing to her if I did?”

Even behind an expressionless steel mask, Stark averts his gaze. A reflexive gesture of guilt.

Yeah, that’s what Miguel thought.

At least the man has the decency to feel ashamed.

Adrenaline buzzes through Miguel’s veins, and he feels the heady rush of it as he unsheaths his claws, primed for a fight. “You’re not laying a fucking finger on her.”

“Wait,” you shout trying to push your way past him, but Miguel blocks and drags you back behind him.

“Don’t hurt him,” you shout above his shoulder.

Christ!Miguel can’t believe you’re still trying to argue Stark’s case when the man admitted he's planning on executing you.

“We’ve built a device that lets us leave this dimension. Things will go back to normal when I’m gone,” you continue trying desperately to negotiate with the bastard.

Stark shakes his head. He takes another step closer, and Miguel feels fire and brimstone crackle in his chest.

“I’m afraid we’re out of time” Stark says, taking yet another step. “We can’t take the risk. We have no reassurance the universe will just reset when you leave.”

You finally stop struggling against Miguel at those words.

“Sorry, Sparkles. No hard feelings. But it’s you versus the fate of the entire universe. I hope you understand.”

Miguel wants to laugh. He's heard that sentiment before.

There is a hellish whirring sound of an engine gearing up in warning, Stark raises his hand as the reactor in the metal armor goes glaringly bright. Aimed in your direction.

Miguel leaps, grabbing you by the waist with one arm and curling his other behind your head for protection. The first blast hits the wall not two inches from where your face would have been.

He pivots midair, crashing into the nearest wall of glass, making sure his shoulder connects with the window for impact to make your escape. Glass shatters around you both as he leaps from the 62nd floor.

The cold evening air lashes punishingly against his face at the descent. Your arms tighten around his neck, and the two of you fall through the sky, in the way you two have twice before.

Miguel cuts through air and gravity, soaring downwards.

He has to get you out of here. Has to throw them off and lose them.

Something sharp whizzes through his side, with a whiny little noise.

Arrows, he realizes. His fangs practically itch with annoyance.

What kind of idiot brings arrows to a superhero fight?

He tears through the air, intending to dodge them, but an invisible force wraps around his limbs with a punishing force.

The only thing he can see is a thin red fog infiltrating the nearby air surrounding him. Some kind of weird, dark magic. Miguel doesn’t linger on the thought for long.

There’s more of them, the stupid arrows. One after another, all aimed with uncanny precision despite the increasing velocity the two of you are falling with.

Miguel should be able to easily dodge them, but with his restrained mobility he can’t guarantee it wouldn’t leave you exposed. At this angle and trajectory, they’d pierce right through your femur.

Shit! He can't risk it.

Twisting in the air, it’s all Miguel can do to press you closer and cover every exposed inch of you that he can. One arrow pierces right through his ankle, another his side between his sixth and seventh ribs.

Fuck!

Kicking out his feet, against the cladding of the building, he tries to break his fall as best as he can as he sinks his claws into the concrete for leverage to climb upwards.

But he misjudges the angle. Miscalculates the weight. Gets everything wrong.

Sharp pain streaks through his leg as he tries to gain traction one last time, gripping with the claws of his feet. It doesn’t work. He falls.

All he can do is brace your fall with his body so you don’t get hurt.

He lands with a nauseating thud against the hard roof below. Back first, absorbing all the impact, and the white blinding pain spears through the length of his entire spine.

Fuck, everything hurts.

He tries to get up, but his shoulder is fucked. The muscles burn, and he can’t seem to move properly, must’ve dislocated it on his way down.

“Miguel, are you–”

“I'm fine,” he interrupts, biting down hard to stem the agonized groan that wants to erupt. “It's fine. We’re okay.”

He takes hold of the sloping roof tiles beneath his claws, the building seems tilted at an impossible angle. It must be the after effects of this dimension warping.

Gripping tight, he uses it to leverage himself upright, ignoring the painful sensation shooting through the nerves of his back.

He hooks his claws into the crevice of the cement and begins to climb. It's excruciating, but he manages it, laboriously dragging the both of you up the short length of wall to settle you on a ledge, where you at least have the questionable safety of steady ground beneath your feet.

Fuck, you’re shaking, obviously terrified. He pulls you to him until he can cradle you in his arms and between his legs, and wrap himself around you, hoping to comfort you.

This is so stupid. He should’ve just listened to you from the start. Should have had Lyla transport you out of here.

Shouldn’t have let it go this far. He just couldn’t do it. Wasn’t willing to take the risk. Couldn’t live with himself if his miscalculation would be what took your life.

He didn’t want to risk it.

But he’s running out of options.

Because he needs you to live. This version of you. This you who drives him mad and makes him smile and makes him want to live again. Singular and unique, and he’s going to love you until his dying breath. Just as surely as he loves the other you.

“Lyla,” he calls out and from your wrist, the familiar amber glow springs up and Lyla appears. “Calculate the location for a dimension jump.”

“What destination?” she asks, simple and straight to the point. For once there’s no sass. Even Lyla must understand the severity of their situation. That more than everything else that preceded this moment makes Miguel worry about just how fucked the two of you are.

He takes a second to think about it. Where could he safely bring you? Somewhere you could be safe without a doubt. A dimension without Avengers or interlopers or mad crazy shit like this that would put you at risk. A place that he knows like the back of his hand.

“Earth 928-C,” Miguel orders.

He watches you, tucked to his side, eyes wide and afraid and guilt grips at his lungs. How has he managed to fuck it up this badly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, gripping firmer around your shoulders. “You were right. I’m sorry. We should’ve just done it your way from the start.”

“Mig.” Your eyes soften, the worry and alarm melting from your eyes.

It doesn’t last for very long. The scent of sulfur singes the evening air. Then there's a bright flash of red lightning against the sky.

Miguel only gets a split second to catch it in the corner of his eyes, then it’s already flying towards you.

He leaps in front of you, pushing you back and out of the way.

Whatever it is, hits him with the force of a tank, catapulting him into the air. He doesn’t have time to react but his latent survival instinct reacts for him, webbing shoots out of his wrist by reflex, sticking to a nearby wall. It’s the only thing that holds him suspended in the air so he doesn’t drop some several hundred feet below.

There’s a high pitched whistle echoing between his ear drums. He feels discombobulated. Like he doesn’t know left from right and when Miguel pulls himself upright, everything spins. He is sure that he is going to be sick and vomit.

Reaching down to his stomach, it’s strangely wet. Must be the fucking rain, which is… odd, because the material of the suit is supposed to be hydrophobic.

He brings up his fingers into view, and instead of the shin gray of water, his hand is soaked in red.

Well fuck.

There’s gashes in his suit. Deep cuts that’s broken through the skin. He’s bleeding. Heavily.

Shit, he doesn’t have time for this.

Where are you?

He grits his teeth, ignoring the sharp and searing pain as he grabs hold of the cold metal of a nearby banister and pulls himself back up to the rooftop. A groan escapes him before he can swallow it back down.

It’s fine. It hurts. But it’ll heal.

It doesn’t matter. He scans his surroundings, searching for you. What matters is you.

On the far side of the next building, he spots your colorful bright shirt. You’re sitting upright, which means you’re still conscious.

Still alive. Thank god.

Relief floods him until he spots the looming shape of shiny metal above you. Stark.

Your mouth is moving as you look up at the man and even with his super hearing Miguel can barely make out the words you’re saying above the chaotic noises surrounding him.

“Promise me you won’t hurt him, please.”

A cold sliver runs up his spine when he hears you. The realization lances through him painfully. You weren’t arguing for Stark’s case before.

Why is he always such an idiot?

Stark extends one hand towards you, raising the repulsor gauntlet. The blazing reactor in his palm blinds Miguel’s retinas with a sharp pain.

“I won’t,” Stark promises.

No. nononono.

Miguel leaps before he can think. There is no thought or tactics. His brain is wiped blank, driven by pure impulse and instincts: to protect you. Keep you safe. Keep you alive.

He tears through the air, feet stomping down on the hard iron torso and Miguel grabs the hard metallic throat under his hand, putting his entire body-weight into it as he slams down until there’s a satisfying crunch beneath. Can feel the hard alloy skull hit the concrete with a heavy and unforgiving thud.

A blast goes off, and there’s sharp and bright searing pain that burns along his entire side, but he ignores it.

He slams down again, blindly and without aim. Until the force pushing back against him from underneath stops and goes slack.

The light on the eye sockets flicker. Then the robot suit slumps and powers down in his grip. Miguel lets go, letting the heavy suit fall to the ground, before pulling away.

His feet wobble on the ground beneath as he takes a step back. His line of vision askew and tilted. He can feel his consciousness slipping, and he has to shake his head hard, to snap himself out of it.

He needs to find you and get you out of here.

Everything spins. The skyline seems to swim in swirly lines, and he can’t tell if it’s his consciousness failing him or the reality around him is warping.

From a distance he sees your small silhouette, running up towards him, and all he feels is relief spreading through his chest.

“Miguel,” You reach for him, pulling off your cardigan and shoving the fabric of it onto him, pressing it up against his stomach to slow down the bleeding.

“It’s fine. Leave it.”

“No, it’s not fine! Nothing is fine! You’re hurt, bleeding and–” your voice is trembling, and he can hear the tears pushing up against the surface as your shaking hands fumble in your attempt to try to keep the pressure on him to stem the bleeding.

You’re in tears over worry for him.

You care too much. Always did, and he doesn’t deserve it.

To his left the arc reactor engine whirrs as it reboots and starts back up.

Stark is conscious again.

From a distance, Miguel can hear the faint sound of more jet engines whizzing through the air.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see the silhouette of a woman rising in the sky, bathed in a menacing crimson halo of an aura.

Bastard is calling for backup. The two of you have only a handful of seconds left at best.

You're surrounded.

There isn’t enough time. Lyla is probably not even done with the calculations. There may still be errors. God knows where the two of you will end up this time.

But it’s now or never.

“Cielito.”

At the nickname your eyes dart up to his. The fear in your eyes calms when you hear his voice, and he can’t help the faint smile tugging on his lips despite the situation the two of you are in.

Even though he hasn’t earned it after everything he’s put you through tonight, there’s still trust left in there for him. It is more than he would have dared to wish for.

Miguel cups your cheeks, cradling it in his hands. They're damp, stained with tears that he wipes away with his thumb.

He wished he had some perfect words that could make them stop. Wished he could have done something that prevented them from happening in the first place.

"I'm not going to let you die." He leans down until his forehead rests on yours.

"I love you," he says, and he just wished he'd said it to you sooner. Wished he'd gotten to say it more than once.

There's a lot that Miguel wishes he could have done differently.

“Lyla.” His hand finds your wrist and the familiar cool metal of the device. Then he presses the button and all he can do is hope for the best.

“Get us out,” he commands.

A burst of light erupts all around him. Bright and blinding.

Please let it work this time.

You wake to darkness. Everything is washed in a hue of moody blue.

There’s no one here besides you. Miguel isn’t here.

Your gaze darts to your left and to your right, but you can’t make out anything.

You can’t find him anywhere. Didn’t you two go through the portal together? Why isn’t he here?

Panic climbs up your chest and claws into your lungs, you feel like your chest is collapsing in on itself and you can’t breathe. Did something happen to Miguel?

Miguel was hurt. He was bleeding a lot. It comes to you in scattered fragments. The sharp smell of iron filling your nostrils. Slick viscous liquid, sticky on your fingers. The sound of his choked and bitten off pain as he tried to protect you.

You can’t do this. Can’t sit here and wallow in your fear when there is so little time. You bite down on your tongue, stifling the pathetic sob that wants to climb out of your throat. You make yourself swallow it back down as you force yourself to stand up on wobbly legs, and observe your surroundings.

There’s nothing here. Just this dim muted darkness. Just more empty space. There’s no wind here. You’re not exposed to the environment, which means you’re definitely inside a building somewhere. Craning your head upwards, the ceiling stretches high over 20 feet at least and you can barely see where the walls begin or end.

Where the hell are you?

Bringing your wrist up, you press the power button of the watch. “Lyla?”

Nothing.

Oh fuck, you’re all by yourself.

You mash the button with your thumb, pressing a little bit too hard, as you call for her again.

There’s a pinging sound, as the holographic image floats above your wrist.

“Sorry, sorry! That was a rough ride,” she says as she straightens her heart shaped glasses that are crooked on her nose.

Immediate relief fills you at her familiar face. “Lyla, where are we?”

She makes a face. “I’m not entirely sure. I didn’t have time to finish my calculations before Miggy had me pull you through.”

“Where’s Miguel,” you ask, and your voice is sharp and shrill even to your own ears.

Lyla peers up at you, eyes filled with something that looks like concern. “Your heart rate is very elevated. You might be in shock. Do you want me to show you edited photos of Miguel in a bunny suit to make you feel better?”

From a distance you can see a door left slanted. There’s a flicker of blue and amber light from beyond it, and you start to walk towards it.

“Is that a door?”

“Uhm, boss-girl I don’t think that’s a good idea. We don’t know where we are.”

Despite Lyla’s warnings, you keep going, because whatever danger waits behind that door, it’s still better than the alternative of sitting like a lame duck, wasting precious time when Miguel is hurt and in need of help.

You reach the door and peer into the next room. There are holographic screens in the middle of the space raised on a podium.

In the center of it you see him. His familiar broad back hunched over the screens. Dark-blue fabric that stretches wide over his shoulders. You’d recognize him anywhere.

Miguel.

He’s here. He’s okay.

You run up towards him, nearly skidding on your unsteady feet as you begin to full on sprint. “Miguel!”

At your voice, the whole of his back stiffens and straightens up until he slowly turns towards you.

