#but those of us who were outsiders looking in at the things he did id recommend staying out of it for the most part

[goldfades]

friday night lights | JOE BURROW⁹ [010]

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MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.6k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | requested -> how joe and reader met? we know they met in high school, sophomore year but id (and i’m sure everyone else😅) would love a little flashback chapter!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | descriptions of partying, underage drinking, kinda slowburn? shy girl x football player trope, maisie being protective, nothing else!

The first time you met Joe Burrow, he wasn’t Joe Burrow, not yet. He was just a tall, lanky sophomore quarterback with an arm everyone talked about and a quietness that made him feel like a walking question mark. Athens High was small enough that everyone knew everyone—names, faces, family stories that spread like wildfire—but Joe? He wasn’t loud enough to grab the attention of half the school, not until football season started.

You were sitting on the bleachers during a pep rally, Maisie beside you, her commentary on everything from the band’s uneven tempo to the cheerleaders’ synchronized high kicks keeping you thoroughly entertained. The players were being introduced one by one, each jogging onto the gym floor to varying levels of applause. When they called Joe’s name, the cheer was louder, a steady roar that vibrated through the walls, and you found yourself craning to see what the fuss was about.

There he was. Light blond hair a little messy, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, hands tucked into the pockets of his letterman jacket. He didn’t wave or puff out his chest like the others; he just gave the crowd a small nod before retreating to the back of the lineup. Something about him—his quiet confidence, maybe—caught your attention, and you didn’t quite know why.

“You’re staring,” Maisie muttered, not looking up from the doodle she was adding to the corner of her math notebook.

“I’m not,” you whispered back, even as your gaze lingered a second too long.

That was the beginning.

It wasn’t until a few weeks later, at a biology lab you’d been forced to pair up in, that he really spoke to you. Joe wasn’t your usual seatmate, but he slid into the stool beside you with a polite nod, his long legs awkwardly folding beneath the too-short lab table. The two of you were tasked with dissecting something unreasonably gross—a frog, maybe? You couldn’t remember now. What you did remember was Joe, his steady hands cutting through the assignment with precision, and the way he chuckled softly when you accidentally dropped a scalpel.

“You’re not a fan of this, huh?” he asked, his voice low but teasing.

You wrinkled your nose. “Not all of us dream of gutting things for a living.”

“I’m not gutting anything for a living.” He smirked, a tiny flash of mischief in his otherwise calm demeanor. “I throw footballs.”

It wasn’t the smoothest line, but it was enough to make you laugh, and that laugh seemed to encourage him.

From then on, he started showing up more. A quick wave in the hallway, a quiet “Hey” as he passed you in class, and the occasional comment during shared group projects. It was nothing monumental, just small moments that began to stack, like bricks in a wall you couldn’t stop building.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Maisie warned one afternoon as the two of you sat on the steps outside the school. “Guys like him don’t date girls like us. They go for easy cheerleaders, not girls who can barely talk during a book report.”

“I can talk during a book report,” you shot back, even though it wasn’t entirely true.

Maisie raised a brow, clearly unimpressed. “I’m just saying, keep it realistic. He’s an athlete. You’re… you.”

You knew Maisie didn't mean to be discouraging, she was always the realistic one between the two of you. You watched rom-com's, and was a hopeless romantic—and Maisie, well... she wasn't the romantic type. She meant well, she just didn't want to see her best friend get her heart shattered by a stupid (her words, not yours) blonde quarterback.

But despite her skepticism, you couldn’t stop yourself. Each time Joe said your name or offered a lopsided grin in passing, the crush rooted itself deeper. It was innocent, for now, a quiet hope you kept tucked away like a secret note in your locker.

And then one day, Joe did something that changed everything. Something so small, so simple, that it left you reeling. He stopped you in the hallway between classes, his book bag slung over one shoulder, his blue eyes holding yours for just a beat too long.

“You going to the game Friday?” he asked.

You blinked, startled. “Uh… maybe?”

“You should.” He shrugged, shifting on his feet. “It’s gonna be a good one.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you standing there, your heart thudding in your chest like a drumline warming up before a halftime show.

The walk to Maisie’s car after school was peppered with her usual commentary about the injustices of teenage life. Something about how the cafeteria's pizza was an actual health violation, how Mr. Harper’s pop quizzes were a form of psychological torture, and how group projects should be banned by law.

You let her vent, only half-listening, your mind replaying Joe’s voice: “You should.” It wasn’t like he’d asked you on a date or anything, but it was the first time he’d gone out of his way to talk to you outside of class. The possibility of seeing him again on Friday made your chest buzz, but Maisie? Convincing her was another story entirely.

“So,” you began casually as you slid into the passenger seat, trying to find the right approach. “Are you going to the game Friday?”

Maisie turned the key in the ignition, her ancient Honda sputtering to life with a groan. She shot you a sidelong glance. “Why? Are you going?”

“Maybe,” you said, a little too quickly.

Her eyebrows rose as she backed out of the parking spot. “What’s this about? You hate football. You called it ‘organized concussion practice’ last month.”

You shrugged, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “I don’t hate it. And it’s not like I’m going for the game. I just thought it might be fun, you know? Something different.”

Maisie narrowed her eyes, the car bouncing slightly as it hit a pothole. “Different like sitting in the freezing cold with half the school, pretending to care about a sport we don’t understand?”

“You don’t have to pretend to care.” You grinned, nudging her arm. “You can sit there and make fun of people like you always do. It’ll be fun. Besides, you never know, you might actually enjoy it.”

She snorted. “The only thing I’d enjoy is the halftime show. And even that’s debatable.”

“Come on,” you said, dragging out the words in a way you knew would get under her skin. “We haven’t gone to a single game this year. Don’t you think it’s time to show a little school spirit?”

“I have plenty of spirit,” Maisie deadpanned. “It’s just not for sports. My spirit is reserved for things that matter, like protests and pizza Fridays.”

You groaned, leaning your head back against the seat. “Maisie, please. Just this once?”

She glanced at you, her expression softening ever so slightly. Maisie might’ve been a certified cynic, but she wasn’t immune to the rare moments when you genuinely wanted something.

“Why are you so set on this?” she asked finally, her tone skeptical but not dismissive.

You hesitated, the truth bubbling at the edge of your lips. “I don’t know. It just… feels like something I should do.”

Her eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to the road. She let out a dramatic sigh, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Fine. I’ll go. But if anyone spills nacho cheese on me or tries to talk to me about touchdowns, I’m leaving.”

“Deal.” You grinned, relief flooding through you.

Maisie muttered something under her breath about friendship being a burden, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. You knew she’d show up in her usual no-nonsense way, probably armed with a thermos of hot cocoa and a thousand sarcastic comments, but she’d be there.

And as the two of you drove home, her complaining fading into the background, you couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, Friday night would be more than you’d ever expected.

┈┈┈

The bleachers were packed, the air alive with the buzz of small-town Friday night energy. The faint smell of concession stand hot dogs wafted through the air, mingling with the sharp chill of early autumn. You tugged your jacket tighter around you, glancing at Maisie, who sat next to you with an impressive scowl already forming on her face.

“See?” she said, motioning to the field where the players were warming up. “Organized concussion practice. Case in point.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “You promised you’d keep the snark to a minimum.”

Maisie held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave. But if someone tries to start a chant near me, all bets are off.”

The two of you settled in with a group from your biology class—a group you hadn’t hung out with outside of school before but were surprisingly easy to be around. They handed out popcorn, passed around a bag of Sour Patch Kids, and made corny jokes that Maisie laughed at more than she’d ever admit. Even you found yourself relaxing, letting the game wash over you as something fun instead of a chore.

“Okay, what’s happening now?” Maisie leaned over to whisper as the players jogged off the field and the marching band took their place.

“Halftime,” you explained. “This is the part you said you might like.”

She raised an eyebrow, watching as the band launched into a spirited rendition of some pop song from two summers ago. “Well,” she said slowly, “it’s not bad. Kind of catchy.”

You grinned, nudging her. “See? Told you this wouldn’t be so terrible.”

“Don’t get cocky,” she warned, but there was no venom in her tone.

By the fourth quarter, even Maisie seemed invested, clapping lightly when your school scored and muttering curses when the refs made questionable calls. You didn’t know what surprised you more—that Maisie was actually having fun or that you were, too.

But as the clock ticked down to the final minutes, you couldn’t help but scan the sidelines, searching for the number nine jersey. Joe had been on fire all night, his throws sharp and precise, his presence commanding even from this far up in the stands.

When the buzzer sounded, signaling your school’s victory, the bleachers erupted in cheers. Maisie rolled her eyes at the whooping and hollering but clapped politely.

“Alright,” she said, standing and stretching. “You got your football experience. Can we go now?”

“Just a sec,” you said, your gaze locked on the field.

You spotted Joe near the fifty-yard line, surrounded by teammates and fans congratulating him. But it wasn’t the crowd that caught your attention—it was her.

A girl with shiny brown hair and a bright smile leaned in close to Joe, saying something you couldn’t hear from this distance. She had that effortless kind of prettiness that made you feel frumpy in comparison, and the familiarity with which she touched his arm sent a pang through your chest.

Then he hugged her.

It wasn’t a quick, congratulatory pat on the back, either. It was one of those hugs that lingered, the kind that looked like it belonged in a rom-com montage.

Your stomach dropped.

“Hey,” Maisie said, nudging you. “You good?”