You run up the podium and you feel like you can finally breathe again as you reach him, flinging your arms around his neck as soon as he is within reach. You want to cry with the overwhelming relief that fills up the whole of your chest as his arms come up and wrap around you like a protective cocoon.

“I woke up and you weren’t here, and I thought, I thought…” you’re rambling, words clogged up with the tears you had held back before. Now though, in his arms, the floodgates have opened and there's no stopping them.

“I’m here,” he says.

One hand soothingly strokes the small of your back while his other gently stroke your face, fingers sliding down your throat and shoulder, assessing you.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

His voice turns cold, gritted out with anger between his teeth that makes your spine breaks out in shivers. “Who did this to you?”

You raise your head from his embrace, looking up at him in confusion.

No, you’re not the one bleeding, the blood is his. What does he mean who did this to you?

“What do you mean?” you sniffle. “I’m not– The Avengers they– It’s your bloo–” your words come out stuttering and scrambled. You can barely think. Your heart is beating so hard you think it’s going to burst out of your chest.

Lyla said this didn’t she? You’re in shock.

His eyes soften at your distress, and he gently shushes you as he strokes your cheeks, guiding you back to his chest. His hand rests on the top of your head as he keeps you there pressed up against him, locked in the protective space of his embrace.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says quietly into your ear. His voice is so soft and gentle, in complete contrast to the iron grip of his arms locked around your chest and back.

It feels different.

You stiffen in his arms, and his hold on you tightens. Your blood freezes in your veins. Something is wrong.

“It’s okay, I’m not gonna let anything hurt you, Nena.”

Huh?

No, you’re not–

Miguel doesn’t call you that.

He buries his face into your collarbone, mouth pressing to your skin.

You try to resist, try to anchor your hand that’s trapped between your bodies to wedge and push him away, but he only holds you to him firmer.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs into your neck, and you can feel his warm breath gust over the goosebumped skin. The hint of his sharp fangs scraping across your flesh.

Wait, wait–

“You’re not Mig–”

The rest of it is lost in a pained gasp. His teeth sink into your neck. Bright sharp whiteness blinds your vision and excruciating pain sears through your nervous system. Every ounce of strength in you goes with it, your muscles turn slack as you lose control over your own body.

Everything goes dark again.

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: To my most beloved and bestest of clown @thirstworldproblemss. I love you dearly and I am running out of ways to tell you just how much. You're so special to me and I'm so grateful to have you as a friend and collaborator and muse and everything in between.

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Hi love, I recently found your tumblr and I'm obsessed, you write so well and i alredy read everthing you wroted <3 would you mind writing a fluff imagine reader x hannibal x will? something like the reader feeling out of place in the relationship, thinking she doesn't fit in with them but them proving her wrong and they love her so much!! Thank you * 3 *

Howdy! Awww thanks so much!! Glad you like my stuff! <33

Thanks for requesting!

———

The sound of Will and Hannibal’s voices turned into a soft din in the background. Your gaze was fixed on the fire dancing in the hearth, your mind further beyond.

The two of them were recounting the events of the day. They’d been assisting Jack with an ongoing investigation, but you hadn’t been listening closely to all the details.

You liked to observe their rapport from time to time — the familiarity, the subtleties, the mutual understanding, among other things. They had met long before you’d come along, and though they didn’t always agree on things, they had their system.

And how you fit into that system wasn’t always clear, leaving you feeling slightly unmoored.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Hannibal’s voice pierced through your daze. “Are we boring you?”

You smiled a little, looking up to see them both looking right back at you.

“No, just thinking,” you said, adjusting your position on the chaise. “Did I miss anything?”

“Not really, just realized we’d been talking for a while,” Will said, eyes scanning your face. “What were you thinking of?”

You shrugged, not really wanting to give those thoughts a voice. He set his glass down and stood up, lifting your legs so he could sit beside you, then placing them over his lap.

“I can tell something’s up,” he said, hands massaging your legs lightly. “How can we help?”

You absently played with a loose thread on your old sweater, meekly glancing at them in turn before sighing.

“I don’t know… it might sound kind of dumb,” you started. “I’ve been thinking… I guess I put myself in the sidelines because, well, I’m not sure where else I should be. Maybe I’m that janky extra piece that sometimes come with puzzles.”

The two of them shared a look, understanding your meaning.

“That’s not true,” Will said with a frown. “You are the last piece of the puzzle, the one that brings everything together.”

You blinked at him in surprise. Hannibal kneeled in front of you so you would be at eye level, taking your hand.

“Perhaps we’ve let the comfort of your presence become… second nature. That was a mistake,” he said, brushing his lips over your knuckles. “Our love is sometimes quiet, but it is still there. I don’t want you to ever doubt it.”

Will squeezed your leg reassuringly, his gaze softening with the bare truth of Hannibal’s words. Giddiness fluttered in your chest, warming you up.

You knew the two of them rarely, if ever, let anybody get close. But you were not just anybody, and their gift had been the trust to fully let you in. What was that if not love?

“I’m surprised you don’t notice me following you around like a lovesick puppy,” Will said, smiling lopsidedly in amusement. “Hannibal won’t let me hear the end of it.”

“I think I’m just in my head too much…” you murmured, biting your lip as Hannibal leaned in to kiss your cheek.

“We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we, Will?” He said.

Will nodded and reached over to take your free hand, thumb tracing over the back of it. “Anything for you.”

——

[fairyhaos]

ᥫ᭡ // dude, i can see (through) you

vernon x gn!reader fluff, crack(?), supernatural au, non-idol au, ghosts, ft. ghost!jeonghan

3.5k+ words

warnings for: mentions of insomnia, pills

summary: when you move into your new house that seems almost too good to be true, you find yourself (not quite) face-to-face with the prettiest boy you've ever seen.

“Hey, hey, Hansol, did you hear that the family are finally leaving the house?”

“What? Already? Hyung, come on, why do you keep doing this?”

“It’s fun! I bet it was the floating pots and pans that did it. You know how much effort I put in to get those to lift up.”

“I liked these people. They had a dog!”

“Yeah, and the dog could see us. That’s a no-no.”

“Still, hyung, don’t you think we should just… try to live peacefully?”

“Ha! That’s funny. Anyways, I bet I can make the next tenant move out in just a month.”

“No. You shouldn’t do that.”

“So you don’t think I can?”

“I don’t think you should—”

“Oh, it’s on, Hansol! I'm gonna prove it to you!”

“Please don’t.”

───────────── 👻

There is something seriously, seriously wrong with your new house.

It’s nothing obviously wrong, however: on paper, it’s a perfect place. Situated in a nice town, not in an hugely overpopulated area, with various convenience stores and a park close by. Even the house is perfect: not too big, not too small, and, above all, startlingly cheap.

Everything about it is perfect. But from the first day that you move in, you realise that things are a bit… strange.

“Where the hell has my laptop gone?”

You thread your hand through your hair, exasperated. In the middle of your desk, where your laptop ought to be, there was an empty space.

You’ve always been a forgetful person, accidentally leaving your shoes in the wrong place or leaving doors open or forgetting where you put your keys, but this is getting ridiculous. Losing an entire laptop? That’s odd, even for you.

Frustrated, you open your various boxes that still contain half of your worldly possessions, wondering if you’d gone mad and somehow put it away in them instead.

When it becomes clear that your laptop has not been accidentally packed away, you straighten up, shaking your head and resigning yourself to the fact that your laptop is simply lost to the void that is your new house. Hopefully, you manage to find it again before you have to go to work in a couple of weeks.

───────────── 👻

“So, what’s it like, living by yourself?”

You huff, adjusting the phone against your ear as you crawl around on the floor, bending down to look under the sofa. “Really, really weird.”

Your friend laughs over the phone. “Weird? How?”

“Well, for starters,” you say, fishing out yet another fork that had somehow made it under your upholstery, “I think I’m being haunted.”

There’s a pause. “What?”

You don’t believe in the supernatural, or the paranormal, or anything mythical or to do with ghosts and vampires and the otherworldly. They’re all just tales, made up by idiotic people and spun into a capitalist plot by the media, creating franchise after franchise surrounding possessed dolls and muscled Hollywood men playing traumatised werewolves. It’s irritating, and most of all, it’s all fake.

Science and supernatural cannot coexist, after all.

But now, you’re beginning to question whether that’s really the case.

“—turned all my clocks forward by four hours. Four! I thought I was going insane,” you say, standing up and returning to your kitchen with the fork in your hands, after finding your cutlery drawer empty an hour earlier, despite the fact that you’d put away all your cutlery only yesterday.

You put the fork away, and then open up a cupboard to grab a glass, only to flinch and scream at what you see.

“Oh my god, Y/N? Y/N, are you okay?”

“This is ridiculous,” you breathe, staring up at your cupboard.

Every single row is squashed full of your soft toys.

“Hey, Y/N, are you listening to me? Hello? Can you hear me?”

You blink up in extreme despair at the cupboard before shutting the door. You don’t have the energy to deal with it right now. “Yeah, I’m here,” you say, holding the phone more securely against your ear. “Listen, I might have to call you back. I still haven’t fully unpacked yet.”

“Are you okay? You screamed and then suddenly went silent.”

Heaving a sigh, you close your eyes for a moment and then open them again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll call you later, alright?”

You hang up, and walk out of the kitchen and into the hallway, before pausing in your tracks, staring wide-eyed at the front door.

The front door that was wide open.

You blink.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the door begins to swing shut, before suddenly closing with a sudden bang.

You stand there for a moment longer, before shaking your head and walking up the stairs.

Whichever ghost was haunting you, they sure were weird.

───────────── 👻

“Hey, Hansol, why is this tenant not leaving?”

“I told you. You shouldn’t do this.”

“Hmm, nah. It’s okay. It’s only been a week. I can do this.”

“Should you, though?”

───────────── 👻

Hansol is, unfortunately, so dead.

Very much in the literal sense as well, because he's a ghost. Don't ask him about the logistics of that, or how it came to be, because he doesn't know. All he knows is that one day he died and the next, he opened his eyes and no one could see him. 

But he's also so dead in the figurative sense, too. Because he and his Jeonghan hyung (who was technically a year or so younger than him when he died but still insists on being called ‘hyung’ because he died around a century earlier than him, and “you ought to respect people’s deathdays, Hansol”) have been inhabiting this house for several years, now, but he’s never had a desire to be human again in all that time.

That is, until he meets you.

You’re the latest owner of this house, and you’re… well, you're interesting.

Never before has he seen someone so tolerant of Jeonghan’s schemes. In his attempt to win at a bet that he’d created by himself, Jeonghan was pulling out all the big guns on you: starting off by being a nuisance, then an irritant, then infuriating before escalating into downright chaotic, in a climax where he made all the doors open and slam repeatedly in the middle of the night.

It’s enough to make anyone want to move out. Hansol half-expected you to leave within the first five days, but instead, you clench your jaw and plaster a smile on your face and keep on going.

He thinks it’s a little curious that you’re putting on a smile, even though there’s no one to see it. Like you’re constantly always alert of people watching you, and feeling the need to put on a mask. It makes him want to be human, just for a second, to put a hand on your shoulder and ask if you’re really okay.

During the second week, however, he realises that you really aren’t okay.

“The tenant still hasn’t gone to sleep,” Jeonghan sulks, floating through your bedroom door to sit (well, hover) beside Hansol on the floor just outside. 

“You can just say Y/N,” Hansol reminds him. “What do you mean, though? All humans are meant to be asleep by now.”

“Yeah, well, ours isn’t,” Jeonghan huffs. He crosses his arms petulantly, and his translucent ghost self flickers and wobbles at the dramatic movement. “Why not?”

Hansol shrugs. “How am I meant to know?”

Before Jeonghan can say something snarky in reply, the door to your bedroom door swings open, and the two ghosts flinch and freeze up, momentarily forgetting that they're ghosts. 

They watch as you slowly trudge down the stairs, muttering annoyedly to yourself. You had a dressing gown drawn over you, and you hug it against yourself while you shuffle through your house, before walking into the kitchen.

Hansol looks at Jeonghan, and the other just shrugs, and they both decide to follow you and see what you’re up to.

Hansol peeks his head through the wall just as you pop a few pills into your mouth.

“What’s going on?” Jeonghan asks, pushing Hansol through the wall so that he’s standing in the kitchen properly. “Are those drugs?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Hansol says, and then floats closer so he can see the writing in the bottle you’re holding. It doesn’t help, though, because the writing is all faded, like this is a bottle you’ve had for a while. “Medicine? But what for?”

Jeonghan folds his arms, sitting on the table. “Great. Our new tenant is dying.”

“Does this mean you’ll stop being mean now?” Hansol asks, coming to sit next to Jeonghan.

“I’m not mean.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not! When have I ever been mean, hm? Tell me, Hansol!”

Suddenly, there’s a clatter, and a mess of white pills spread out across the floor, under the table and throughout the entire kitchen. Both of the ghosts, pause, and when Hansol looks up, his eyes widen.

You’re looking directly at him.

No one says anything, and for a long, long moment, you continue to stare directly at Hansol, and he swallows uneasily, glancing over at Jeonghan. The other ghost is just sitting there, too, but he’s looking at you with interest, eyes flicking between you and Hansol.

“It’s… it’s not me, right?” Hansol says hesitantly. “Surely our tenant isn’t seeing me.”

“Try moving,” Jeonghan says, and directs his gaze back to you. There’s not a trace of wariness in his eyes, and Hansol feels more confused than ever. Jeonghan was the one who said that the last family ought to be kicked out because their dog could see them.

Nevertheless, arguing with Jeonghan wastes fifteen years of Hansol’s (undead) lifetime every time, so he does as he’s told, hopping off from the table and almost falls on his face when your eyes track his movements as he does so.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. Hansol’s beginning to feel a bit panicky now. “Dude, I can see through you.”

And then your eyes glaze over and you crumple into a heap on the floor.

───────────── 👻

“Y/N can see us,” Hansol says, pacing frantically. “Hyung, we’re doomed! We’re—we’re gonna get exorcised and go to Hell and have to meet the Devil!”

Jeonghan just hums, looking down at your sleeping form. “I don’t think so.”

After you had fainted, the two ghosts had (very painstakingly) carried you back up the stairs and back into bed. It takes a huge amount of effort for ghosts to be able to make themselves felt in the living plane, and Hansol had been gasping from the effort for a solid hour afterwards.

Now, though, the exhaustion has worn off, and he’s currently making Jeonghan mildly dizzy with all his pacing.

“Hyung.” Hansol whirls around again to face Jeonghan, making the elder ghost raise his eyebrows. “You know what this means, right? This tenant is unwell. You’re not allowed to play your tricks anymore.”

That makes Jeonghan pause. He bites his thumb, then, thinking, before nodding his head. “Fine. I don’t like tormenting the sick, anyways. It hurts to think about.”

Hansol sighs at that, mouth twisting in sympathy. He pats Jeonghan’s shoulder. “Don’t think about it. You’ve been dead for ages, hyung. I’m surprised your memory is still intact.”

Jeonghan scowls, pinching Hansol’s side, making the younger ghost yelp and then laugh. “Hey! We’re basically the same age.”

“Give or take around a hundred years.”

“Yeah, barely anything!”

The two ghosts continue bickering, their voices absorbed into the nothingness that was the plane of the dead. 

In your bed, you turn your head towards the direction of warped voices, squinting at the faint outlines that you can see near the window.

───────────── 👻

“—really handsome dude, oh my god,” you’re saying while you sort through your papers. Your laptop still hasn’t turned up. “Is there any side effect of taking sleeping pills again after a long time of not using them that, like, causes hallucinations of hot guys?”

Over the phone, your friend laughs. “I guess living by yourself really is making you go insane, huh?”

“I’m not insane,” you insist, chuckling. “It sounds insane, but I swear, he was so…” You hide your face behind your hand, despite the fact that no one can see you. 

“That gorgeous, huh?” comes the response from the other end of the line, and you get the distinct feeling that your friend doesn’t really believe you. You take your hand away from your face, trying to rub away the blush on your cheeks.

“Yeah, actually, he was! Anyway, I gotta go. I still haven’t found my laptop, and doing all my work by hand isn’t going well.”

“Go to the library and use a computer there.”

You pause. “Oh. Good idea. I’ll do that tomorrow. Goodnight, I gotta go now.”

There’s a laugh on the other end. “Okay. Goodnight, Y/N.”

The two ghosts sit on your bed, watching you as you hang up the phone and go back to your work.

“So,” Jeonghan says, and his tone is light and teasing, “Y/N thinks you’re pretty gorgeous, huh? I guess you really were seen, after all.” He nods his head in your direction. “Our new tenant is definitely really interesting.”

Silence falls again, and Hansol watches you agonise over your sheets, one hand permanently buried in your hair.

“Hyung,” he says after a moment, “You should give Y/N the laptop back.”

───────────── 👻

“Stupid goddamn insomnia,” you mutter to yourself, trudging down the stairs yet again. “Why can’t I go to sleep?”

You’ve been in your new house for just over two weeks, now, and things are… normal. After the initial weird things happening during the first several days, everything seems to have settled down, almost like the house had gotten used to its new owner. It makes you laugh, every time you think of it in that way, but there’s no other way to explain how the sudden door slammings have stopped, and all your things seem to be exactly where you left them.

And even the other day, you’d found your laptop again.

Everything was going well.

A flash of big, translucent brown eyes flash across your vision, and you shake your head, trying to dispel the memory.

You despise taking your pills, hate them for how drowsy they make you throughout the rest of the day, but just over a week into moving in, you’d caved and succumbed to their awful numbness. Your insomnia had flared up, almost, as if panicked by the new environment, leaving you unable to sleep for several days.

Strangely, though, after you’d had that… vision, you’d been able to sleep easier for a while. 

Large, surprised eyes flood your memory again, and you frown, scrunching your eyes and attempting to get rid of it.

That boy hadn’t appeared in your vision again after that night, and you’ve reluctantly convinced yourself that it had just been a side effect of the sleeping pills and your own lack of sleep. Hallucinations weren’t uncommon with strong sleeping pills, after all.

You finish downing your pills, drinking the entire mug of water for good measure, before wiping your mouth and setting the mug down on the counter. 

Groggily, you rub your eyes and attempt to head out of the kitchen, stumbling a little as you go. Just because you can’t sleep doesn’t mean you aren’t tired, after all. It’s just your stupid body not allowing you to fall asleep.

Abruptly, your foot catches against your other ankle, and you slam into the doorframe with a cry of pain. Eyes still bleary, you move jerkily only to feel yourself keeling over backwards, falling faster and faster towards the floor, and then—

A pair of arms catch you, and you fall back against a sturdy chest that stumbles, just slightly, under your weight, before gaining control and slowly lowering you to the floor, still in their embrace, head in their lap.

Your head is spinning, vision blurry, but as you look up, the sight that stares back at you is as clear as day.

Big, brown, translucent eyes.

Your own eyes widen in shock, and the pair of eyes staring into yours widen too.

“Oh my god,” you say. “How did you get into my house?”

The boy above you opens and closes his mouth wordlessly. “Um… I live here?”

“Like hell you do,” you return. Before you can say anything else, however, the feeling of his arms disappears and you drop the last few inches onto the floor, back making contact with the hard wood. You yelp in pain, and he cringes apologetically.

“Sorry! Sorry. Uh, it’s hard to make myself tangible for long. I didn’t meant to do that. Sorry.”

You sit up, rubbing your back. “Wait, what do you mean? Are you not…”

Another boy steps into your vision. No—he floats, feet constantly millimeters from the ground. He bends down over the boy sitting on the floor next to you, looking down at you with interest. “I’m surprised that you’ve managed to make yourself visible to our tenant for so long, Hansol.”

You blink, lost. “Hey, I can see you too, you know.”

The new boy looks bewildered at that. “You can?” Then his eyes widen. “And you can hear me?”

“You’re talking, aren’t you?” You narrow your eyes. “Is this some prank? Halloween is right around the corner, after all. Are you playing with me?”

“No, no!” The boy who caught you shakes his head frantically. “No, we’d never. Well, Jeonghan hyung might, but I wouldn’t.” He pauses, and then smiles hesitantly, standing up. “Um… we’re ghosts?”

You don’t say anything for a long moment. And then you tap your chin thoughtfully. “Prove it.”

“Please don't pani—what?”

“Prove it,” you say, and then shrug. “I gotta make sure that you’re really ghosts, you know? How do I know that you’re what you say you are?”

The other ghost, Jeonghan, raises an eyebrow. “Why would we lie to you?”

“I dunno. You’re bored?”

Jeonghan thinks about it for a moment, before nodding. “Fair point.” And then, abruptly, he walks up to you, and you expect him to stop right before you, but to your surprise, he carries on going and walks right through you instead.

“Jesus!” you shiver, a horrible coldness running down your spine. “Don’t do that!”

Jeonghan just beams. “Do you believe us now?”

You look back at Hansol, thinking. If you tilt your head just slightly, he flickers out of focus, like a mirage. But when you look at him in just the right angle, he looks as present as any human, only a little less so. Like he’s almost here, but not quite.

After a second, you nod your head. “I suppose you really are ghosts,” you say, and there’s just enough awe in your voice to make Hansol’s eyes widen in confusion.

“You’re… not going to run away?”

“Are you kidding? This is so cool,” you say, clasping your hands together. You grin. “It was getting lonely here anyway. And besides, you’re also really pretty.” Your eyes widen at your own words, and you backtrack. “Uh, pretty cool. That’s what I meant. Ghosts are cool, you know?”

Jeonghan laughs. “Hansol already knows that you think he’s gorgeous. We heard you.”

Instantly, a flush surges up into your cheeks, and Hansol rubs at his nose, embarrassed, before punching Jeonghan in the shoulder. He doesn’t deny it, though, which makes you feel kind of really flustered, but there’s a shy smile on his face as he looks at you.

“I think you’re also really pretty, too,” he says, and goddamnit, a ghost shouldn’t have the power to make you blush like this.

Jeonghan is about to say something, but then gets interrupted when, abruptly, a yawn wracks your frame and you cover your mouth, face scrunching up.

“Well, I think I need to head to bed,” you say, rubbing at your eyes. “Think I’m finally getting tired.”

That makes Hansol almost wilt in disappointment, and it’s such a cute sight that you almost reach over to ruffle his hair. Which is weird. Because he’s a ghost, and also because you hardly know him, but there’s something just so endearing about Hansol that makes you feel like you want to know him forever and ever.

Slowly, you make your way back upstairs, the ghosts trailing after you.

“I’m going to pester you both with questions tomorrow,” you inform them as you get into bed. “Like, about how I’m able to see ghosts and why I can hear you and how long you’ve both been here. I really will.”

Jeonghan laughs. “We look forward to it. It’s been a while since we’ve had someone other than each other to talk to. I think we’ll both like your company.” He nudges Hansol in the side, smile turning devious. “Hansol even more so than me.”

Hansol groans, covering his face, and you just smile, too drowsy to think of what that means at the moment.

“Leave my room before I go to sleep,�� you say, as your eyelids close. “I heard you talking in my room a few nights ago, you know. You should know it’s not good to spy on people in their sleep.”

Jeonghan might reply with something, but you’re not entirely sure. Sleep is already pulling you under, pulling you far away from the state of being awake.

The last thing you recall is a cool pressure against your forehead, and a warm voice whispering your name.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @bunnyiix @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @thedensworld @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @doublasting @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @evasaysstuff @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @jeonride @kellesvt @butiluvu @sakufilms @eightlightstar @aaniag @amxlia-stars

[neonganymede]

Hi hi~ Maybe #14 with soukoku? If you are inspired :)

I love your writing <3 Hope you have a wonderful week!

Hi hi, anon~! Sorry this took so long. It's been a busy month. Thank you for the prompt! Hope you enjoy~

14. A Kiss to Make Up

The sound of the door opening and closing at three in the fucking morning would have alarmed anyone else, but Chuuya just glanced at the clock and wondered what the hell had taken this shitty intruder so damn long? He’d expected the bastard the sneak in the night they came back to Yokohama, not a goddamn week later.

With a frustrated sigh, Chuuya rolled away from the door and waited. He could hear Dazai’s shuffling footsteps as he made his way down the hallway, slow and uneven with his injury still so fresh, and the sound of it made a burst of fury burn through Chuuya’s veins. He took a deep breath and tried to relax; he couldn’t let Dazai escape too soon just because he thought Chuuya was mad at him.

Of course Chuuya was mad at him. Chuuya was always pissed at that bastard for one reason or another. But then he remembered the weight of the water, the rich stench of blood, that fake-ass goodbye with notes of despair coloring every moment of Dazai’s impeccable performance—

Dazai paused in the doorway, and the hesitation made Chuuya’s racing heart twinge. Dazai Osamu didn’t fucking hesitate, certainly not when it came to invading Chuuya’s space. This whole thing felt wrong, and Chuuya couldn’t do anything but let his stupid partner to come to him on his own shitty terms.

It took far too fucking long for Dazai to finally take a step into his room. Sluggish, defeated. Worn down by Chuuya’s refusal to address him, he approached the bed like a man ready to take the final plunge into cold, unforgiving waters.

Chuuya’s blood buzzed.

The blanket pulled away from him, lifted carefully to allow another body into his bed. Chuuya didn’t shiver, but he could feel the way that Dazai did as he pressed up against Chuuya’s back for warmth. The blanket fell back over them, tucking them into this comfortable bubble together, and it was almost easy, almost perfect.

Almost, if not for the uncertain way that Dazai reached for him. Gingerly, as if he hoped that Chuuya wouldn’t notice he’d wrapped his arms around him. A tentative hand found his, and Chuuya took the initiative to thread their fingers together.

Dazai stilled. He sucked in a sharp breath, and Chuuya wondered if he’d killed the bastard by holding his fucking hand.

Just as he was about to say something, Dazai came back to life, his chest heaving against Chuuya’s back. He tightened his grip on Chuuya’s hand as he crushed them together, erasing any loathsome space that might have tried to come between them. Their bodies tangled naturally, two puzzles pieces instinctively snapping back together, and Chuuya’s lungs filled with the same desperate relief that Dazai breathed against his neck. He waited, expecting the bastard to have something to say, but only silence accompanied Dazai’s clinging.

… Huh. Was that it? Chuuya hadn’t known what this long-overdue reunion would bring, but he’d expected something more than just… aggressive cuddling.

Eh, whatever. If Dazai wanted to sleep instead of start shit, Chuuya wouldn’t fucking complain. His stupid mackerel deserved a rest after all the shit he’d gone through.

Hell, they both did.

Chuuya closed his eyes, intending to go the fuck to sleep when he felt Dazai’s breath ghost over his skin. A surefire sign that he was about to ruin this unexpected peace. Goddammit.

Chuuya braced himself, prepared for anything that might come out of the mackerel’s mouth. A tease. An insult. Some seemingly innocent phrase perfectly designed to piss Chuuya off. Anything but—

“I’m sorry.”

—an apology.

Chuuya didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

“Chuuya. Chuuya,” Dazai whispered, murmured, pleaded. “Chuuya, I’m sorry.”

Chuuya swallowed. He still couldn’t speak, so he lifted their tangled hands toward his mouth and kissed Dazai’s trembling knuckles. To let him know that he’d been heard, that Chuuya understood, that he was already forgiven goddammit! These precious apologies were pointless, nothing more than wasted breath because Chuuya had never been angry at him to begin with.