You forced yourself to nod, blinking rapidly against the sting in your eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Maisie frowned, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t push. As the two of you made your way down the bleachers, you couldn’t help but glance back one last time. Joe was still standing there, his arm slung casually around the girl’s shoulders, his grin easy and warm.

It shouldn’t hurt this much, you told yourself. He wasn’t yours. Not really.

But as Maisie led you out of the stadium, chattering about the game, you couldn’t shake the ache in your chest—the kind of ache that only comes when you realize you care about someone more than they care about you.

The girls from your biology class caught up with you just as you and Maisie were about to leave the parking lot. They were breathless and giggling, their faces flushed from the cool night air and the excitement of the game.

“Hey!” one of them called, waving you down. “There’s a party at Megan’s house—like, right now. You guys should totally come!”

Maisie raised an eyebrow, already halfway in the car. “A party? At Megan’s? Isn’t she the one who turned the chem lab into a glitter bomb last year?”

“That was iconic,” one of the girls said with a laugh. “Come on, it’ll be fun! You can’t just go home after a game like that.”

You hesitated. Parties weren’t really your thing, and you could already see Maisie gearing up for a sarcastic excuse to say no. But something in you—the part still stinging from seeing Joe hug that girl—felt like rebelling. Like shaking off the evening’s disappointment and pretending, for a little while, that you weren’t someone who usually played it safe.

“Why the hell not?” you said, surprising even yourself.

Maisie froze, her hand on the car door. “Excuse me, what?”

“Come on,” you said, grabbing her arm. “Let’s go. It’ll be fun!”

Maisie groaned but let you pull her along. “You owe me for this.”

Megan’s house was already packed by the time you arrived, music thumping loud enough to shake the front porch. The air was thick with the smell of beer and cheap perfume, and the living room was crowded with people laughing, dancing, and shouting over each other.

It started with a drink—just one, you told yourself, to loosen up. But one turned into two, and before you knew it, the edges of the world felt softer, the music louder, and your inhibitions practically nonexistent.

You danced in the middle of the living room, your arms thrown around the girls from your biology class, laughing so hard your sides ached. Maisie watched from the couch, shaking her head but smiling faintly at your antics.

The party had only grown wilder as the night went on. The living room was now packed shoulder-to-shoulder, the music loud enough to make the floor vibrate under your feet. You were too buzzed to care about the sweaty press of bodies or the occasional elbow that jabbed you in the side.

Maisie was still parked in her corner, sipping from a plastic cup and looking suspiciously at anyone who came too close. Your biology classmates were dancing near the kitchen, laughing so loudly you could hear them over the music.

And then you saw him.

Joe stood by the far wall with a cluster of his teammates, their broad shoulders and easy grins making them look like they owned the room. He was in the middle of laughing at something, his head tilted back and eyes crinkled in that stupidly charming way. You should’ve looked away, walked the other direction, anything.

But you didn’t.

You blinked hard, trying to ignore the ache in your chest, and did the only thing that made sense in the moment—you grabbed another shot from a passing tray and threw it back. The burn of the alcohol made you wince, but it dulled the edges of your hurt just enough to push you back into the safety of your friends.

Hours later, the party had become a blur. Your legs felt like jelly, the walls swayed slightly every time you moved, and even Maisie’s sharp voice sounded muffled through the haze.

“I think I need the bathroom,” you slurred to no one in particular, pushing off the couch and wobbling on unsteady feet.

“You need to sit down,” Maisie snapped, grabbing your arm.

“I’ll be fine,” you mumbled, waving her off. “Just… the bathroom.”

You stumbled into the hallway, squinting at the doors as if one of them might magically open and guide you inside. Instead, you bumped into something solid—someone, actually.

“Oh, crap, sorry—”

It was Joe.

His hands caught your arms gently to steady you, his expression shifting from surprise to concern the moment he got a good look at you. “Y/N? Are you okay?”

You yanked your arm away, wobbling but determined to keep your balance. “I’m fine,” you muttered, glaring up at him.

Joe frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. “You don’t look fine. What’s going on?”

“Nothing that’s any of your business,” you snapped, stumbling past him.

But instead of letting you go, he followed, his concern overriding any annoyance he might have felt at your tone. “You’re drunk,” he said plainly, his voice quieter now. “Where are you trying to go?”

You paused, the fog in your brain making it hard to come up with a snappy reply. “Bathroom,” you finally said, crossing your arms.

Joe nodded, stepping ahead of you. “Come on, I’ll help you find it.”

You wanted to argue, to push him away and tell him you didn’t need his help, but your legs were too wobbly, and the spinning hallway wasn’t exactly making things easier.

He walked a few paces ahead, glancing back every so often to make sure you were following. When you stumbled again, he sighed and offered his arm.

“Just take it,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re gonna fall on your face if you don’t.”

Grudgingly, you grabbed his arm, leaning into his steady warmth as he led you toward the bathroom door.

“Why are you being nice to me?” you muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

Joe paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob. “Because I care about you, even when you’re mad at me for no reason,” he said softly.

You didn’t have a reply for that. Instead, you pushed the door open and stumbled inside, closing it behind you before he could say anything else.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself breathe.

The bathroom was a blur of fluorescent light and tiled walls, and you were grateful for the brief reprieve from the chaotic party outside. Splashing cold water on your face helped a little, but the dizziness still lingered, and standing upright felt like a Herculean effort.

You took a deep breath, steadied yourself, and opened the door, stepping out with as much dignity as you could muster—which, unfortunately, wasn’t much. Your foot caught the edge of the rug, and before you could even process what was happening, gravity had its way.

But you didn’t hit the ground.

Joe caught you, his hands firm on your arms as he steadied you. “Whoa, easy,” he said, his voice low and calm. “I told you you’d fall if you weren’t careful.”

You glared up at him, more out of stubbornness than actual anger. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” He didn’t let go right away, his eyes scanning your face like he was checking for signs of serious damage. “Come on, you need to drink some water.”

“I don’t need anything,” you shot back, trying to pull away.

Joe’s grip loosened, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he reached for a nearby table and grabbed a half-full bottle of water, holding it out to you. “Just drink it. Please.”

You crossed your arms, teetering slightly on your feet. “I said I’m fine.”

“Y/N.” His tone was firmer now, his brow furrowing in that way that made him look unfairly mature for a high schooler. “You’re going to feel worse if you don’t drink this.”

You stared at the bottle like it was some kind of enemy, but the dizziness was getting worse, and deep down, you knew he was right. With a heavy sigh, you snatched it from his hand.

“Fine,” you muttered, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip.

“More than that,” Joe said, crossing his arms as he watched you.

You gave him an exaggerated eye roll but obliged, taking a few bigger gulps. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he replied dryly, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Before you could respond with another sarcastic remark, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“There you are!” Maisie appeared, her expression a mix of relief and exasperation. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“I’m fine,” you said, though the wobble in your step betrayed you as you tried to stand straighter.

Maisie’s eyes narrowed as she glanced between you and Joe. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Joe nodded, stepping back slightly but keeping his gaze on you. “Good. She needs to get home.”

“Don’t tell me what I already know, Burrow,” Maisie snapped, looping her arm around yours to steady you.

Joe ignored her jab, his focus still on you. “Get home safe, okay?”

You hesitated, the mix of hurt and exhaustion making your chest tighten. But something in his tone softened the edges of your frustration.

“Thanks,” you murmured quietly, avoiding his eyes.

Maisie tugged you toward the door, muttering something under her breath about quarterbacks and their egos. And as the two of you stepped out into the cool night air, you couldn’t help but glance back once, catching Joe’s silhouette in the doorway before Maisie pulled you forward, back into the safety of the night.

The weekend had come and gone, leaving behind a swirl of emotions and half-remembered moments that made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Every time you thought about the party—about Joe, specifically—you felt a warm flush crawl up your neck, a mixture of embarrassment and residual irritation.

By Monday morning, you were determined to put it behind you. High school wasn’t exactly forgiving, and you didn’t need rumors or awkwardness to complicate things further. But as you moved through the crowded hallways, your resolve was tested.

“Hey, Y/N.”

That voice was unmistakable, and it froze you in your tracks. You turned to see Joe, casually leaning against a locker like he hadn’t caused your entire weekend to spiral into emotional chaos.

“What do you want?” you asked, crossing your arms defensively.

Joe blinked, surprised by the sharpness in your tone, but he quickly recovered, his calm demeanor intact. “Nothing. Just saying hi. How was your weekend?”

You stared at him, incredulous. “Are you serious?”

He tilted his head slightly, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Yeah… why wouldn’t I be?”

It was the last straw. The memory of him laughing with that girl at the game—hugging her—flashed in your mind, and before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out.

“Why don’t you ask your girl instead?” Your voice was biting, louder than you intended, and a couple of students walking by glanced over curiously.

Joe straightened, his brows knitting together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“The girl from the game,” you snapped. “You were all over her. Maybe you should talk to her instead of bothering me.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, the hallway noise fading into the background. Then, to your utter disbelief, his lips curved into a slight smirk.

“That?” he said, his tone dripping with casual dismissal. “That wasn’t anything. My teammates set it up, said she wanted to meet me. It was awkward as hell.”

You blinked, thrown off balance. “Oh.”

His smirk deepened, and his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “You got all worked up over that, huh?”

“I wasn’t—” you started, but the words died on your tongue. You couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and your silence only seemed to amuse him more.

Joe leaned in just a fraction, his voice low and teasing. “You’re kind of cute when you’re jealous, you know that?”

“I wasn’t jealous,” you muttered, your face heating up.

“Sure you weren’t.”