Not for this, not for the things that Dazai couldn’t control. Chuuya was always mad at him, but he could never be pissed when Dazai had been fighting to win, to survive, to make it back home alive because there was a time when Dazai wouldn’t have.

“I’m sorry.”

Chuuya couldn’t handle listening to any more of these shitty apologies. He rolled over in Dazai’s arms until they were face-to-face, until he could silence any more of those guilt-ridden words with his lips. They hadn’t kissed in so long, not since before all of this shit started, but their mouths still slotted together the same way they always had. Dazai still tasted the same, still felt the same, still shuddered the same under a gentle touch he never believed he deserved, and Chuuya couldn’t believe how much he’d fucking missed it.

When they parted, Dazai drew in a deep, haggard breath and uttered a soft, “Oh.”

So swallowed by the night’s darkness, Chuuya could only make out a rough outline of Dazai’s face, and that was a fucking shame. He would have loved to see Dazai’s expression of genuine surprise after so damn long. Maybe tomorrow morning, if Dazai kept spouting bullshit and needed to be shut up again.

Fingers found their way to Chuuya’s face, much too gentle in the way that they mapped the curve of his cheekbone. Chuuya pressed into that touch, hungry for it and fucking greedy, and Dazai huffed a laugh. The first real one in what felt like a fucking lifetime.

He expected to hear a dog joke next. Something to tease Chuuya, to break this awful tension festering around them like an unwelcome sore, but his next words were quiet, measured. Dazai couldn’t begin to mask his vulnerability, didn’t even fucking try.

“Chuuya’s sure?”

Another kiss, another unspoken answer that had Dazai finally melting in place. Still not relaxed enough for Chuuya’s liking, so he pressed his lips to his partner’s temple and whispered, “Rest, Osamu.”

The familiar phrase worked its magic. With a tiny whine, he pushed himself forward until he’d all but buried his face between the pillow and Chuuya’s neck. He probably would have burrowed even deeper if Chuuya had let him, would have slipped right between Chuuya’s ribs and made a shitty little home for himself in the flesh of his heart.

As if he fucking hadn’t already.

[creativeashproductions]

Murder Mysteries and Afterlife Businesses Part 2 // Wally Clark

IN WHICH: In which the aftermath of Dawn’s crossing over, other things come to light, and Reader becomes more involved despite her resistance. But what happens when more and more information comes out and more secrets become unraveled.

Warnings: Swearing, angst, mention of murder, ghosts and some fluff

Words: 4k

A/N: Welcome to part 2 of Murder Mysteries. Thank you for the support and interest you’ve had since I posted the first part! The gif will make sense.

Part One

Masterlist

It seemed lately it was all the rage to barge into your studio since Maddie had joined the death crew. Charley had burst through the door with a gust of nervous energy and a lack of manners.

“Dawn’s crossed over.” He huffed, clenching the doorframe with his fingers.

Your brows furrowed, “When?”

“Did the lights flicker? Did you get goosebumps?”

Your teeth came down to gnaw on the skin of your lip, thinking back to the odd moment you’d been standing outside. All new blankets or quilts you liked to hang out on a line to catch the scent of the morning breeze. You’d noticed all the buildings on campus had lost power for a split second.

“I was outside. The light in the school did.” You replied, twisting to focus back on organizing the new fabric and thread you’d gotten.

“That was Dawn.”

Your head snapped up to meet his freaked-out eyes.

Now you knew for a fact that when Janet left, it was absolutely nothing like that. From what you’d gathered, she’d been there one moment and gone the next.

“But that didn’t happen when Janet left. Or when Brady crossed over.” You murmured, forgoing your tasks to focus solely on the unnerved ghost, “Are you sure?”

“He’s sure.” Wally breathed from the entrance. His hands shoved in his variety jacket pockets, his hand one raising in a friendly wave, “Hey.”

Your eyebrow lifted, “Ain’t I miss popularity lately. Okay, I’ll bite. In the decades since either of you joined the afterlife, have you ever questioned how crossing over works?”

Wally shrugged, “I thought it was a very personal and sensitive event. Besides, Janet and Brady are the only ones we know that crossed over.”

The sound of your brother’s name falling from Wally’s lips makes your own twist sourly. The loss of Brady aching all the more.

“The only one who’d know would be Mr. Martin. And we have no reason to not trust him. Right?” Charley said, breaking the silence brought on by Wally’s words. Then, Charley’s dark irises peered as you shifted to toy with a keychain on display, “Right…Renai?”

Okay, so maybe, just maybe, Maddie’s ability to speak with Simon wasn’t the only earth-shattering piece of information. There were reasons for not wanting to join the support group. You couldn’t stomach looking at Mr. Martin. A level of disgust was always there, tying in with your morals.

Mr. Martin held a lot of control as the only adult ghost on the property and, with his position, held more respect. A lot more than a slimy teacher deserved. In order to not attend the sessions, you had a deal of sorts with him. Besides, the weird lightning-fast glances with Janet were a little odd when you saw them together.

“No. Not a reason.” You uneasily replied, shifting to scratch an itch on the bridge of your nose, “I’m not sure how Dawn’s crossed over like that, but maybe it’s just something that changes with each person. Your best bet would be asking Mr. Martin because Wally is right. Crossing over is a deeply intimate moment, and it’s really taboo. But, honestly, even the death event is as well.”

You watched as Charley left the building before shifting to look at Wally, “Hey, Wally?”

“Yeah?” The athlete whipped around to stare at you, “Something wrong?”

“Just…be careful.” You whispered, reaching to squeeze his arm, “Something isn’t right.”

All Wally could do was scan your features; he was sure he saw a flicker of guilt wave over, but he shoved that thought away. He nodded and turned on his heel to follow the ’90s ghost back to the school and the group they’d left. They had a group session to attend and answers to be demanded.

“Oh, Brady. You’d know what to do.” You mumbled, shifting to grab the phone off the desk to check in on other matters.

Split River High School, the late 2000s

Your hand clenched the backpack tossed carelessly over your shoulder, listening to Linkin Park’s album on your iPod. You and Brady had spent the better half of the night ripping albums off of Limewire and creating playlists with each other. The lack of sleep was worth hearing the lyrics flowing into the earbuds from the iPod.

Brady’s shoulder bumped yours when he waved to your father from the parked car on the corner. Brady had always gotten along better with your father than you did. You had an easier time with your mom instead. 

“You should take him up on his offer,” Brady spoke when he noticed the song winding down. His eyes flash to yours on your trek over the football field.

“Spend hours in uncomfortable silence while our dad tries and ultimately fails to connect with me?” You scoffed, “Isn’t that a typical Tuesday for us? Besides, I’m heading up to Chicago for that new thrift store?”

“It’s not like you make it easy, Renai.” Brady snorted, tugging the one earbud to put in his ear, “Get him to drive you. There’s that record store you two to go to…and because I’m using the car.”

Your jaw dropped, shifting to turn to face the bane of your existence, “Brady! It’s my weekend! I missed the last two because you forgot to take the car for an oil change!”

“Just take Dad, please. We don’t have much longer until we’re far from Split River. Please make an attempt at fixing your relationship. That way, you can say you tried.”

You rolled your eyes, but you silently promised you’d at least try to have some form of bonding with the guy that tried his best. But really, why bother when all you needed was Brady, and you had your entire life to get on better terms with Dad.

Famous last words.

“What do you remember the day that Brady crossed over?” Wally questioned from his position near the blankets hung up.

His hands removed each clothespin to carefully fold the new quilt you’d finished only a few days ago. He’d shown up somewhat out of nowhere to help you, and you didn’t put up much of a fight. While angry and hurt, you had missed him in the years of distance.

Your hands froze, “Why are you asking?”

“I’m curious.”

You poked your head around the burgundy fabric you had little clue about what you’d use it for. A new item one the ghosts had snagged from the fabric store in town.

“Well…uh.”

Split River High School, Highlands House Studio

You and Brady never worked Sundays. Ever. In life as kids, it had been days spent as part of your family’s religion before it evolved into how you spent it as teens. In the afterlife, you considered it to be the one day a week you would decompress from all the work and relax. You and Brady were close in life and death, but Sundays you spent away from each other.

You never knew what he did; he preferred not knowing what you did with Wally on those days.

This Sunday, you had woken up with Wally in your small bedroom in the studio and treated yourselves to breakfast in the school cafeteria. You took a walk and smiled when Wally gently dropped his varsity jacket over your bare shoulders. His hand slipped into yours.

“Can we postpone our date? Brady needs my help with something.” Wally questioned, leaning back against the crumbling brick of the school’s side. He felt your head nod in response from its position against his chest.

“Yeah. I can finish up on a project.” You murmured, curling further into his warmth.

Your eyes focused back on gently taking the burgundy fabric from the line and breathing in the scent of the crisp morning air. It was the closest you could get to your mom’s laundry soap. 

“It was Sunday. You surprised me with waffles you made in the cafeteria, you’d spent so many nights figuring out how to use the school kitchen. You were so proud of the smiley face you did on my waffle with the whipped cream.”

“-my momma’s recipe. The waffles and the whipped cream, by the way.” Wally interjected with a grin. It faltered because, while a good memory, it was the last he had shared with you.

“And then I remember learning about Brady.” Your words caused the mood to drop, and the brunette to peer at you as well.

You’d think it was Wally who would have found you and told you that your twin, your soulmate, the other half of the ‘two for one’ joke your parents had used your entire lives crossed over. But it hadn’t been. Instead, it had been Mr. Martin who had shown up on your doorstep.

“I never wanted to keep it from you,” Wally whispered, clenching his fingers on the quilt he ever so carefully placed in the basket. 

The tears marred Wally’s slouched form standing on the field with more distance than ever between your two bodies. Not a second to waste, leaving Mr. Martin to find the one person who had seen Brady last. With the beautiful weather, Wally had taken up residence on the empty football field with art supplies from the art room with one goal in mind.

You and Wally didn’t attend the Homecoming dance in the years together. Not for lack of trying, but the ghosts from the Support Group usually went together. You and Brady would volunteer your talents to decorate with them before bowing out. It wasn’t really your scene. But, out of all his friends, Rhonda had convinced Wally to give it a chance in a promposal-esque event.

You’d stumbled onto him after rather ruthlessly dragging the information out of Janet.

“How could you?” You tearfully asked the jock, limply holding a forgotten brush in his hand. The blue dripping off the bristles matched the streak on his pale cheekbone.

The words were vicious. Dripping with hatred and so much pain, Wally felt horrible. He felt like he was watching his body hit the field back in 1984 all over again, his life falling to pieces in seconds. He struggled to find words to adequately respond to your agony.

“He’s all I had.” You sobbed, curling in on yourself, “You should have told me. Why would you do this to me?”

Wally was out of his limit here with zero relationship experience in his life with the time and energy dedicated to football. Honestly, he’d never had the opportunity, or interest, to woo over a girl or her parents. Then he stumbled into you in the hallway holding that blanket he was done for. And as a ghost, he didn’t have anyone but your brother to win over. And what began as trying to impress Brady turned into a friendship Wally was grateful to have.

“He asked me for time.” Wally quietly spoke, finally releasing the grip on the paintbrush to mar the football like his death had done decades ago.

“I’m his twin, Wally! He’s supposed to trust me! Confide in me.” You pushed his chest when he attempted to step closer.

“I-“

“You took him away. You went behind my back without even considering how I’d feel and did everything in your power to help him cross over.”

Wally’s sadness dissipated enough for anger to drip, “Because of this! He asked my help because you’ve always brushed his concerns off! So sue me, I decided to help my best friend. Just because you’re content to be stuck here doesn’t mean he should have had to be!”

Like a bullet hitting your midsection, pain erupted in your very soul. Wally’s expression dropped, digesting his own words and your reaction.

“Wally, I didn’t get to say goodbye. So why couldn’t you let me say goodbye.”

Wally’s brows came together. How could he let you say goodbye when he hadn’t seen Brady since Wally stumbled out of your bedroom this morning. He couldn’t find him although they had had plans together.

“But I-“

“I don’t care. You’re the reason he’s gone, and to be honest, Wally, I wish he was here instead of you. We’re done.”

The finality of your tone and your back was the last thing he saw that tore him apart. He dropped to his knees with the pleading slipping one by one out his mouth for you to stay.

“I know that now Wally. It was easier to be mad at you than at Brady for wanting to cross over and leave me.” You whispered, dropping your hands from the quilt on the line to stare at the material that matched Brady’s eyes to a’ t’.

It was going to take a while to properly heal the damage the breakup had done, but baby steps had begun. It was Maddie who put it into play the night of the Homecoming Dance. 

Before Maddie left the gym, Charley and Rhonda had each broken down and explained the actual history between Wally and his ex. And Maddie feels doubly guilty for upsetting the tall ghost after agreeing to join him as a friend at the dance. For a hot minute, Maddie had thought Wally was upset because he liked her, but it was because this was the one night he truly let the past go. Wally used to try to convince Brady to attend the dance for a few hours.

“Wally, I’m sorry,” Maddie spoke from her position on the periphery of the concrete, meeting the grass. Her blue eyes sadly looking at the boy listlessly sang along to Joe Jackson’s Steppin’ Out.

Wally kept staring up at the dark sky, going quiet as he listened to her.

“There was a lot happening, and I didn’t want to ruin the night for you. But I should have been honest and told you what was happening.” Maddie nervously brushed her hands on her dress. Her small steps brought her closer to the desolate teenager.

“Maddie, it’s… it’s fine. You don’t have to apologize to me. I’m used to Homecoming sucking for me.” Wally replied, pushing his hands into his pockets. Maddie was already shaking her head.

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay. I kept brushing you off. You and everyone else have been so kind to me, and I’ve treated you poorly tonight.”

Wally nodded his head, “I haven’t been fair either. Can I be honest?”

Maddie’s lips parted into a slight sympathetic grin, “That this entire time you’ve pictured someone else sitting at the table with you? If you weren’t so sickeningly in love with Renai, I would have kissed you.”

The two teens stared at each other, noting how while they’d come as friends, they weren’t even remotely with the right people. Maddie’s blonde eyebrow raised.

“Wally Clark, don’t you have an artist to win back?” 

Wally turned on his heel racing off towards the football field set in between the school and the former art studio. Maddie beamed, watching Wally’s getting smaller and smaller until he disappeared around the corner. 

In the art studio, you’d opened the windows and climbed onto the roof of the building to settle in to look at the constellations. Then, finally, you could pick out the ones your mother had spent summers introducing you to. A dedicated astronomer, your mom had always liked the stars and mysteries of outer space.

You could faintly hear the music playing in the gym where the Homecoming Dance was in full force. You wondered when the punch got spiked and what teacher looked the other way. If Rhonda wore the dress, you’d surprised her a few years ago. She routinely rotated it into the apparel every couple of years.

“Seen a comet?” 

Your eyebrows raised, finding Wally standing in a tuxedo, holding a maroon blanket he gently draped over your form. He’d ditched the dress shoes to climb from the window to the roof and left the jacket with the shoes as well. 

“No, just an idiot.” You smirked. His foot nudged your ribs, causing your to flinch off the mattress. Brady and you dragged it up one year for stargazing.

“Do you think we’ll still be around to see Halley’s comet?” Wally asked, shifting to lay down by your side.

“Halley will perihelion in 2061. After that, we have another thirty-eight years before it returns, so who knows if we’ll be here.”

Wally was quiet as he stared at the side of your face, “I hope that somehow and somewhere, you and Brady can see it together.”

“And you.”

Wally tried to keep from visibly reacting, but he couldn’t. Wally wore his emotions on his sleeve for everyone to see.

“And me?”

His only response to his disbelief was the feeling of your pinky linking around his leaving him breathless.

The dark-haired teen had managed to sneakily grasp your hand in his while you’d been stuck in the scene from a week ago. A warmth only he could ignite slowly fanned that made its presence known in the apples of your cheeks.

“He didn’t want to leave you. The last thing he wanted was to leave you. All he ever wanted was for you to be happy.” Wally quickly informed you and gently pushed you away from the clothesline to step in front of you, “He loved you with every part of him. I really truly believe wherever we cross over to, he’s waiting for us.”

“-probably to kick my ass for dumping you.” You winced thinking of the hell Brady would have raised.

“Oh, absolutely.” Wally full-heartedly agreed with that statement. But, to be honest, Brady was the only person in the world who could get you from being so stubborn.

Wally had known since meeting your twin brother that he’d never be your number one. That was and always would be Brady’s place, and it was vice versa. Wally understood and, quite frankly, loved the bond you both had.

“What do you say to a movie marathon?”

“I’d say hell yeah. I’ll raid the library for one.”

The watch on your wrist ticked down the time to both sundown and the meeting time for your date with Wally. The chainlink fence was cold on your skin, and the lack of noise unsettled you. The popcorn machine had been in a long overdue dusting when the phone had vibrated on the desk. You’d hadn’t time to grab one of the items you kept on hand for Joel.

You couldn’t look at the shadow box containing a specimen for the Civil War soldier without wanting to cry. The things he collected, other than stamps, made your skin crawl.

The red-haired soldier slinked from behind the shadows of the trees to come closer to the fence. His time was perfect when the sun set behind the horizon; he didn’t like being visible in general. You attributed his unease primarily to an adult life spent under the cloak of darkness when he was a soldier. Your Converse slapped against the dry dirt when his lanky form appeared from the back of the tree.

“You said Maddie Nears is dead.” Joel skittishly spoke, slouching down into his body. His anxious eyes refused to stay on you.

 “Well, to the living, they’ve classified it as a disappearance, but she’s dead. Her spirit is tethered to the school.” You responded, turning to look over your shoulder where he was staring at.

For a second, you thought you saw the silhouette of someone on the dark top floor of the school but quickly disregarded that.

“Joel?” You questioned him, “Are you okay?”

Joel’s eyes snapped to firmly meet yours. That cold feeling he always brought slithering around your body. You could see the deep fear in his gaze, so unlike how he usually looked.

“I-I have to go. There are things at play. Vivify.” Joel skittishly stumbled back from the fence, taking the cold ambience with him.

Your mouth dropped open, “Wait! Joel, what does that mean!”

The soldier disappeared back into the thick of the forest, leaving the shadow box in your hands. He hadn’t even looked or questioned the payment for information. He was so stuck on looking at the school.

Your ear tuned in to the whispers coming from in the woods. 

“-can’t be trusted.”

“-spirit and body.”

“Do you think this is the end? Is this hell on earth-”

“We’ve waited centuries for- “

“-locked-”

“no, stuck”

The unease of lingering around flared, and you felt the foreboding of something going wrong. The hands on your watch revealed that you’d been on the edge of the woods far longer than you had thought. Your Converse squelched under the dewy grass in your race back to the studio where you hoped Wally was waiting.

No dice. Every room was silent, and the roof was empty.

“Wally?” You shouted, flinging open the back door to a dark abyss.

You knew something was wrong. Deep in your gut, you felt the balance of the two worlds change. And you had a feeling it tied to Maddie Nears and to a particular be-speckled ghost too many people put their trust into.

Fuck the deal. And fuck Mr. Martin too.

“You know the little breadcrumbs you’ve left over the years…well, they’re getting really irksome. I’ve been kind. Let you own a corner of what I’ve spent decades building.”

Your spine stiffened hearing the words of someone you’d have called the devil. You ever so slowly turned to see Mr. Martin standing with his hands in his pockets.

“The beauty of your Civil War soldier is Joel’s…easy to get help from. A little promise to crossover, and he folds easier than the stamps you’d paid him.” Mr. Martin removed his glasses to clean before returning the vintage pair on the bridge of his nose, “Besides, can you ever really trust a Confederate soldier?”

Your feet stumbled back, “What are you doing here, Martin.”

His lips parted in a grin, “It’s what you can do for me and what I will give you in return.”

Your eyes coldly stared him down. Was this the time to play the card you’d hidden for years?

“You know, I always found it morbidly interesting how Split River High School has had two fatal fires. What gets me, however, is how your fire was brushed under the rug and hidden. The scene changed into a bunker and faded from everyone’s memory.”

Mr. Martin tilted his head and attempted to keep a neutral expression, but you saw the minuscule flicker of worry.

You picked ups a ceramic figurine of a phoenix off the corner of your desk, playing the part of nonchalance. You kept a fair distance from the former teacher.

“But when the fire that killed Brady and me happened…the school rebuilt the art building, tried to revive the program and provided a memorial for us. So tell me, Everett…did you mean to kill Janet too?”

You saw Mr. Martin stumble back as you revealed your hand. His eyes blinked furiously.

“Yes, Everett, I know you two died in the same fire, and you’ve tried to play it off as an accident, but we both know the truth. Go ahead. Ask me how I know and why I haven’t told anyone?”

He tilted his head, “Why?”

“I’ve always left weird about Brady’s crossing over. And you sure ain’t slick with your glances with Janet and how you postponed the first meeting after Janet crossed over. So tell me, what really happened to Brady? Because the way Dawn crossed over confirmed that something happened to Brady, and it wasn’t crossing over.”

Mr. Martin had never fled as fast as he did in that moment.

Fallout Shelter

“I wouldn’t bother.”

The voice came out of nowhere, scaring the three ghosts attempting to break through the door. Wally flinched, looking up to the shelving to see a fourth ghost in the room with them.

“Mr. Martin’s good at locking them. He’s made a game out of it for years now.”

Wally’s lips parted, “Brady?”

Brady turned his head to peer at his best friend and your boyfriend.

“Hey, Wally. Long time no see.”

Tag List: Send an ask/notes if you want to be tagged! 

That way, it’s all in one place for me to go through

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Where We Begin and End [Misunderstood Breakup Trope]

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader

Trope de Sept Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Misunderstood Breakup situation 1. One person thinks the other one has broken up with them due to a misunderstanding "Frank comes home injured and it shakes you to your core, the next morning he’s gone and you think he’s left you"

Warnings: Angst into a happy ending. No gender or pronouns specified for reader. No use of y/n. Established relationship. Nicknames sweetheart and baby. Blood/description of a bullet injury and the repair of it. 

WC: 2,033

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on this site to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platform I currently post anything on is Tumblr. Thanks!*

Your fingers trembled as you worked, the silver tweezers dropped from your shaking hand and fell into the porcelain sink under you with a clang. 

‘Shit” you mumbled under your breath and retrieved them, the metal tool threatening to fall from your slippery, blood-covered hand again.

“S’ alright sweetheart, take your time.” Frank said softly

Usually his reassurance in a dire situation calmed you. But tonight there was an edge to his voice that had your fragile nerves teetering on an already thin tightrope.

You went back to the task in front of you, hesitantly plunging the tweezers into the flesh of his lower back, attempting to remove the bullet that had ricocheted and lodged itself there.

Repairing Frank after a long night out wasn’t an unusual occurrence for you. The sight of his blood didn’t typically phase you, having spent countless nights tending to his wounds as an act of love. But tonight, the injury in question had you fearing for Frank's life. 

You were by no means a medical professional, but you knew enough basic anatomy to know this bullet was dangerously too close to his spinal column and one wrong move by either of you could at best leave him with permanent nerve damage and at worst paralyze or even kill him.

“Almost got it.” You weren’t sure who you were trying to reassure more, him or yourself.

The dulled copper end of the bullet finally poked through amongst the crimson flooding the hole and the marred skin around it. You pulled it out, sighing in relief and releasing a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Frank, always so stoic and calm, faced away from you sitting on the edge of the bathtub, elbows on his knees. His nostrils flared and his lip twitched, as the pain threatened to creep past the barrier against it he had plenty of practice building up. You were too busy threading the needle to stitch the hole closed that you hadn’t noticed his subtle signs of weakness.

Getting the bullet out was the hard part and an invisible weight lifted off your shoulders knowing if your mediocre medical repair hadn’t gone awry yet, it probably wasn’t going to from this point forward.

Your skin felt damp. God, how had you not noticed until now? You were sweating buckets from nerves and knew there was some of his blood on your face as well. Probably from unconsciously trying to wipe the sweat from your brow as you worked. Oh wait. There were also tears there. When did you start crying?

The silent air between the two of you felt heavier than a led balloon as you stitched the wound, neither of you daring to speak as you wiped the area down with an alcohol swab. 

“Okay um…” you sniffled, not wanting to let the flood gates fully open until you were out of the room 

“I cleaned up the blood surrounding it pretty good, so try not to get it too wet in the shower.” You finally commented, your work finished. 

Frank nodded his head. Typically a man of few words, especially after coming home from a job, he remained unnervingly quiet as you disposed of the bandage wrappers and gauze in the small plastic trash can under the sink. 

He leaned forward as if to speak, but decided against it, and instead turned on the spigot in front of him, letting the warm water splash against his feet. 

Avoiding his gaze, you washed your hands in the sink. The water ran down the drain in a river of scarlet, then a rusty orange, then eventually clear, the colors increasingly blurring in your vision as more tears filled your eyes. 

A soft thump behind you jolted you upright, adrenaline still buzzing and anticipating whatever might happen next. You relaxed a little again as you realized it was just Frank removing his jeans and tossing them on the floor as he changed the knob from the lower faucet to the shower head and stepped in to clean himself of the blood and grime of the evening. 

You never ask about what happened. No matter how severe the injuries he comes home with are, you never want to know. But tonight shook you so to your core, you can’t help but be curious. 

How did he make such a large miscalculation? Was it because he was getting old? Too distracted by his home life with you? Why had his bullet-proof vest not done a better job at protecting such a sensitive area? Your brain swirled with a million questions. 

He grunted in pain from behind the shower curtain and it made you jump once again. As the hot water hit the plethora of other wounds he came home with tonight, he knew you were still uneasy behind the shower curtain. 

“S’ okay baby. Really.” he reassured again

You proceeded into the bedroom, pacing in circles and not knowing what to really do with yourself, still unable to let yourself fully cry. 

A few minutes later, Frank emerged in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low on his waist. 

“You should be resting sweetheart.”

“Wanted to make sure you were okay before I laid down.”

“C’mon, I’ll lay with you.”

Gingerly, Frank laid on his stomach, not wanting to irritate the wound by sleeping on it. You curled into his side, resting your head on his shoulder, no longer able to hold the levee against your tears. They ran down your face in streams, soaking his shoulder and your pillow case.

“Pl.. please Frank. I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not asking you to change who you are but I can’t keep loving someone who constantly puts themself in a position where I could lose them. I can’t lose you Frank.”

“Sweetheart, you know this is what I do though. You know it’s dangerous. It’s just part of the job.”

“Don’t make me go through what you went through with Maria.”

Frank didn’t respond, only rolled on to his side to pull you against his chest and comfort you with his calloused fingers running soft lines against your skin until exhaustion finally won out and you fell asleep.

The pounding headache was the first thing you noticed in the morning. The heaviness of your eyelids as you attempted to open them was the second. 

You reached out for Frank, but your hand only met empty space and crumpled sheets.Not unusual for him to be up before you.

A dull ache radiated through your body as you slowly rolled out of bed. Frank was nowhere to be found in the kitchen, not making coffee as you suspected he might be.