Before you could respond, the bell rang, signaling the start of class. Joe didn’t wait for you to gather your dignity; he just fell into step beside you as if nothing had happened, launching into some story about his weekend. You were too flustered to do anything but follow along, grateful he wasn’t pressing the issue further.

By the time you slid into your seat in class, the embarrassment had settled into a dull thrum, manageable but still present. Unfortunately for you, Joe wasn’t done.

“Hey,” he said, leaning over slightly so only you could hear. “Do you have a crush on me or something?”

The question was delivered so casually, with that same damn smirk, that it took a second to register. Your head snapped toward him, your eyes wide. “What? No!”

“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not,” you hissed, your face feeling hotter by the second.

Joe chuckled, leaning back in his chair with an air of victory. “Whatever you say.”

You glared at him, but he just winked, turning his attention to the teacher as if he hadn’t just completely unraveled you.

For the rest of the class, you couldn’t focus on a single thing except the stupid, smug boy sitting next to you. And, much to your chagrin, the smallest part of you couldn’t help but feel a little flattered.

After that Monday, things shifted. Slowly, but surely, you and Joe began spending more time together. It started with small things—casual conversations during passing periods, shared laughs in class, and stolen moments after school. Joe had this way of sneaking past your walls, of making you laugh when you wanted to roll your eyes. And you couldn’t deny how easy it was to be around him, even when Maisie shot you knowing looks, muttering, "Don’t get your hopes up.”

By the end of the football season, it felt natural to meet him after games, even if it was just to say a quick hello or give him a high-five. But one game—toward the end of the season—was different. You could tell something was on his mind, the way he fidgeted and avoided eye contact as you approached him on the field, your jacket pulled tight against the November chill.

“Hey,” he said, his voice unusually soft.

“Hey, good game,” you replied, smiling up at him.

“Thanks.” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck in that way he did when he was nervous. “Uh… I wanted to ask you something.”

Your heart did a little flip. “What is it?”

He took a deep breath, his eyes locking with yours. “Would you… uh, do you want to be my girlfriend?”

You blinked, stunned for a moment, before a wide smile spread across your face. “Yes.”

Joe’s face lit up like you’d just handed him a championship trophy. Without warning, he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you off the ground, spinning you in a circle as you laughed, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. When he set you down, he was grinning like an idiot.

“Really?” he asked, still holding onto you.

“Really,” you said, laughing at his excitement.

From that moment on, you were inseparable.

High school with Joe was a whirlwind of late-night drives, studying together at the library (where he mostly distracted you), and cheering him on from the stands. He became your biggest supporter, whether it was at your own events or just encouraging you through tough classes.

Maisie, of course, remained skeptical of Joe for a while, but even she had to admit he wasn’t the worst when he went out of his way to make sure you were happy.

High school was full of memories like that—Joe getting overly competitive during group projects, Maisie rolling her eyes at his antics, and the three of you becoming an unlikely trio. But the sweetest moments were the quiet ones: Joe waiting by your locker with his easy smile, the two of you walking hand-in-hand through the halls, and the way he always made you feel like you were the most important person in the world.

By the time graduation rolled around, you couldn’t imagine your life without him. And from the way he looked at you as you crossed the stage, you knew he felt the same.

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↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[cursedwithcaution]

Finding Palismen || Chapter 57: Remember Us

[Image description in alt and at end of post]

I moved on, unable to keep myself from looking at other memories. Not all the images were as clear as that one. Seeing myself in that expressionless mask, I knew it was me. I did those things. I did anything for him. Freaked out as I was to be alone, I was relieved Amity and Luz weren’t there to see this. The rotten stench lingered in the air. I tried the walkie a few more times as if I could find better signal under the right tree. Maybe they weren’t even in here any more. Maybe I was entirely alone—me and my delightful little mind. I doubted that, though. They wouldn’t just leave me here, right? Not without searching for a little while. They’ll find a way down here, I told myself. “You hear that, mind? You better give my friends a way to get down here! Actually, you should give me a way to—” A bone crunched under my foot. My ears started ringing even before I looked down at the field of bones, skulls, and masks. There were only a few trees poking through, all in a line. I walked to the nearest one, pretending not to hear the sickening crunch made with each step. As I expected, the image was of finding the Golden Guard dumping ground a few months ago. It was the most recent memory I’d seen down here and it took me off guard—the hair, the clothes, but mostly how sick I looked. My skin was so gray. It really did look like it was about to rot off my face. I shuddered and kept moving. "Flapjack?" I called. Then I tried the walkie. I glanced at a memory as I passed the next tree. Mindscape within a mindscape. The moment I saw the truth, Luz behind me as I stared slack-jawed at the gallery of death. My hands started hurting. My back tensed. “Don’t get scared,” I said. “It’s just a photo. Keep moving.” I wasn���t even sure what I was supposed to be moving towards at that point. I didn’t think I would find a way out, I had no way of knowing if my friends were even on the same plane of existence as me. All I had was a baseball bat and a useless walkie-talkie. I didn’t want to find him.  Not here, not by myself.

[ID: In a polaroid photo-style frame, a younger version of Hunter but with the scars, brown eyes, and longer hair he has when he's older stands clinging to the leg of Belos, who is resting his hand on Hunter’s head. Outside the frame, Belos is distorted and staring at the viewer with a glowing blue eye. Top right text reads “Remember Me” and the text writing on the polaroid frame reads “Finding Palismen #57” /End ID]

[enhas-pov]

enemies by blood

summary: born in a mafia family definitely wasn’t easy. especially when your dad’s enemy’s son, park sunghoon goes to your school. reader and sunghoon grew up hating each other due to their father’s bad past with each other, but what’s gonna happen when they want their kids to finish what they started?

warnings: (gang)violence, lots of fighting, murder, blood, drugs, money laundering, guns, kissing, usage of "oppa", pet names, bad ending

word count: 4.5k

note: i haven’t read through it‼️ ignore spelling mistakes

pt.2

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my whole life i`ve felt like an outsider. people always look at me weird, they give me dirty looks, but at the same time theyre afraid of me. all because of my family.. my dad to be specific. since before i was born, my dad has been a part of this mafia gang thingy where drugs, guns, killing, and all of that stuff was involved. so growing up i was taught most of those things. id say im pretty good at fighting, and using guns. my mom on the other hand died when i was 10, she was killed by some guy that my dad was having problems with.. ive never met someone who can relate to me whatsover, except for park sunghoon.

sunghoon goes to the same school as me and grew up exactly like i did, and when i say exactly i mean EXACTLY. his dad is a part of a mafia gang too, so sunghoon grew up involved with that as well just like i did, and guess what? his mom got killed by a guy his dad was having problems with as well. if you put two and two together.. my dad killed sunghoons mom so sunghoon`s dad killed my mom, which is one of the reasons why sunghoon and i grew up hating each other.

my dad told me that him and mr. park used to be a part of the same gang, they were actually really close friends until something happened between the two of them that ruined their friendship and caused them to turn on each other. basically, my dad and mr. park were planning a huge drug deal, but for some reason mr. park tipped off the cops to make sure all the money made off the drug deal would be his, so when my dad got arrested for it he spent 10 years in prison. and when he got out he killed sunghoons mom as revenge, but when mr. park killed my mom for revenge because of his wife`s death, it made things worse between the two.

i was sat in the backseat of the fancy car i was driven to school with everyday by my dads personal driver, min. i was not allowed to walk to school and especially not alone. my dad told me there are people who know about me and that since im his daughter they kinda want me dead.. which is understandable? i guess, considering the kind of shit my dad does to these people. "were here, miss y/l/n" my driver says, parked right in front of my school. "thank you-" i was two seconds away from getting out of the car before i was stopped by my drivers very concerned voice. "wait, mr. park is right behind us. would you like to wait?" i rolled my eyes at his words, not giving a care in the world about park fucking sunghoon. "i`m okay. thank you, min"

the second i made my way out of the car i was met with sunghoons tall figure stood not too far behind me. he threw a glare at me that i quickly returned which he rolled his eyes at. as we both started walking to the entryway of our school, we were pretty much walking next to each other, obviously, since we were going the same way. "thought the teacher told you to cover up?" he suddenly says, referring to my choice of clothing, his eyes looking straight ahead as hes avoiding any and all eye contact with me.

"you were the one who went complaining to our teacher about it, acting like what i was wearing wasn’t making your dick hard" he only chuckled at my words. once we reached the entryway, he opened the door and stood to the side. he grinned, "ladies first" he said. i gave him a fake smile and walked through the open door. right as he was about to walk in from behind me, i slammed the door shut in his face and locked it so he couldn`t get in no matter what. i watched him banging on the door and yelling at me to open it. "oppa! i think the back door is open" i said loud enough for him to hear, knowing its a good 5 minute walk to get there. i laughed at how furious he was before making my way to class.

i guess you could say me and sunghoon act childish with each other sometimes. we argue a lot over dumb, unnecessary and small shit for no reason. we could choose to ignore each other but since i have it out for him and he has it out for me, its hard not to say anything every time we come across each other. we`re not exactly like our dads. we dont pull a gun on each other every time we cross paths, but do not get me wrong. there are times when our silly little arguments have evolved and turned into something much bigger causing a physical fight ending in blood and injuries. but its always been between just the two of us, we`ve never involved our dads or anything because we seem to just handle it on our own.

"i hope everyone here studied for their exams, you had all week and i will be disappointed in you if you fail" our teacher was walking around and placing the exam papers on each one of our desks. suddenly, at the sound of the door being slammed open, everyone turned their heads just to see sunghoon standing by the door looking pissed. "mr. park! it is one thing to come late to my class to take your exam, but its another thing to slam my door open and interrupt me" watching our teacher yell at sunghoon really made my day, especially the embarassed look on his face which made me smile to myself.

"im sorry, miss. i had to come in through the back door since-" before he could rat me out, he got cut off by our teacher who decided to yell at him once again. "i don`t want to hear it mr. park. take your seat and be quiet" sunghoon glared at me silently before he made his way to his desk which just happened to be right next to mine. i was expecting him to start throwing childish insults at me, but to my surprise he looked down at the piece of paper in front of him in complete silence. odd, but i couldnt be bothered to start anything during our exams.

"you guys have 1 hour to finish your exams starting from now" the room went completely quiet once everyone turned their heads down and started writing down on the piece of paper. i was focused on my exam until i felt something press down on my foot. confused, i look underneath my desk to see that its someone whos pressing down on my foot with their own. of course when i look up to see who it is, its sunghoon. hes not looking at me as his eyes are stuck to the paper in front of him, instead he uses his pen to point at a tiny note right next to his paper. i can see that theres something written on it, but since i couldnt make it out i decided to lean over his table a bit. squinting my eyes, i read the words "shouldn`t have locked me out pretty thing" pretty thing? really? is he referring to me as a thing? what an ass..

"miss. ___ is looking at my papers" wait, what?! i look up at sunghoon whos smirking at me, ew.. before turning to our teacher who looks like shes actually about to kill me.

"miss, i wasn’t-"

"i dont want to hear it! detention now, miss y/l/n"

fucking unbelievable. if im gonna miss my exam and end up in detention, you sure as hell know sunghoon will too. i tried not to lose my shit, grabbing my backpack before "accidentally" tripping over sunghoons desk which kinda revealed a bit of my behind to everyone in class. "miss! sunghoon just tripped me on purpose.." i said, acting all shy and embarrassed about how my skirt flipped over. "shes fucking lying!" sunghoon stood up from his desk and i could tell he was gonna lash out on me.

"am not! you tripped me over that desk on purpose you fucking pervert-"

"watch your mouth you lying piece of shit!"

while me and sunghoon were lashing out on each other, we didn`t notice how our teacher was red in the face like she was about to explode out of anger. "that`s enough! you guys are grown enough to know not to be using that sort of language, nor to be arguing like little kids! you should know to act better. detention for the both of you right now!" she yelled in our faces while everyone else were sat staring at us awkwardly.

both me and sunghoon were now sat in detention. we also just happened to be the only ones here, along with a teacher tho.. sunghoon was sat on the other side of the classroom as he wished to not be near me at all, which i’m glad for. i was scrolling through my phone when the teacher suddenly got up from the chair he was sat on. “alright. i’ve got a wife and kids to get home to, so you two better behave on your own until school is finished” and then he left just like that, leaving me and sunghoon all alone. "cant believe i`m missing my exam because of you.." i spat, breaking the silence. "maybe if you hadn`t locked me out i wouldn`t have done what i did. besides, the stunt you pulled really just proves my point. you really are a slut-" and this is usually how our fights start.

gripping the book in my hands that was on my desk, i quickly threw it in sunghoons direction and his instincts kicked in instantly. he dodged the book which flew right past his head, hitting the wall with a harsh thud that left a noticeable mark. "nice try princess" he pushed his desk to the side and began walking towards me as he was visibly angry. i ducked as fast as i could when he swung his fist at me. i felt a rush of air across my face that his fist had missed. "a man hitting a woman? that`s not very man-like of you" i twisted my body as i attempted to throw a kick at his knee, but sunghoon was quick to jump back which resulted in my foot connecting with the wall instead. "fuck!"

"dont hurt yourself now" sunghoon smirked before his next punch successfully caught me across my cheek, causing a sharp pain which made me stumble backwards. suck it up.. i launched myself forward and managed to tackle him down. with sunghoon on the ground, i was now straddling him with my fists positioned in the air right above his face. we were both breathing heavily as sunghoon struggled to get away from underneath me. "are you getting weaker, park sunghoon?" i asked, lowering my fists before getting back up on my feet. "youre saying that as if you didnt take the most damage" he panted, sitting himself up against the wall. "yet i`m not the one whos out of breath" i grabbed my backpack and made my way out of the classroom as i couldn`t be bothered to deal with his bullshit anymore, and i could feel his eyes on me as i walked out.

"dad! im home" i walked into the kitchen with no sight of my dad. i jumped when i saw my dads personal driver sat at the kitchen table. "min? you scared me. wheres dad?" i sat down next to him, placing my backpack on the floor. "your dad is currently in a meeting, hell be back soon. how did your exam go?" i watched him eat his food as i had no idea what to say to that. "couldnt have gone better.." i lied. he hummed, "if youre wondering, then no, i didn`t tell your dad i saw you and mr. park having a conversation on your way inside" i furrowed my eyebrows at him. why did he think he had to keep something like that away from my dad? we weren`t exactly saying positive things to each other, unless he thinks..

"ew, no! its most definitely not like that. we do talk sometimes, but its just shit talking about each other to each others faces" i said, not missing the way he threw me a look that screamed "i don`t believe you". i rolled my eyes playfully,

"i do not like sunghoon whatsoever-"

"i`d hope so"

i heard a voice say. turning around, i saw my dad walking into the kitchen with a lot of papers in his hands. "min, these are for you" he handed him a few of the papers which min accepted and thanked him for before he got up from his chair. i watched my dad sit down on the chair min was just sat on, "what did i hear you talking about just now?" he questioned, placing the rest of the papers on the table in front of him as he started going through them one by one.

"my exam" i said, which wasn`t completeley a lie. he turned to look at me, raising his eyebrows before looking back at his papers. "i was meaning to talk to you about sunghoon" what? why sunghoon out of all people? "you were..?" i asked, feeling myself getting a little nervous. "you know, sunghoon is no different from his father. he`s just as bad as him" i hummed as i was trying not to show how desperate i was for him to get to the point. "i was originally planning on doing this myself, but i figured that it would be a better for you to do it, since you "do not like sunghoon whatsoever""

"well, ur right about that. what is it that you want me to do dad?" he paused before he took a deep breath. he turned to me slightly and placed his hand on my shoulder, "sweetheart". he finally said as curiosity started taking over me. he hesitated for a second and it kinda freaked me out. was this gonna be some sort of arranged marrige? did he know about our fight today? or maybe- "i want you to kill sunghoon" what?! kill sunghoon..? i’d lie if i say i didn`t hate him, but ive never gone as far as to actually wanting to murder him.. i never have, never will, never wanted to and never planned on taking someone’s life, even if it`s someone who i despise.

“i know i’m asking for a lot-“

“asking for a lot? dad, you’re asking me to take someone’s life..”

“sweetheart, i know. but unfortunately this isn’t a choice” i watched him in horror as no words were able to leave my mouth. “you will do what i’m asking you to do. you wouldn’t want to disappoint your father, right?” he stood up from his chair, looking down on me demanding that i give him an answer. “y-yes dad..” i managed to get out, not bothering to look at him. “very well then” his footsteps were heavy as he walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts. i can’t kill sunghoon.. but i have to? no. i don’t have to, i think? it’s what my dad wants me to do, does that mean i should? murder is wrong, but sunghoon is a bad person. does sunghoon deserve to die? shit..

“you want me to kill ___?” sunghoon’s dad had delivered the exact same news to his son. “that’s right. she’s no different from her father” sunghoon knew that what his father was asking him for was wrong. he couldn’t bring himself to kill ___, even tho he hated her he knew that it wasn’t the right thing to do.

“dad.. i don’t know if i can-“

“don’t start with me son. when i tell you to do something, you do it. don’t act like it’ll be hard, she’s a woman after all”

a woman who could easily beat my ass.. sunghoon thought to himself. “yes father” he said. “very well then” he watched his father walk out of the room, what was he gonna do now? should he kill her just because his father told him to do so? the guilt would be with him for the rest of his life if he did. but he wouldn’t want his dad to be disappointed in him, right?

“we’re here, miss y/l/n” min said, parked in front of my school. “thank you..” i made my way out of the car and prayed to god that i wouldn’t bump into sunghoon. a whole day had gone by and i still needed to process everything. i looked around as i made my way to the entryway with no sign of sunghoon, and i was relieved when i finally reached the door. but before i could open it myself, someone had opened it from the inside. looking up, my heart dropped at the sight of sunghoon stood in front of me. i swallowed nervously as we were both stood staring at each other in complete silence.

i tried to move past him, and so did he which caused our bodies to push up against each other. “sorry..” sorry? why the fuck did i apologize? “it’s alright..” he mumbled, moving to the side so i could walk past him. not wanting to make things even more awkward, i quickly walked past him and hurried my way over to class. wait, but.. why was sunghoon acting weird as well? maybe something happened and he was dealing with a personal matter.. don’t know, don’t care. he’ll be dead soon anyway.

i’m getting ready to start working out in what my dad calls "the den" its basically this underground gym/boxing place where my dad trains along with his men, but i usually show up after they’ve all left since i like being on my own. i had put on some black shorts and a white top that hung off my shoulder on one side. i reached for a hair tie and gathered all of my hair, putting it up in a high ponytail while some strands in the front were left loose. i then carefully started wrapping my hands in hand wraps and flexing my fingers afterwards. turning to the punching bag, i was getting ready to start my usual everyday practising, but that was until i heard footsteps coming from behind me. it was weird since i thought everyone had left, but when i turned around i was at a loss of words.