“Frankie?” you called out, voice still small and croaky with sleepiness

But there was no answer.

You looked at the front door. Frank’s boots, coat, and keys were gone. He always let you know when he was going out and when he’d be back. You checked your phone. No text. 

Everything else seemed to be in place in your apartment but the feelings from last night still gnawed a pit into your stomach.

You remembered how scared you were and how you’d begged and cried until you fell asleep.

You’d asked Frank to do the impossible, something you’d never ask him, to give up being the Punisher. 

And he seemed he’d made his decision. He was gone. Walking out of the life you’d built together like it was nothing.

Getting ready for work was a chore you struggled through. Any sane person would take the day off after everything you’d been through in the last 6ish hours. But you needed the normalcy and the distraction, not wanting to sit around the apartment wallowing, waiting for something to happen that you knew wouldn’t - Frank coming home from wherever he’d gone.

You grabbed his hoodie from the hook in the entryway on your way out. You always wore it on days he was away, when you were missing him extra badly. God, how sick it was that the thing you were grieving was also the only thing you knew would bring you even a little bit of comfort.

You spent most of the day just sitting at your desk, staring at your computer, not really getting any work done. 

“God you look awful.” your coworker Kate commented when she popped her head into your office around lunchtime

“Frank and I, um… we broke up.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry. What happened?”

“We… something happened last night and when I woke up this morning he was gone.”

“Wait? Did you guys actually have a conversation about breaking up?”

“Well no but…”

“Did he take any of his stuff with him? You know like someone leaving would?”

“Well no but…”

“Did you, ya know, text or call him to see where he is?”

“Kate. Look. I just know Frank and after what happened, I just know this is it. He’s gone.”

Kate took pity on you and offered to take you to lunch to take your mind off of it. As you exited the office and walked to your favorite Thai place on the corner, you decided to take her advice and text him, knowing that you wouldn’t get one back.

Frank. I’m worried about you after what happened last night. Please just let me know you’re okay.

You must have checked your phone 30 times at the restaurant, with no notification of him texting you back showing up.

The walk back to the office was silent, Kate giving up on inventing one sided conversations to keep your mind off things.

A bouquet of peonies sat on your desk when you got back, as well as a pair of dirty combat boots attached to a very tired looking Marine, appearing as though he could use a nap, lounging in your office chair with his legs crossed and up on your desk. 

“Frank.”

“Hey sweetheart. You know your office needs better security?” he said casually as if he was just commenting on the weather and hadn’t just walked out of your life mere hours before

“You’re here.”

“Yeah.”

“But you left.”

“Yeah. Sorry to run out so quick this morning, but something came up.”

“But you didn’t text me back. Let me know. You always let me know.”

Frank sat upright, removing his feet one at a time from your desk and walking across the room to stand in front of you. He reached into his back pocket and held up his cell phone between you. The device, cracked across the screen and smashed in the one corner, looked entirely useless between his calloused fingers.

“What do you think the bullet ricochet off of?”

You weren’t sure if it was a chuckle or a sob that escaped your mouth, but it finally broke your resolve and you threw yourself into his arms.

“It was in my back pocket and the bullet hit it and it flew up between my back and my vest. Was gonna get a new one today, but Madani yakked my ear off all morning.”

“Madani?”

“Last night had me pretty spooked too. I didn’t sleep. Thinkin too much about what you said. You were right. My biggest fear is you getting hurt, losin you like I lost them. Didn’t even stop to think that losin me might hurt you too. But you remindin me how it felt when I lost my family… made me realize what you go through with me and all my bullshit.”

“So why were you with Dinah?”

“Remember when I told Madani I’d start working for the CIA when hell froze over? Well guess the devil better buy a coat…”

“Pfft I’ll let Matt know next time we see him… God, you scared me Frank. I thought you left me. That we were done. When I didn’t hear from you and you weren’t home. After last night…”

“You ain’t getting rid of me that easy.”

“That so, big guy?”

“Yeah gonna go be a CIA man. Wear a suit and work in an office and shit.”

“You look good in a suit, Frank.”

“Think I look like a dork”

“But you’re my dork?”

“Damn right baby.”

[waspsarebetterthanbeesanyways]

Only the Dead 1

Figured I’d post the first scene of my WIP here.

part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10

_____

There’s something wrong.

Bruce wakes up slowly, despite the icy frisson of dread that crawls up his spine. His head hurts. His muscles ache, knotted like stone, to the point where simply shifting position feels like a Herculean task.

There’d been an Arkham breakout again. He’d gone after the Joker -- there’d been a hostage -- and then..?

He can hear voices, murmuring quietly around him on all sides, none of them familiar. He can smell disinfectant, wax, something floral, and a hint of rot underneath it all. A hospital? he wonders, mind sluggish.

“He’s waking up.”

Bruce peels his eyelids open with difficulty; his eyelashes stick together.

It’s not a hospital. It’s a warehouse? Wherever he is, it’s lit dimly, by only candlelight.

“No matter. We are ready to commence with the ritual.”

Bruce rolls his head to the side. He can feel the velvet of an expensive tablecloth underneath his cheek -- he’s on some sort of table -- an altar? Below him he can dark, geometric lines -- a circle, and a diamond within -- and strange symbols drawn around the edges. Above him tower shadowy figures -- people, men and women dressed in dark grey robes, their faces obscured. Batman uses similar scare tactics to frighten criminals, but Bruce still feels frightened at the sight.

He jerks, trying to get upright. Sharp pain blooms in his throat, his wrists and his ankles. He’s tied up -- no, he’s chained and collared, tightly, to the altar.

One of the robed figures approaches him. Her robes are distinct from the others, the seams embroidered with pale silver thread, taking the shapes of cartoon ghosts, of all things. She clicks her tongue at him. “Batman, Bruce Wayne,” she murmurs. “It was a lot of trouble getting you. Don’t think we’ll let you escape.”

Bruce’s heart hammers in his chest as his situation sinks in. He’s trapped, unable to move, kidnapped by a cult he hadn’t even been aware existed.

“Everybody get into position.”

There’s four of them, not counting the vestal. Each of them takes a candle from the corner of the altar, cupping them between their palms. The vestal pulls a knife from her robes. The blade is pitch black, like obsidian, and it gleams in the candlelight.

Bruce squirms, feeling the chains, searching for a weakness. The vestal cards her fingers through his hair as if to calm him. “I am sorry,” she says. “I wouldn’t do this if there was another way. Know that we will honor your sacrifice. The Lord of Screams will follow your footsteps and bring salvation to this wretched city.”

“Don’t do this,” Bruce says.

The vestal tilts her head back and begins to chant. “O king, we beseech you; grace us with your presence.” The other cultists echo her words in Latin. “To you we gift you thus -- an offering of blood to bring you power, an offering of bone to anchor you to this plane -- a life for a life.”

“A life for a life,” the cultists chant.

The vestal lifts her blade, and with both hands, plunges it into Bruce’s chest.

The candle flames flicker out, then return a brilliant Lazarus green.

The vestal pulls her blade back out with a wet squelch and hastily backs out of the circle. The cultists back away at a slow, even pace. The lines of the circle begin to glow that same horrid, beautiful green, and they grow, expanding with each step the cultists take.

Bruce, still struggling, chokes on his own blood. It dribbles out his lips.

The lines of the circle thicken until the entire circle is filled in with that eerie green, and then it begins to swirl. A massive hand pulls itself out of the miasma, and then a flaming crown, a horned helmet, a scowling face. A giant, armored body, barely contained by the warehouse.

“Once again, I am freed,” the being says in a booming voice.

“Lord Phantom,” the vestal says. The glow has intensified enough for Bruce to make out her features -- her glistening eyes, her wide smile. “It really worked. You’re really here...”

“Phantom,” the being says. “Is that who you believe I am?”

“My lord?” the vestal asks, voice small.

“I am not Phantom,” the being spits, face twisting into a rictus of hatred. “I am none other than Pariah Dark, king of the Infinite Realms.”

The last Bruce sees of the vestal is the horror on her face before Pariah Dark slams down his fist, reducing her to a bloody smear. The remaining cultists flee, screaming.

“Cowards,” Pariah Dark sneers. “But they shall be my subjects soon enough.” He turns his gaze towards Bruce, and scoops him up into one of his massive hands, phase shifting him through the chains. “Now you, you must be one of those costumed warriors Phantom emulates so fondly.” He inspects the bat symbol on Bruce’s chest. The blood has spread so much it’s barely recognizable. “But a dying vessel has no use to me.”

With that, Pariah Dark carelessly tosses Bruce to the ground. Bruce shouts in pain, and dark splotches grow in his vision. They do not fade.

“Batman!”

“Dad!”

No. Bruce’s vision is fading quickly, but he can still tell. Nightwing, Red Robin, Batgirl -- his sons, and the girl who is like a daughter to him. They can’t be here.

“Run,” Bruce croaks, but Nightwing still approaches. The other two attack Pariah Dark. trying to distract him. Bruce can’t move, can’t run with them, can’t fight with them, can’t protect them. “Run away!”

Steph screams. Dick reaches Bruce and curls an arm around his shoulders. “We’re not leaving you,” Dick says. He sounds close to tears.

Bruce doesn’t hear him. He is already lost.

[kelcemesoftly]

Request: Travis taking care of the reader why her got drunk pls🫶🏻

Party Too Hard

Triggers: alcohol, vomiting

Notes: I love a sweet, caring, loving Trav. I hope I did him justice

As soon as the Chiefs won the Super Bowl, you knew that you were in for a long night. While this was your first Super Bowl appearance while dating Trav, you'd seen how hard core they'd gone in the past. First there was a party at the hotel, then they'd go out to at least one bar or club, and from there... who knew. You thought that you were prepared, but with the busyness of the day, with getting your hair and makeup done, perfecting your outfit, and hosting your family and Trav's in your Air B&B, you didn't have nearly enough to eat. That fact was confirmed when it took less than three drinks and two shots for you to be three sheets to the wind. You had rallied the rest of the night with Travis, and yes, you had the time of your life. But, by the time 4am hit, you started to feel lurching in your stomach, a telltale sign that you were about to be sick. The last thing you wanted to do was tell the Super Bowl star himself, so you sat in the bathroom while taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm your queasy stomach. Britt had stumbled in at one point, and after seeing your pale face, immediately knew what was going on. "I'll go get Trav," she said.

Even though you protested profusely, she didn't listen to a word you said, and not even two minutes later, your boyfriend was crouching in front of you. "Party too hard, baby?" he asked, reaching up to cup your cheek. Tears started to leak down your skin, and you nodded, hating that you weren't able to stay out as late as he had wanted. "Don't cry, baby. It's okay. It's late, we should all head back, anyway," he assured you, threading his fingers through your hair in an attempt to calm you. While it didn't make you feel better, his love, affection, and concern made you feel safe. If you did, in fact, get sick, you knew he'd be right there to support you.

"Can you get me some water before we go?" you asked meekly. Travis nodded his head and disappeared from the bathroom for a minute, coming back with a glass of water. He handed it to you. You took small sips and breathed deeply every few seconds, willing yourself to not get sick. At least not until you arrived back at the hotel. Travis had convinced you to stay at his hotel room that night, since the rest of your families were at the Air B&B. While the main reason may have been to have sex, it didn't seem that was going to happen with the way that you were feeling.

After finishing the glass of water, you felt a bit better. At least better to the point of being able to get a ride back to the hotel without getting sick. You allowed Trav to take your hand and lead you outside to the car awaiting for you both. On the ride to the hotel, you rested the side of your head against his arm, breathing in and out steadily.

Trav led you up to the room once you arrived at the hotel, locking the door behind you. He helped you take a seat on the bed and then went to rummage through his suitcase for one of his shirts. Walking back over to you, he set the shirt beside you and helped you out of your dress. Travis slipped the shirt over your body, smiling lovingly down at you. "I love you in my shirts, baby girl."

You smiled meekly, unable to stop the small sob that left your lips. "What's wrong, baby girl?" he asked, falling down to his knees. Trav took your cheeks between his palms, stroking your skin gently.

"I got sick. On a night you were supposed to be celebrating!" you cried, the alcohol making your emotions stronger than usual.

"Baby, I did celebrate. I love partying, going to clubs, but I wanted to be with you. I was with you all night. Even if we were here cuddling in bed, that's all the celebration I'd need," he assured you, leaning forward to capture your lips against his.

You let out a small whimper, pushing him away as you bolted toward the bathroom, lifting up the lids before emptying the contents of your stomach into the toilet bowl. Small sobs wracked through your body as you upheaved everything that you could. Travis was right there behind you through it all, holding your hair back while rubbing your back. He whispered loving, encouraging words, letting you know that he'd be there as long as you were sick. And even though you attempted to argue with him, it was futile because he didn't budge.

That night was the night you knew that he was the one. He wasn't repulsed by your sickness. On the night that was supposed to be about him, about his team, he was with you, taking care of you. This night is the night you thought about when you cited "in sickness and in health" in your wedding vows two years later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @kelcemenow @hearts4papayas @keiva1000 @killatravtramp

[drabblesandimagines]

Gift

Clive Rosfield x female reader, 2,856 words Commissioned by the lovely @kianaflame23 who has kindly given permission for me to share with you all x

You’re up before sunrise, which isn’t unusual. There’ll be an abundance of tasks to do in the Hideaway and you’ve never been one to shy away from work, even if some would claim your Name Day to be the perfect excuse to neglect any semblance of responsibility in favour of celebration.

Not for you – you’d never been all too fussed about it, nor the attention that came along with it, not even as a child growing up in Rosalith. Every year, your mother would hold afternoon tea in celebration, though you never had a say in who was invited, or in any gifts you might receive. It was always the same - dresses of fine silks, jewelry, delicate tea sets, fine threads for your embroidery lessons…

When all you really wanted was the freedom to run around in the fields of the duchy, rough-housing with the boys, ditch your needle and thread for something bigger and sharper within the training pits.