"how’d you get in here..?" my voice shook, watching sunghoons tall figure leaning against the door to the entryway. "wasn’t that hard. my men took out yours in the front pretty easily" he smirked at me, fidgeting with the gun in his hands. "you can’t bring a gun to a fist fight. thats why my men lost" one by one, i watched his men gather around him; all carrying guns. "this can go two ways" he said as he started walking towards me slowly "either it’ll just be the two of us and i’ll make it quick and painless, or ill have to bring my men on it and i guarantee that it’s gonna hurt" he was stood right in front of me while looking down on me with his head tilted slightly.

was sunghoon planning on killing me too? was he doing this because he somehow found out that i was planning on killing him first? there wasn’t enough time for me to think. right now i had to focus on just one thing, and that was to live. "did your men forget to take out the ones in the back too?" i watched the smirk on his lips disappear as my men started to gather around me as they had come in through the back. all though, they weren`t armed with guns like sunghoons men were which made me really nervous. sunghoon chuckled and began walking backwards until he was stood behind his men. i pulled the same move, which meant that our men were now gonna fight against each other to protect me and sunghoon.

"seems like you can’t face us without your guns" one of my men said who was stood in the very front. sunghoons men laughed, "let’s be fair about it then, shall we?" the sound of guns being thrown on the floor made me feel relieved. suddenly, the den exploded into chaos as our men went at each other with fists flying and bodies colliding. the men’s shouting and grunting filled the entire room while me and sunghoon were stood on each sides of the room watching them.

one of my men collapsed on the ground, but before he could get back up two men tripped over him which added to the pile of bodies that were already sprawled out across the floor. the den was a mess of sweaty, bloody, injured men that had mostly been beaten to death by each other. it went by faster than i expected, and worse than i expected. all that remained were either dead bodies or knocked out bodies with no one left standing except for me and sunghoon.

"what’s the matter princess? is this too much for you?" the sound of sunghoon’s voice brought me back to reality. i was distracted by the violent scene that was right in front of me. i took a deep breath, "nothing is too much for me" i said with my eyes looking straight at him from across the room. sunghoon looked at the gun in his hands before he threw it on the ground. "like my men said, lets be fair about it" he said, placing his hands in his pockets. "you can use the gun you know? i dont mind, since this will be your last fight after all.." the tension between us was heated. sunghoon only laughed at me, "give it all you’ve got baby" with each slow step, he was now walking towards me. "don’t call me that" i spat.

he paused dangerously close to me, our bodies almost making contact. "come on baby, don’t say that" he brought his hand up to my face, but i was quick to slap his hand away with mine. with no warning, sunghoon`s fist landed with a severse thud against my ribs and i felt the force knock my breath out of me. i whimpered when i was sent stumbling into a nearby table, gripping the edge of the table for balance. i wasted no time and launched myself back at him with a kick that grazed his shoulder. he let out a groan, quickly grabbing my leg and twisting it viciously.

i let out a cry as i fell to the floor. when sunghoon tried to get on top of me, i managed to wrench my leg free by kicking at his chest with my other foot. as he stumbled backwards, i got back up on my feet as fast as i could. we were both breathing heavily and our bodies were hot with sweat. "shit princess. you’re getting better at this" he panted, lifting his fists into the air. "thank you. it means a lot coming from you, oppa" i rushed forward, this time going low so i could tackle him. the second we both crashed onto the cold floor we started wrestled fiercly. our bodies were rolling on the floor as we tried to overpower each other.

suddenly, his hands found my neck. i felt his fingers squeezing as he pressed down. my eyes widened in panic and my hands quickly went flying to his wrists; clawing at them, desperate for air. i dug my nails into his skin until it started drawing blood. he hissed in pain and ended up loosening his grip just enough for me to shove him off. i started coughing and gasping for air before kicking him hard in his chest which caused him to also gasp for air when he felt himself not being able to breathe properly.

i charged at him once again, this time aiming my elbow at his face. he barley was able to block it with his forearm before i grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head backwards. "fuck!" he groaned, retaliating by grabbing my own hair and pulling it so hard that tears started forming in my eyes. "a-ah!" i let out a shriek. we were both struggling while using the grip on each others hair to cause each other pain. with a sudden move, sunghoon yanked my head to the side and slammed my head into the wall causing my grip on his hair to loosen. my chest was rising and falling, my body sprawled out on the floor with my hair being a tangled mess. my head was pounding horribly and i couldnt bare the pain i was feeling in my body.

sunghoon took the chance and got on top of me. he leaned down with his face so close to mine that the tip of our noses were touching. i felt his heavy breath against my lips before slightly flinching at the feeling of metal against my temple. his eyes looked into mine, a smirk forming on his lips. "this is the end for you baby" he mumbled before he cocked the gun. sunghoon raised his eyebrows when i sniffled. our eyes were locked in an intense gaze. he clenched his jaw slightly, the gun in his hand shaking when he tried pressing it further into my temple. i stood still, watching every move that he was making.

"kiss me goodbye?" i said, almost sounding like a whisper. he froze like he couldnt believe what had just come out of my mouth. his grip on the gun loosened, just for a second as if he was questioning whether to kill me or not. he stared at me with his eyebrows furrowing in disbelief, unsure if i was joking or not. with the way i was looking into his eyes he could tell i was being serious when a tear rolled down my cheek. i leaned forward, my bloodied lips parting before they touched his. the kiss was soft as our lips moved together. i felt him deepening the kiss, parting his mouth as well. and with his lips still on mine, he pulled the trigger.

♡︎♡︎♡︎

i feel horrible i’m so sorry.. should i make it into a series orrr??

[thebisexualdogdad]

With the new rookie season you gotta do more Lucy!!!

Maybe something like Lucy meets a PI who’s working a similar case as her and the two slowly flirt and nerd out on common interests.

Lucy Chen x Male!reader

● as a private investigator you were hired to follow a man who's wife was accusing him of cheating

● lucky for her he wasn't cheating, unluckily for her he became entangled with a gang selling drugs and now he's missing

● which is how you meet officer Lucy Chen

● “Excuse me? What do you think you're doing? This is a crime scene you can't be here,” she questions as you're looking at the faces of a bunch of newly deceased individuals after a drug deal gone wrong trying to ID your clients husband

● “I'm a private investigator, Y/N Y/L/N, I've been hired by Mary Jameson to track down her husband Luke Jameson who is involved with all this”

● “do you see him here?”

● “no but-”

● “then I'm gonna have to ask you to leave”

● you don't actually leave, you just hang around outside the crime scene tape waiting to get any more information on where you're missing guy might be

● “he's still here?” Harper asks Lucy who has been keeping an eye on you for the last several hours

● “yeah he thinks I'm gonna tell him details about the case because he's a PI”

● “PI's are the worst,” Lopez chimes in

● “I thought lawyers were the worst?”

● “they are but I'm not married to a PI,” she laughs, “he says he's looking for a guy who deals for this gang right? Lucy take him to the station and find out everything he knows, he may actually be useful in helping us fill in some missing pieces”

● back at the station Lucy has you in an interrogation room, questioning you about Luke

● you tell her you've been tailing him for three weeks, he went missing two days ago handing over the photos you have of him dealing drugs as well as meeting up with the leader of the gang

● you actually were quite helpful for Lucy

● and even a little bit flirty

● and to your surprise Lucy was flirting back

● you find out you like the same TV shows and music artists

● you spend a little too long talking about the latest season of your favorite show

● but just as you're about to ask her on a date to get to know her more Lopez and Harper interrupt bringing your attention back to the case at hand

● Lucy relays all the information to them and thanks you for the help

● and after you leave Lopez asks her, “were you flirting with the PI?”

● “no of course not that would be unprofessional”

● Lopez and Harper simultaneously “they were flirting”

● you show up at the station again the next morning with coffee and breakfast sandwiches to see if they have any new leads on Luke

● “you brought me coffee?”

● “with almond milk and a shot of espresso”

● “how did you know that's how I drink my coffee?”

● “I'm a private investigator remember, it's my job to know those kind of things”

● you and Lucy end up working together to find out that Luke is being held captive by a rival gang

● the cops raid the warehouse and free him though he is arrested in the process due to your photos of him dealing drugs which his wife is certainly not going to be happy about

● “Guess this is the end of our team up,” Lucy tells you when she returns to the station with another officer towing behind with Luke in handcuffs

● “Seems so but it doesn't mean it has to be the last time we see each other right? Can I take you out to dinner sometime?”

● “yeah, that would be nice”

● “great, I'll get us a reservation at the blue orchid”

● “that's my favorite restaurant how did you- oh right private investigator,” she laughs

[unholyhelbig]

https://www.tumblr.com/unholyhelbig/748001277238181888/ive-reread-the-entirety-of-oversight-again-and

i’ve done this as well. i think u should 😌😏😉☺️🥰

Title: Rose Colored Glasses [An Oversight Oneshot]

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Reader gets word that Natasha is hurt and rushes home to assess the situation.

Warnings(PLEASE READ): injury to nose & foot, slight blood, and shrimp

[a/n: Did someone request more oversight? Because I've got you covered. This is pure fluff, sorry for the lack of angst! It's short, and sweet, and not proof read because I don't have time :( ]

Check out the full Oversight universe

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

A quiet house was never a good sign. Growing up in the foster care system teeming with other wards of the state had taught you that. Often, you were three or four to a room. There were bunk beds with sheets slotted against the ceiling or stuffed under the mattress above your own, just for some type of barrier. It was an illusion of privacy, most of the time. Because houses like that were never quiet.

When you’d moved in across from Darcy after your 18th birthday, things weren’t quiet. Above you was a Latin-American couple that would wait until just past midnight to turn on a slow, rhythmic song and dance. Their steps were soft, and calculated. They carved out time for one another every single night between shifts. Just for the two of them. You often let the thumping base lull you to sleep.

The city was just outside your window. In the summer, you could prop it open with a brick and let the sounds of cars become a backdrop. There were sirens, and when the fire hydrant on the corner was loosened, the world welcomed a cold blast of water, sprinkling into the street. That was the opposite of quiet. That made your chest feel light, and warm.

After marrying Natasha Romanoff, you settled into the loudness of her home. Your home. Veronica was constantly running around the twists and turns of the bottom floor, Clint or Kate or Darcy galloping after her with a big smile on their face. They slowed themselves to make sure they didn’t break anything, but they wanted her to win, too.

Yelena often came with the muffled sounds of Russian techno bands coming from the headphones around her neck. It was a staple to find her in the kitchen with her head down, slicing into an apple from the backyard with precision unknown. Natasha would tug the headphones off to get her attention, or to send her into annoyance.

The night that Natasha got hurt was stifled with the sound of rain. It had soaked you to the bone, dripping onto the linoleum floor and then the carpet as you ascended the stairs two at a time. You’d been at the docks later than usual, the storm that had plagued the side of the harbor was relentless and delayed shipments.

The captain of the shipping boat your family had utilized for decades wanted to discuss something over whatever crap coffee you could beat out of the machine in your office. He spoke with a thick southern drawl, his mustache was encrusted with salt and sand. You had shed your coat and tried to warm yourself up by hugging your mug to your chest. Nothing seemed to work.

While you weren’t opposed to giving the man a raise, you were not the final say. Natasha was, and you figured he could use the company more than anything. The captain flicked through books that were on the shelf, taking two or three for his next journey out to sea. It was like clockwork with him, and you indulged his need for quiet companionship each time.

When your phone rang, you never looked at the caller ID. Those who were privileged enough to get your number knew to talk without any of the pleasantries that they were used to. Clint’s voice came through the receiver in a smooth, hushed tone that made you believe he wasn’t supposed to be calling you in the first place.

“Look, y/n, there’s been an… incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

He was meant to escort her to one of the many cocktail parties that Carlos LaMuerto was throwing at his mansion that bordered the same body of water that you resided on now. They were lovely get-togethers that you often attended with your wife. This, however, was the fourth one this month and your stomach was turning at the idea of another cocktail shrimp and lamb pate.

Clint had offered, seeing the desperation in your eyes. And while Natasha was reluctant, she ultimately agreed. No news of a bust had reached you yet, nor had a gun blazing argument. While the Captain licked his dry lips and scanned the books in front of him, you continued in hushed tones.

“Nat’s hurt. It’s not a big deal, you can finish up your business. She’s just being stubborn is all.”

An escaped sigh “I’ll be there.”

No shit, she was being stubborn. Your wife was bull-headed and wouldn’t admit to the smallest defeat. It eased your nerves slightly, and only slightly, that Clint said it wasn’t a big deal. No gunshot to the back, or knife to the throat. It wasn’t good enough, however.

Natasha would be upset that you tracked mud into the house and left your boots sloshing by the door. You were panting by the time you reached the double doors that led to your bedroom. They were, of course, blocked by Clint and Kate. Yelena was leaning lazily against the railing that was parallel. She regarded you with an uninterested stare.

“You did not have to come here.” She said, ��We’ve got it handled.”

“She kicked all of you out, didn’t she?”

“What? She certainly did not!”

Yelena’s voice pitched with her lie. Kate’s cheeks turned an off-shade of pink and Clint just rthe hallway, that was a good sign. Still, neither of the two moved to let you into your own room.

“If you’re not going to get out of the way, can you at least tell me what happened?”

There was a muffled reply from behind the door. With the way that the voice flitted, you knew that she was trapped on the bed. Otherwise, she would have leveled you with a glare right here and now. The words were simple “Do it, you die.”

“Oh, come on,” You whispered harshly, turning your attention to Kate instead. She was the easiest to break. “Katie, what is the harm in letting me through? I’m going to catch my death if I stay in these clothes.”

“Catch your death?” Clint scoffed “What are you? A poet from the 1800’s?”

“I’m about to be breaking your fingers if you don’t-“

“You can’t even break wind,”

The two of your voices combined as you kept at it. You didn’t’ miss the wary look that Kate shot Yelena. One way or another, you’d get into your room. You refused to be banished to the couch again, especially in wet clothes. If you had to threaten ruining the rugs with your muddy footprints, so be it.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” You held up both of your hands, silencing the chaos of the corridor. “Nat, you are my wife, you’re hurt. Whether you like it or not, I’m coming in. Does anyone have any objections?”

Kate went to raise her hand, but Yelena yanked it back down and shook her head no. You tore into Clint with a look that could drop him dead. He relented and stepped away from the door. While you had a moment of peace, you walked into the dark of the room. She’d turned out the lights, save for the half-moon that showed a pale pattern against the carpet.

When you reached for the light switch on the wall, Natasha let out a noise that was similar to a wounded animal. You halted, your actions and made out her form on the bed. She was folded in on herself, her silhouette rigid.

“Baby,” you cooed, closing the distance between you and the bed. She grunted again, this time in pain. She attempted to turn away from you. You lowered yourself onto the sliver of bed, approaching the situation softly. “Can I turn on a light?”

“No, I’m hideous.”

You chuckled softly “I highly doubt that, my love. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Natasha had never liked being vulnerable around you. It had taken a full weekend of you nursing her back to her feet after the incident on the pier for her to let herself cry. You held her for hours, her nose pressed against the small of your neck. She’d gripped onto you, as if you’d leave. But you never would.

Eventually, you saw her shadow nod. Before she could change her mind, you flicked on the lamp on the side table. It didn’t’ have a far reach, but the light was less harsh on the both of you. It was impossible not to notice the blood that had dried against Natasha’s nose, a split right down the middle.

You’d seen her with broken bones before, bruises that wrapped around her midsection. You’d put ace bandage around her ribs after drawing her a bath. This was nothing to be ashamed about. In fact, she often saw them as battle scars that would heal in a pink gash.

Her foot was wrapped up with a bag of peas and one of frozen carrots that Clint, or even Yelena had situated. There was bruising around her ankle, it looked painful and you internally winced at the coloring. She groaned into the small of her elbow.

“I want to die”

“Natty, it’s okay. This is nothing a cozy weekend inside can’t fix.”

She said something that was quiet and muffled by her arm. You didn’t understand her one bit, but she squeezed a single tear from her eye that you wiped away dutifully before it could reach the silk of sheets.

“What was that, baby?” You asked gently.

She threw both of her hands down and glared at the ceiling. Her fingers eventually found yours, squeezing your palm in reflex. Her words came out in a quick breath, “I tripped over a carpet at the stupid dinner party and hit my face on the catering table.”

You were effectively silenced. That was very un-Natasha. But lately, you and Clint had been pestering her about her eyesight, especially at night. It wasn’t something she wanted to hear. In fact, each time you brought up the idea of glasses, she would effectively silence you with a glare, or even a kick to the shin under the kitchen table if you had company.

You bit the inside of your cheek and ran your thumb over her hand. She clutched your hand tighter. Now was certainly not the time to laugh, and while you fought back the initial giggle, you were more concerned about your wife.

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“I bet you got right back up.” You said, pressing your palm against her cheek. “None of those fancy party types would dare question your influence on this city.”

“Shrimp went flying everywhere.” Natasha pouted.

“Everyone was tired of shrimp anyway, even the shrimp.”

She grasped at the collar of your jacket and pulled you closer to her, pressing her lips against your own. They were warm, the warmest thing that you’ve felt since getting caught in the passing storm. You were careful not to lean on her ribs, breathing in the rosewater scent of her.

Natasha pressed her forehead against yours, running a hand up your spine. She grimaced. “You’re all wet.”

“Well now I am,” You smirked against her jawline, leaving a little nip in your wake. “You need to get glasses.”

“Don’t change the subject. You’re getting the sheets all damp, and you smell like fish.”

“I smell like fish?” You giggled, pressing a kiss to the exposed part of her neck. You felt Natasha laugh too, using her hands to cover her face from the blush that was blooming against her cheeks. “We’re talking about me?”

She laughed harder, attempting to shove you off but you let your body go slack against her, not using your arms to hold yourself up anymore. “Yes! Go shower!”

“Mm, but you’re so warm.”

“You’re not going to be warm if I make you sleep on the couch.”

You gasped dramatically, pulling your head off her stomach and meeting her dark green stare. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me. After the day I’ve had, I refuse to sleep next to my wife when she smells like a marina.”

Even while she said it, her voice was gentle, her fingers working over your scalp to brush the wet hair from your eyes. You pulled yourself up to give her another peck on the lips, careful to avoid the split nose and busted ankle.

“Fine, but only because you need more aspirin.”

She grunted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Can’t believe I let you through my defenses.”

“Uh-huh. Get some rest. I’m going to go talk to your defenses about getting you an appointment with an optometrist.”

You turned to move towards the bathroom, already craving the warmth of a shower and some clean pajamas. Two steps from the doorway and you felt a plush throw pillow hit you directly on the back of the head. Natasha had amazing aim, always had, and always would.