The last Name Day you had somewhat celebrated had been years ago now, though in some ways it had proved to be the most memorable one. It started off as the usual affair of being fussed over by noble ladies, some who still insisted on pinching your cheek as if you were still a babe, commenting on how you had grown into such a fine young woman, and how surely a courtship would be announced forthwith.

You’d asked your mother how true that was after the guests had left, wringing your hands together behind your back so she couldn’t scold you for it.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she’d replied with an assured smile. “Such a decision won’t be made without your father present.”

It hadn’t reassured you at all.

That night, you’d clambered out of your window cautiously after your household had retired. All day, you’d gone along with your mother’s whims with no complaint, surely you could permit yourself this – the gift you really wanted. The streets of the Rosalith are quiet this evening, some Shields posted out by the front gate, some by the main castle itself but neither of those are your destinations. You make for one of the training pits that’s nestled away against the city’s walls, near one of the stables. It’s smaller than the main one the Shields frequent. The real swords will be locked away, but the wooden ones would remind in their racks, so what would be the harm of you having a play?

You pick up the training sword and pretend to thrust and parry, trying to recall the few techniques your father had entertained you with years ago when you were young and pulling at the hem of his robes to be taught, just like all the boys were. It’s not as entertaining without an opponent, but you still feel the exhilarating thrill as you pretend. In the peace of the night, there’s a scuff of a foot against the cobbled streets and you spin on your heels, hiding the wooden sword behind your back. Your eyes soon widen at the figure before you, who looks rather startled in return.

“Lord Rosfield, my sincere apologies. I thought-”

He smiles bashfully, rubbing a hand on the back of his head. “No, please forgive me for startling you, my lady. I thought I would have the pit to myself at this late hour, though I appear mistaken.”

“A reasonable thought, of course. I will go.”

“No.” He says, perhaps a little too quickly. “I mean, please do not leave on my account.”

“You have greater need of it than me.” The sentence sounds wrong as soon as you say it. “Not that I mean you’re not skilled in swordplay, you are the First Shield after all, just tha-“

Clive puts up his hand, cutting you off with a smile. “I understand.” He lifts the latch on the gate and enters the pit. “Though I must ask, what brings you here at such a late hour?”

“It is my Name Day,” you confess – something about the look in his eyes makes you truthful. Clive has always been sweet in your limited interactions with him, ever the gentleman, kind with the Bearers of the duchy too. “Mother has started talking of suitors. I wanted to do something that I’d truly enjoy today at least, as a gift to myself before I cannot. I suppose it is childish.”

“Not at all.”

“It is, though. When I was little, I wanted to fight.” You laugh at your foolishness. “There are no female Shields in Rosaria, never have been.”

“Not yet.” He corrects with a smile. “You could be the first, if that is truly what your heart desires.”

“Even if I could find someone willing to train me, it is far too late.”

Clive muses for a moment, before heading over to the training rack and picking up a wooden sword of his own. “You said it is your Name Day – well, I’d be remiss not to offer a gift.”

“Oh, no, I-“

“A sparring lesson – a gift to you as much as it is to me.”

And thus had begun a series of late night pit meetings with one Clive Rosfield.

--

“My lord,” Ser Tyler murmurs in his ear. “I do believe we are being followed.”

Clive spins on his heels, his knuckles turning white from how hard his grip is on the hilt of his sword, his brow now furrowed. It is his first command, he’s only so far out of the gates and he’s already missed danger? All such feelings of failure are extinguished when he spots the pursuer. Barely obscured behind a tree he sees you, sticking out like a sore thumb.

Clive releases his grip on his weapons and nods to the two Shields. “Permit me a moment.”

“Of course, my lord.”

You remain standing there, sheepishly wringing your hands as he approaches, fearing of a scolding, of interrupting the duchy’s duty as you are not quite able to decipher the expression on his face.

“My lady, I beg you - what drove you to leave the city? It is not safe out here.” His expression turns to one of pure concern, his eyes flitting around you in order to quell any such danger that might be lurking.

“You did not say goodbye.” You pout, feeling childish now you’ve said it aloud. He hadn’t shown at the pit last night and it was only this morning you’d found the reason why – they were to make for Phoenix Gate.  

He feels a warmth prickle over his cheeks and hopes you do not spot it. “True. I did not say it… but only because it is not goodbye.”

“It’s not?”

“No, for I will return anon. You have my word.”

You hesitate, wondering if your next question will be out of turn. “How can you be so sure?”

His hand falls to his side then on a dagger Elwin had given him when Joshua had awoken as the Phoenix. Its only value was sentimental – the dagger having been Elwin’s own as a young lad. It is sturdy and deadly sharp still, and though he still favours the sword in combat, it holds a dear place in his heart.

The same very space that you seem to be burrowing into.

Clive offers the blade out to you, hilt first. “Here, for if my lady has my dagger, then I must return in order to retrieve it.”

“I couldn’t.”

“I insist. As a Shield of Rosaria, we swear on our blades,” he pats the hilt of his sword with his other hand. “And for my return, I swear on my dagger.”

You reach out for it, fingers curling around the hilt. You make sure the blade is clear of his fingers before you withdraw, feeling the weight in your hand.

“I will hold you to this.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” He smiles. “May I escort you back to the gates?”

“No. Thank you”, you hastily add. “You have your command – I’ve already held it up. Besides,” you smile as you slide the dagger into your belt. “I have this now, if I am to encounter any bandits.”

Clive’s eyes widen at the idea – a protest on the tip of his tongue. They could still make it back to the gates and then reach the village befor-

Something warm and soft on his skin interrupts his thoughts. You’re stood to his side, standing on your tip toes, having pressed a kiss to his cheek. Stepping back with a grin, you turn and sprint back up the path, back towards Rosalith.

Clive touches his cheek where your lips had pressed.

“My lord, is all well?” Ser Tyler’s voice calls from down the path.

Clive wipes the smitten smile off his face – time to concentrate.

--

The night of Phoenix Gate changed everything.

It took your father away, the Grand Duke, the Phoenix too perished in the attack…

And sweet Clive.

Your mother was lost when the Iron Blood invaded. Aided by the techniques Clive had taught you in the training pit, the lend of his dagger and some luck, you’d escaped the bloodshed and the city, fleeing the only home you’d ever known.

You’d made your way to Port Isolde, seeking refuge – a new start. Your mother had enjoyed the markets there, so much so you’d often spend weeks staying with some distant uncle or aunt, and you thought perhaps you could seek pity off a friendly face there. Imperial guards had shooed you away at the gate, beggars weren’t welcome.

There had been talk of a tunnel from the Lazarus District into Port Isolde, you vaguely recalled, from some of your older peers. Boys sneaking into the city to escape their parents’ watchful eyes. The place had been all but abandoned when you’d clambered over the wall, deciding to seek shelter for the night before properly exploring for a route in the morning.

And that’s when you’d met Ser Wade and a few other Shields, battered and bruised but alive, trying to regroup – later to become the Guardians of the Flame.

--

You’re leaned over the map that Wade has crudely put together upon, marking the points of where he plans for simultaneous attacks to be launched on the Black Shields. You hear his footsteps approach – having spent so many years fighting side by side, you’d recognize them anywhere.

“I still think this is a ridiculous plan, especially you insisting on going on y-“

You turn as you speak, but your words die on your tongue at the man who stands beyond Wade – tall, rugged, shaggy black locks over stormy blue eyes that are so very familiar.

Too familiar.

“It cannot be.” Your heart pounds in realization.

“My lady…” Clive’s eyes widen as he takes you in.

To everyone’s surprise, you drop to your knee, fumbling with something at your belt.

“Here,” you remove the dagger, offering it out to him hilt first. “I must thank you for your gift all those years ago – it has saved my life more times than I wish to count. And now I can return it to you, as promised.”

To your surprise, Clive does not take it but drops to his own knee. “I think it is best left in your possession. I would be remiss to separate the two of you now.”

“But it is…”

“Please. In fact, I insist upon it, for what is a Shield of Rosaria without their first blade?”

You swore you fell in love all over again at that moment.

--

You’d been at the Hideaway a few weeks now – Wade having offered your services to aid with the Cursebreakers a little too willingly to aid with a shortfall in their numbers due to injuries. You didn’t mind, though you knew Wade seemed to have ulterior motives, confessing to you over a pint at Martha’s the night before you left.

“Lord Rosfield was sweet on you – I remember that.”

“That was years ago. A different lifetime, even.” You’d corrected, but to little avail. Though the flames that you had felt for him all those years ago had reignited at your reunion, it was surely not to be.

Clive was your friend and, more than that, he was an inspiration to all those around you, fighting for a higher cause – priorities came first. There was no time for frivolities. Just having him as your friend was enough.

Or so you lied to yourself.

The day passes as it always does – there are supplies to be carried up to the stores, discussions to be had, a ride in Obolus’ skiff to the shore to forage some herbs for the infirmary – the particular herbs only to be found in a place notorious for fiends.

You hadn’t seen Clive that day, but that was not unusual. He always seemed to be pulled in different directions, barely at the Hideaway before he had to leave again.

But every time your eyes met, you were taken back to those nights in Rosalith, a blush heating your cheeks as he’d smile that charming smile of his.

“There you are,” Otto catches your attention as you head to retire to your bunk at dusk. “Clive’s looking for you – down at the pit.”

“Oh?” You look at Otto for more information, but that is all he gives.

You hurry down to the fighting pit – it’s not somewhere you’ve ventured into before, though you’ve seen some of the newer recruits practice. Clive is stood in the middle, shed of his usual leathers but still his laced white shirt. His sword is leant up against the fence and he has his hands on his hips, his eyes fixed out into the horizon.

You clear your throat as your approach and he swings around, a grin on his face.

“Thank you for coming so swiftly, my lady.” He walks forward and opens the latch on the gate, beckoning you forward as he steps to the side.

“I must say I am intrigued.” You walk into the pit, though your heart is beating with uncertainty - what is this all about?

“How could I let your Name Day pass without a gift?”

You blink – your heart skipping a beat at the fact that he remembered, even after all that time, after all that has happened and all that is happening. “Oh, no, that’s-“

“I insist. And as for this gift, well,” he walks over to his sword, “the gift I gave you on the last of your Name Days we shared together seemed to go down quite well - I thought mayhaps you’d enjoy another?”

You grin, reaching for your blade.

“To spar with you again would be an honour.”

It is not a real fight by any means – both of you too wary of hurting each other and receiving a scolding by Tarja. You hadn’t known the healer long, but long enough to fear her anger – but still it is challenging enough, especially as the pit is on the smaller side. The clash of your swords echoes across the blighted waters of the lake, grunts of exertion, sand filling your boots as you step to and fro, entering into some sort of dance as the two of you fight.

You think you’ve bested him, somehow, by the way your thrust sends him off balance and how his eyes widen with the shock of it. He reaches out and grabs for your arm, perhaps to steady himself but failing miserably, only inevitably bringing you down with him, smacking into his chest, knocking all the air out of you for a moment.

You drop your blade as you catch your breath and begin to get up, try to shuffle off of him, an apology on your tongue – though it’s hardly your fault – but the Fire Dominant wraps his arm around your waist as you attempt to do so, holding you in place.

You swallow, not sure if you’ve ever been in this close of proximity of the face that so often haunted your dreams.

“Permit me to give you one last gift, my lady?” He asks, softly – as if the position you find yourselves in is entirely normal.

“Depends on what it is.”

He smiles softly at your response. “Close your eyes and you’ll find out.”

You do – squeezing them tight to not allow a sliver of light through. You feel fingers ghost your face before a hand caresses the back of your head and, suddenly, warm, soft lips press upon yours.

You open your eyes, startled, for a moment, only to see Clive’s are firmly closed as he begins to deepen the kiss. You close yours again, reaching a hand up blindly to cup his face, kissing him back until the two of you have to retreat - breathless and dizzy with emotion.

“I know you are not a fan of your Name Day,” he presses his hand over the one you still hold against his cheek, “but I would be remiss not to celebrate the day that brought you into this world and blessed me with you, my darling one.”