You bent down and picked up the gold upholstered pillow, giving her a faux glare. “You’re not getting this back.”

“Oh, come on, baby.” She stuck out her lower lip “I have to prop up my foot.”

“You should have thought of that before you launched it at my head.”

 [Taglist🕷♡: @dumbasslesbi, @lostremind, @toouncreativeforausername @autorasexy @eringranola @mikookaaaaaao @marvelwoman-simp @pacmanmiles @mostlymarvelsstuff, @mrsrushman, @milfsandtittyenthusiast, @random-raccoon4, @ravenromanova, @mysticalmoonlight7, @ahintofchaos@cowboyboots236 @lissaaaa145, @natsxwife@a-spes, @kyleeservopoulos]

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 117 (A Genius Idea)

Ash and Pearl arrived downstairs to find their parents. "Mommy, the lights went out and the TV, too!" he cried.

Heather nodded. "Pearl's mom checked the electrical box out back and it's totally fried."

Dylan, an electrical engineer, spoke with Heather and Anjali. "I can't keep trying to patch around the same problem. That box is done, but the city says they won't be able to get someone out to replace it until tomorrow morning."

Anjali frowned. "That doesn't help us get tonight's meal on the table."

"I have an idea, but I need some beakers and some bubble gum," Ash said. The adults looked confused. "We can make a heating system with candles and metal trays!"

"What's the bubble gum for, buddy?" wondered Conrad.

"To hold them together! Bubble gum won't burn if we use it to secure the trays on the outside, and I can make it harden faster if there's a science table here!"

The adults were all impressed by his idea, and they set to work prepping a makeshift heating station to continue cooking the food. It would take longer this way, but at least everyone would eat a hot meal tonight.

Ash worked away at a rickety old science station donated by the local middle school, while Pearl glanced around the cavernous, dark shelter. "Hurry, Ash, it's getting dark outside!"

"It's only nighttime. It's not that scary."

"My mom says nights in the Spice District can be dangerous."

Ash tried to work a little faster. "It's okay, Pearl. Our parents won't let anything happen to us. Why did you take your coat off? It's cold in here."

"I run hot! My dad says it's genetic."

Once the food was in the makeshift ovens, everyone took a break outside, purchasing coffee and pastries from the cafe to enjoy in The Soup Kitchen's eclectic courtyard.

Chatting together at a long table, Heather's mouth dropped open when she spotted a face she hadn't seen in years. "Marcus Flex! Is it really you?"

Heather's first vet tech turned at the sound of her voice, breaking into a wide smile when he recognized her. "Doc Nesbitt! No way! What are you doing in the city?"

"Volunteering here with my fiance and my son."

"Man oh man, Ash must be so big now."

"I am!" he said, speaking up across the table. "Who are you?"

"I used to work for your mother, but I've lived here since I left town."

Heather nodded. "Are you and Thomasine doing well?"

"Things with us couldn't be better. I know I was a bit non-committal and flighty back when I lived in the Bay, but Thomasine changed me. I can't imagine spending my days with anyone else but her."

Heather smiled. "That's great Marcus. Are you working? I've been worried about you since you both left town."

He nodded proudly. "I'm in marketing now and she's a mental health nurse. We lived in a real dump of a place for a while, but then one day this woman knocked on our door and offered us a bigger suite in the building for the same rent. She just wanted to trade for a smaller place, and we thought she might be out of her mind, but she showed us her ID and she's never missed paying the landlord the rest of our rent."

"No offense, but that sounds a little suspicious," said Conrad. "Paying your rent and hers to live in a crappier apartment. Only a criminal would do that."

"Rafaella keeps to herself. If she's into anything, it's never affected us."

"What did you say her name was?" Heather said.

"Rafaella Santos, according to her ID."

Heather and Conrad exchanged tense looks. "What's the address of your old apartment?"

"910 Medina Studios. Back in the Arts Quarter. Thomasine works in the Spice District on weekends and I like to stop by to give her an afternoon coffee. I'm usually there by now, but she'll totally understand when I tell her I ran into you, Doc! I really am sorry I just took off all those years ago."

Heather shook her head, trying to keep her sudden mix of emotions from showing in front of Ash and Pearl. That was Conrad's old apartment, and this Rafaella Santos was probably using an assumed name. She noticed Conrad down the table - the same wild thoughts were running through his mind.

"It's alright, Marcus. It sounds like everything worked out for the best. And if you can let me know how to get the money to you, I can finally send your share of the proceeds from the VetConnect extension you helped me come up with."

"That's kind of you, Doc, especially after I left without a word. It's been great catching up with you. Thomasine's just about ready to speak to her father again - she thinks - so we might be back in Brindleton Bay for a visit sooner than later."

"It would be great to see you, Marcus."

They got up then to head back to work, but before Marcus had left with his cafe order to go, Conrad approached him. "This Rafaella Santos - can you tell me what she looks like?"

"She changed her hair colour recently, but she was blonde before. You could tell it was straight from a bottle, though. You really think she's a criminal?"

"I think she might be a drug smuggler. I don't suppose I could convince you to wear a wire?"

"She doesn't say much. I've tried to be friendly."

"If it's who I think it is, she's not friendly."

"Thomasine wouldn't want me getting involved if she's dangerous. I'd love to help you and the doc, but we've been talking about maybe trying for a kid."

Conrad nodded. "I get it. You've given us enough to take it from here. There might be some officers scoping out the building over the next little while, until we know it's her, so if you're serious about taking a trip to Brindleton Bay to see your wife's family, maybe now's a good time. Just stay out of 'Rafaella's' way. Don't let her think someone might be on to her, and don't tell her you saw us. Oh, and, be prepared to take over the full rent in the larger apartment soon. If we get her, those contracts will void."

"I'll talk to Thomasine, but I'm glad I could help. Thanks for the heads up, Lieutenant Gordon."

As Marcus turned to leave, Conrad's heart started racing. If his instincts were correct, Ximena had been hiding out in the last place he'd lived in San Myshuno all along.

Now Conrad felt just days away from finally catching her. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

NOTE: Pay no mind to Ash's reindeer hat in the "genius idea" pop up. I sent them on the rabbit hole family volunteering event immediately after staging their Christmas Day photos. Didn't even think about changing their clothes since it was a rabbit hole. But then this pop up ended up dictating storyline so that's why he's wearing it in the inset but not at the lot.

Also the goal was empathy, but with Ash's genius trait and the pop up we got, he had the choice to solve the problem himself or call for help. Since his phone's been confiscated due to creepy pranks, there was really only one choice. His empathy bar didn't budge but his responsibility and mental increased. So his empathy is in low green territory at the moment (better than red!) and I'm hopeful he won't roll a douche trait. Since he's still got a ways to go until teenhood, I've got more time to play around!

NOTE 2: Second-save Marcus and Heather instantly became the best of friends while they reconnected, which is clearly because they're finally certain Ximena's within reach, all thanks to him!

[glasratz]

You know, usually when you have people talking shit about the police, it's from someone who got in trouble with them. Since I never got in conflict with the police, I thought I could provide some contrast by telling about every single encounter with the German police I ever had.

In the late 90s, someone made a threat of a school shooting at my school. For the given day the police placed one car with two officers in the shade behind the sports hall. When I walked past, one of the officers was just having a bottle of beer.

2. Once a big squad car cut me off while I was just walking down the street and they demanded to see my papers. I provided them and they were gone in an instant. Later I realized I was wearing a leather jacket and that must have been very suspicious.

3. Me and my brother were the only direct witnesses of a motorcycle accident and he provided first aid. The police took down our names and told us to wait on the site. After almost two hours we left. They never came back to us. According to the bullshit the paper wrote later, they didn't find any other witnesses and wasted resources looking for a hit-and-run driver, while in reality there was no one else involved. The motorcyclist just lost control.

4. Once I called the police on some scammers ripping off students at the campus of my university. They told they'd come but they didn't show up. When I went home, I found them waiting in the university's underground garage (!). I provided them with details of the scammers that were long gone by that point. The papers later told me that they didn't catch them for months, since they kept doing their thing in other parts of the town, too.

5. My car was damaged in a hit-and-run accident. The neighbours were all to earger to tell me that it was one of the vehicles from a nearby construction site. There was even debris painted orange next to my car. I called the police and was told to drive up to the station, call them again and someone would come out to have a look at my car. Of course they forgot about me and I had to call again after waiting for an hour. Then they kept the case open for one full week. They didn't even look into it.

6. When I was taking a train to a nearby town, a young couple (16 and 17 years old) was shaken down by plain clothes narcotics officers. Not did those guys (and one gal) look like tatooed gangsters, they were extremely loud and rude. It almost seemed like they wanted to make sure everyone in the train knew that they had just caught two criminals. They found one (1) joint and a plastic bag that smelled like dope. One of the youths was able to provide a doctor's prescription, but they just laughed that off. The train ride took five minutes to the terminus, so they easily could have waited until the next stop and questioned the couple outside in private.

7. Once I lost an important paper and some good guy handed it in at the police station. When I picked it up, the officer gave me a piece of paper with the contact information of the person who found my stuff, so that I could thank him. When I looked at the paper at home I noticed that it not only gave his name and adress, but also his date of birth, marital status, employer and ID card number.

So that paints quite the picture, doesn't it? I'm not saying that if I did my job like that I would be fired or sued, because that's simply not true. Still, you'd imagine that at one point you'd see them doing their job right, wouldn't you.