--

Comments, likes and reblogs make my whole day x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi/Commissions

[echoalyssa]

For the Last Time | Dick Grayson

image generated by Midjourney AI

just an angsty smut piece for my fav bat boy

~~~

We had split weeks ago, but here he was, silhouetted against my front door. It had been ugly, and the wound still felt raw, but we still gravitated towards each other. Despite the terrible memories that lingered, we always ended up together. For better or for worse. 

“Hi.” My voice comes out whisper quiet and he hesitantly steps inside, nudging the door closed with his foot.

His dark hair falls in front of his eyes and he lifts a hand to push it back behind his ear. 

The air is thick with tension and the words that had gone unspoken. He follows me to the couch, making sure to leave ample space between the two of us. He’s looking at me so intensely that I can’t help but find the bookshelf fascinating.

There is so much to say yet nothing to say at the same time.

I draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. I rest my head on my arms and just take a second to look at him. It’s been too long since he was last on this couch. Even being in his presence had a calming affect. 

“What did you want to talk about?” He asks, playing with his thumbs. He looks up at me quickly and then drops his head.

“You asked to come over.”

He nods and pulls at a loose thread on his shirt. “So then you should pick what we talk about.”

It’s stupid really, we both know what needs to be addressed but for fear of disturbing the calm we’re both tiptoeing around the topic.

I nod at him but still stay quiet.

“I’m sorry. I watched you disappear before my eyes and I was too absorbed in my own head to realize that you needed me. I should have never left you and I should have been someone you could depend on. I let you do everything for us financially and I still expected you to clean up the apartment. I’m sorry. That’s not a partnership and you deserved better.”

It’s everything that I have ever needed to hear from him, but was it too late? The damage had been done.

“Why couldn’t you see that before?” I ask him.

“I was selfish. I was jealous. I didn’t care to and that was wrong of me.”

I choose to stay quiet, knowing that he’s asking for my forgiveness, the problem is that we’d done this before. An apology followed by the exact same behaviors that got us here before. To tell him that I had forgiven him would be a lie and that wouldn’t benefit either of us.

The silence stretches between us and he stands up to stretch. He rolls his neck and the soft crack of the bones fills the air.

“I miss it.” He says softly, looking around the apartment that we had once shared. It had been his home too. More than that though, disguised under his words was that he missed all of it. He missed me.

He sits back down, closer this time. He sits in his usual spot, and he places his hand on my knee. His thumb traces the curve of it gently, as if I might vanish before his very eyes.

We sit in silence for a few minutes until that line of tension snaps and he’s pulling at me just as much as I’m reaching for him. In one swift motion I climb onto his lap, straddling his hips. It’s like we’ve both been allowed to breathe for the first time and neither of us can get enough of it. His arms wrap around me, and he pulls me in so close that there isn’t a millimeter of space between our bodies.

Dick tucks his head into the crook of my neck and lets out a shaky exhale. I’m holding him just as tight. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes, and I sniffle into his shoulder. His fingers drag up and down my back, kneading at the knots that had accumulated without him. He touches me like it might be the last time he ever gets to.

His fingers slip lower, playing with the hem of my shirt. “Is this alright?”

He’s giving me an out but that was the thing, even if I tried to take the out it was inevitable that I would end up right back where I started. Here. With him.

“Yes.”

“Look at me.” He says quietly, his fingers wrap around my jaw, and he angles my face so that I have to look at him. “I love you.”

I duck to avoid his eyes but I whisper it right back to him because that was the only part of this mess that I was certain about.

“Look at me.”

I pry myself out from the crook of his neck, eye contact had never been my strong suit. The second our eyes meet I can feel the impending tears come rushing back. His mouth meets mine and then it’s a mess of teeth and hands and clothing hitting the floor. 

“You’ve lost weight.” He doesn’t say it in a bad way, but he’s acknowledging that our break had been harder on me than he had thought. His voice is laced with concern. “I’m so sorry. You’re tiny.”

He wasn’t wrong, it hadn’t been intentional but whenever I was stressed my hunger pangs would disappear, resulting in my noticeable weight loss. Dick, knew just how much I valued having an athletic physique and the drastic difference had brought tears to his eyes.

“Stop that.”

He doesn’t need me to tell him twice, knowing full well that I won’t talk if I don’t want to, and flips me over. His fingers press me up over the back of the couch and he guides my hips back. He pauses briefly to step out of his shorts but then I feel him right where he belongs.

The physical size difference between us means that we line up perfectly. We moan in unison as he seats himself inside me. His hands press me into the position that he wants and then his right hand tangles in my hair. He yanks it slightly, causing my back to arch and groans, dropping his mouth to my shoulder.

“If you could see the way that you look right now…”

He’s rough with me, in a way that makes my legs weak. It’s weeks of tension that had been building up to this point and neither of us can deny it.

“Please.”

His knee knocks my own further apart and the grip in my hair tightens. We had been doing this long enough for him to know exactly what I need. The new angle has him hitting parts of me that only he can find. 

The force of his thrusts has me pinned to the couch. I sob, holding the couch as if that could keep me grounded. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” My orgasm is approaching rapidly and I open to my mouth to tell him that but it rips through me before I get the chance.

My back arches and my vision goes black, the force of it all renders me completely silent.

“Fuck.” He grits out but he never lets the pace slow. All I can do is hold onto him as he fucks me through it.

~~~

I can already tell that I’ll be sore the next day. Coming off two back-to-back orgasms the oversensitivity was bordering on uncomfortable, but I loved every moment of it.

He’s staring at me through lidded eyes, trained on me like I’m the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. His lips are parted slightly, and his hand is wrapped tightly around the headboard. The veins in his forearm stand out prominently. His other hand dips between us and I can feel my eyes blow wide as he rests two fingers on top of his shaft and peers up at me expectantly. ‘Take it.’ His eyes whisper to me. I was already struggling to take him into me, let alone the long thick fingers he has ready for me.

“You can do it.” He murmurs, and the deep rumble of his voice sends another wave of pleasure through me.

He drops his hand from the headboard, curling it around my hip to hold me in place. I’m drowsy with pleasure but I let my body press closer to his, pulling his fingers and his length into my body.

My head falls back immediately, my eyes rolling back into my head. It’s such an intense feeling that my head empties of any thought that isn’t just him.

He’s moaning underneath me, twitching slightly as if he’s fighting the urge to move inside me.

“Look at you.” He murmurs, curling the fingers that are inside me for emphasis.

I sob, and my nails dig into his chest. He’ll have marks tomorrow that he probably won’t be too pleased about.

“I’m so close baby. You look so good taking me like this.”

My nerves are on fire but I’m still dragging myself across him, watching the way that his face contorts with pleasure. His hips snap up, meeting me halfway every time. His thumb brushes against my clit, adding to the pleasure.

“I-I’m going…”

His body tenses under me and I feel him twitch inside me. I cry out his name, collapsing into his chest as the waves of pleasure roll through me. Dick shudders underneath me, finishing with a few small thrusts.

His fingers slip into my hair and he kneads at the back of my neck. Neither of us is concerned about cleaning up the mess we had created. We were just basking in the pleasure of each other.

“You really love me, don’t you?” He whispers while dragging his fingers through my hair soothingly.

Emotion gathers in my throat and all I can do is nuzzle into his hand and close my eyes. Even though we were together tonight, I still wasn’t sure that I would experience him this gentle with me again. I would enjoy this for as long as I was allowed to have it.

[callsigns-haze]

Pretty like a crime

Chapter 8

Pairing: Agent Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Singlemom! Agent Y/n 'Cobra' Y/l/n

Summary: Cobra is finally back on the agency and is finally back in the job. With Kai at home she has to jumble being a mother and a agent. She's sent to her first U.C mission but never thought that she would meet a blonde, green eyed Texan...

Warning: Mentions of gun use, ptsd, mentions of death, mentions of shooting, flirting, mentions of abuse, description of dead body, death, blood, undercover work, alcohol use, smut, kissing

Prologue/ Part 1/ Part 2/Part 3/ Part 4/ Part 5/ Part 6/ Part 7

"Alexandre, is back in the family." Matthew says as you sit on your balcony, sipping wine to help relieve the stress you've just experienced.

"Nice," you mumble taking another sip and looking at him from behind your glasses. He's changed so much recently, more tensed and stressed. He's been so full of anger and lost compassion that you simply don't understand.

"What's going on with you!" He lifts his voice and you don't even lift your gaze. He's angry but there's nothing that could get you more pissed than you already were. The people who hated the Chevaliers were working their way through history and you were giggling at the sidelines.

"Your brother just flipped his car and nearly died. You're so stuck up and arrogant that you don't even go and visit him and just sit here going on about business, THAT'S WHAT'S FUCKING WRONG WITH ME!" You shout at him.

"All you care about if your doing well in daddy's business. Not once did you stop and think about anyone around you, even your own brother's. Matthew, history from ten years ago is getting pulled back up from the grave and you should care about not getting caught by a lose thread!' And with that your gone. As you storm off as you shove past Penelope.

------

These people cared for no one at all. All they cared about was money. You don't know how you got yourself so deep into this drama but you don't want to know, but one thing you learned is that the only way to survive is to thrive by yourself.

You run down as fast as your legs can carry you. Your dad was called down to the police station along with other team members with no reason for the explanation behind it.

You pull out your badge and guards approve your entering and sadly the first person you lay on is the last you would've wanted. "Matthew."

Matthew, was your father's lawyer, family business brings close and yet that so-called lawyer is actually your ex. You haven't seen him ever since you left, from what you heard he went for rehab and it showed. He didn't seem sloppy and drowsy anymore, he had composure. He stood up straight, eyes not bloodshot and looked like the Matt you knew.

"Y/N."

He could not believe his eyes. The woman he had loved for all those years and the same woman that left him was now standing right in front of him, ready to hear news about her father.

"Hi." You both say in sync , causing the two of you to let out a laugh. Your laugh was one of the finest you've ever given off, you're far from happy to see this man and no act could fake it. It broke the thick and tense silence as you asked, "What happened with my dad?"

He looked down at you and pulled out a bunch of paper while pointing and explaining, "They pulled evidence from back years, then forged them together and got this mess." It sure was a mess, each line being more fake and unrealistic from the other.

Your father would never do such things and never did, he has worked honestly and fairly and whoever was doing this to him would surely pay.

"Can I-"

"Hey, Cobra!" A voice from behind you calls as the tall, muscular, blonde, green eyed Texan runs up beside you. He kisses your cheek lightly as Matthew hunts him down with his gaze. Horrible timing Hangman.

"Who's this?" Jake asks, wrapping his arm around your waist. These actions are getting stared at by Matthew as if he was a hawk hunting his prey. "Matt, this is Jake my partner. Jake, this is Kai's dad Matthew."

If you ever seen a cartoon character lose colour in milliseconds there was no better way of describing Jake. All the colour drained from his face, he went all pale and stiff, while shaking as he held his hand out.

Matthew stared at Jake's put out hand and ignored it, slightly shoving past it as he tells you. "They don't have anything solid on him, don't worry. Excuse me, I have to go see my client." He shoved past Jake whispering in his ear as he walked past. "If I were in your place I'd leave my family alone."

Jake got the biggest chills of his whole life. Your ex was, Matthew Chevalier. Nicely putting it, he was done for.

"You didn't tell me HE was Kai's dad. Wait! So you're-" You've heard this sentence more than you could count in your life, exactly the words used on the phonecall.

"Madame Chevalier or Lady, whatever you wanna call it." You sigh, pulling your head back and putting it back down to lock eyes with Jake. You stare at his green eyes for just a moment and then lean in to plant a kiss upon his lips. You wrap your hands gently around his neck, twirling his hair lightly as your lips perform a sort of dance. You pull back and look Jake in the eyes.

"As much as I hate him he's still Kai's father and a damn good lawyer, that's all that matters."

-------

You enter the white room where Romain lay. His neck was injured and in a brace and his arm was in a cast. He looked so powerless. In this moment he looked as if he lost all the authority he's ever had.

You walk toward the hospital bed and sit down on the small chair beside him. A tear slips from your eye as you watch him in such a state. Out of all the Chevaliers he was the only one with dignity and a heart and this all happened because his dad kicked him out for loving a man and not Grace.

"Hey," you say, putting his free hand in yours as he looks at you. A tear leaves his eye as he lays his sight upon you. You felt horrible for him. He didn't deserve this, not at all.

"Y/N, I-i-i-i." You shush him already knowing what he was going to say. The Fortuny family ended in such a way and now he did the same but if it wasn't for Olivia he'd already be dead.

"Romain, their death wasn't in your hands."

------

You lay on your couch as Kai insisted on walking Jake's dog with him, and there was no way you could deny it. The blanket lay only upon your feet as you curled yourself up into a ball.

Matthew was sober and back into his ordinary life. He was sober and in a brilliant state, he was influenced and trusted and most importantly out of all, he found you. Matthew had the right to fight for Kai if he wished to.

Kai was his son after all and the only reason you left was due to the struggles that your relationship pushed. You quickly got divorced papers and signed them and immediately left the continent let alone the country.

You earlier pulled out a glass of champagne, but now you've ended up in the middle of chugging the whole bottle. Your ex husband is in town, meaning he could tear you down for what you did. He could easily get rid of you for what you've done.

"MOMMY!" Kai's voice echoed through the apartment as they returned from their walk. You place the champagne bottle down onto the glass, black coffee table and sit up properly from your previous egg position.

The second Jake had taken off your son's shoes, the little boy ran to you and sat beside you before you pulled him into your lap. "Mommy, can I stay up with the doggy?" The little boy enforced one of the fittest pouting lips you've ever seen but you couldn't say yes, not tonight.

"I'm sorry baby, bed now. You've taken a bath earlier and went out in your PJ's so you're perfectly ready for a night snooze." Kai groans as Jake appears leaning against the living room doorframe with the young energetic dog at his feet.

"Your mommy's right buddy, you'll still have time to play tomorrow." You look up at Jake and smile before standing up with Kai on your hip.

You carry him over to Jake where your boyfriend happily relieves your arms from your son, carrying him to his room to put him down.

- Once Jake re-entered he found you leaning against the kitchen counter, head pointing downwards as you took deep breaths.

There were silent tears streaming down your face when the flashback of the papers went through your head. You let out a little sob not being able to contain yourself and that's when Jake noticed you crying.

"Noo angel, don't cry. I'm here now everything is ok," at that you get up to face him gently wrapping your arms around him and sobbing into his chest.

"Shhhh baby, it's okay. I'm here."

"It's just that when I left I never had to s-s-see him aga-" you could even finish the sentence with your shaking. You were having another panic attack. You haven't had one in ages but Jake knew this wouldn't end well if you didn't relax and take a breath.

"Look at me angel," he commands softly, not trying to be ruff or rude but in a way to get you to listen.

You raze your gaze to him as your glassy eyes spill again and you start hiccuping softly.

"Now, see angel. I'm here, okay? I'm fine and I'm with you so let's keep the past to the past and now everything is okay," he says pulling you in gently.

Your son's slowed down as you started taking deep, slowed down breaths. "I don't want him here. I want him gone, for good this time!" You choke out before reburying yourself in Jake's chest. You want Matthew dead.

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