[sagesturns]

The Cut That Always Bleeds.

Warning: None! Just Angst!

I laid in bed. It’s been weeks? Months? I don't know how long since me and Chris broke up. The world outside felt gray and heavy, just like the weight pressing on my chest. It had been weeks since Chris and I had broken up, yet the ache of his absence still lingered, a constant reminder of what I had lost.

I remember his last words, as he looked at me like I was somebody who he didn’t recognize. The same words "You don’t get me anymore,” he had said, frustration in his voice. “You’re not the same person I fell in love with.” It was a sting in my chest, like a knife being twisted which left  me bleeding and breathless. Every moment I was breathing it played in my head like a broken record I couldn’t shut off till I fell asleep. Even when I did, I was haunted by the memories of us, the dreams consuming me and leaving me to wake up with tears streaming down my face.

We had been inseparable for so long, navigating the ups and downs of our teenage years together. I still remembered how his laughter could fill a room, how his smile could brighten even the darkest days. We shared dreams, secrets, and promises that felt like they would last forever. But somewhere along the way, things changed. The love that once felt strong had become fragile, slow disappearing till it wasn’t there. 

I picked up my phone, staring at the blank screen, willing it to light up with a message from him. I knew it was foolish, but a part of me still hoped he would reach out, that he would realize how much I missed him. But each passing minute brought only silence, and my heart sank a little deeper.

Memories flooded back—our late-night talks, the way he would brush his fingers through my hair as we lay on the grass under a blanket of stars. Or remembering the pressure of his kiss on my forehead. Or when he would brush his thumb over my knuckles to comfort me when something happened. His hugs, the ones that once were always filled with warmth and love, kept me safe from all the hurt in the world. Which now left me cold and hurt even thinking about it. Those moments felt like a lifetime ago, and I couldn’t help but wonder how we had gotten here. How had we let the love that once felt so strong slip away like sand through our fingers?

The argument was loud, remembering as the tears spilled down my cheeks and I begged him to stay, to not leave, the words a constant loop in my head. “I, I need you like the air I breathe, I need you more than me, I need you more than anything. Please don’t leave me.”

Now, the silence between us was deafening. I thought about the promises we made to always fight for each other, to never let the world come between us. Yet here we were, two strangers drifting further apart, trapped in our own hurt.

 Tears spilled over as I hugged my knees to my chest. The pain felt like a living thing, gnawing at me from the inside. I could almost hear Chris’s laughter in my mind, see the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his dreams. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had let him down, that I had somehow failed him.

I sank down to the floor, hugging myself tightly as sobs shook my body. The hurt felt unbearable, and I didn’t know how to make it stop. I wanted to scream, to cry out into the empty void of my room, but I was too exhausted to do anything but weep.

I realized I had never felt so alone. I was left with the ghost of what we had, a love that had once felt eternal now reduced to haunting memories. At that moment, I understood that sometimes love isn’t enough to hold two people together, no matter how hard you try. With each breath, I felt the weight of my heartbreak settle deeper, and I knew I would carry this pain with me, a scar that would never fully heal. And as the darkness of night began to creep in, I realized that some cuts always bleed, leaving a mark that could never be erased.

a/n: This is my first post! I actually have no idea how Tumblr really works. Lowk not my proudest work but whatever. I hope you guys like this lil story! I love the song 'The Cut That Always Bleeds' by Conan Gray so I wanted to make a story. Anyways I tried my best!

[password-door-lock]

As soon as Saeran gets his hands on his new driver’s license, he makes the drive into the city to pick you up from work.

A lot has changed since Saeran was first liberated from Mint Eye three years ago. After leaving the hospital, he was given a simple new identity, a passport inscribed with a name that did not belong to him. He could use it for doctors’ appointments and other necessary paperwork, but it did not permit him to operate a motor vehicle. For those first two years, it was clear that Saeyoung didn’t trust his brother in a car. He didn’t say those words exactly, but the sentiment was made obvious by his refusal to furnish Saeran with a driver’s license of any kind. 

A year ago, however, Saeyoung started to get more comfortable with the idea of Saeran driving, and he began to suggest that Saeran take the wheel for short trips between venues where law enforcement was not likely to be present. As Saeran’s natural red hair began to grow back in, Saeyoung began to grow more confident in the universal utility of his own falsified driver’s license, should the need arise for the twin behind the wheel to provide identification. He also came to understand that Saeran wasn’t likely to get pulled over, though he still had nerves about unsupervised trips. 

Then, everything changed. A few months after Saeran started driving again, somebody at C&R discovered a flash drive containing a file marked with Saeyoung’s name. Within a week, the Prime Minister was arrested for holding vast sums of money in offshore accounts. Within a month, such items as high treason, conspiracy, and even attempted murder were added to the list of charges. By the time the bastard was finally brought to justice, he was being held accountable for almost all of his crimes. 

This, at least, was what you reported from your conversations with top personnel at C&R— neither Saeran nor Saeyoung had any interest in opening the file knowing where it came from. Who it came from, in particular, but Saeran tries not to think about that. He’s come a long way, but his journey to healing and self-forgiveness is far from over. It’s better not to dwell on the things for which he still blames himself, especially not on happy occasions such as this one.

So now, Saeran has a brand new ID, and he can’t wait to show it to you. He drives Saeyoung’s least garish car— which is still painted an annoyingly bright color, but jewel-toned purple is a lot better than tomato red, lemon yellow, or neon fucking green— to your workplace and parks it outside. Saeran has practically memorized your schedule by now, so he knows he got here at the perfect time. Not only do you write your hours on the calendar hanging on the wall beside the spice cupboard in your kitchen, but you always make sure to call Saeran right away when you get done.

Like clockwork, his phone rings as soon as he shifts the car into park. “Hey,” he greets you. He’s not really one for gushy pet names, but you know this about Saeran already. “Don’t buy a train ticket.” 

“Why not?” You ask, sounding concerned. “Did something happen? Is there—”

“Nothing like that,” Saeran cuts you off, not wanting you to worry. He may not be the most vibrant person in the world, but that doesn’t mean he’s cold or heartless. “I’m outside.” 

He watches as you step out of your place of business. You look around, confused. “Where? I’m at the east side of the building, by the back entrance— are you out front? It might take me a minute to get over there.”

Saeran smirks, prepared to drop his bombshell. He’s looking forward to your passionate response. “I’m in the purple car.”

“The one with the after-market tail lights and the orange racing stripes?” 

Unfortunately, yes. “Mhm.” Already, Saeran is thinking about the possibility of getting his own car— he’ll be sure to pick a black one. Maybe grey, if he’s hard-pressed. Even a champagne-colored car would be better than this. 

“I only see one of you.” You rush over nevertheless, lugging your heavy work bag. Your phrasing is a bit awkward, but Saeran knows what you mean. You've never seen him behind the wheel before without Saeyoung also in the car. “Is Saeyoung hiding in the backseat? This isn’t some kind of prank is it, love?” 

Saeran’s lips twitch the way they always do when you call him love. Pet names and terms of endearment tend to feel clunky in his own mouth, even after all this time, but he doesn’t hate them when they come from you. “No. I’m waiting for you on my own.” 

You slide into the passenger seat and hang up the phone. “You’re telling me you voluntarily took the car with the after-market tail lights and the orange racing stripes?” 

Saeran wrinkles his nose. He likes when you’re silly, but he doesn’t want to hold you in suspense about his good news any longer. “I’m telling you I got this in the mail today.” He grabs his driver’s license and holds it out to you.

Your eyes widen as you read the text on the card. “Saeran… Choi,” you recite, “This is… this is your real name! Does that mean—” 

“The government knows about us now,” Saeran confirms. He and Saeyoung are finally free to exist out of hiding, living their own lives with their real names.

“Oh no, poor Saeyoung,” you contradict your utterance with a grin, handing the card back to Saeran, “He’s gonna have to start paying taxes now. So sad.” 

Saeran snorts. “C&R could still help him evade them.” He’s grown comfortable with your sense of humor after spending so much time with you. It’s nice to play back and forth now that he has a better understanding of the world he lives in.

“Well, see, now, that would just be tax evasion,” you laugh, easily and languidly, “Which is highly frowned upon, you know? Anyway, congratulations on your license. Now you can go anywhere you want, any time you want… with anyone you want.” 

“And I could get my own car,” Saeran muses. That’s going to be his next order of business, now that he’s told you the good news. 

“A black one, right?” You already guessed what he’d want without him having to tell you. “If you want, we can keep it at my building— we’ve got a garage. You know, just so it’s in the same place as your toothbrush and your library books and your significant other.” 

Saeran laughs at that, too. He knows you could be more subtle if you tried— you’re making this type of joke because you’d be perfectly content whether he accepted the offer or not. You've never pressured him to do anything before, and you're clearly not about to start now. “Now that I can prove I exist, you could add me to your lease.” That’s another thing he’s been thinking about a lot. He sleeps at your place most nights anyway, so it wouldn’t be very much of a change. 

“Well, that’s just common sense.” You lean over to kiss him on the cheek before pulling away. “Anyway, I’m starving— should we go get some dinner? But you’ve gotta drive, since I'm already buckled in." You make a big show of buckling your seatbelt.

Saeran rolls his eyes at your playful comment. He’s never felt more free.

[dicenote]

touta matsuda

discuss

omg YES ty! This is gonna be a long, disorganized ramble, so bear with me!

Touta Matsuda. My blorbo, skrunky scrimblo, love of my life, etc.

There are so many things about Matsuda's character that I could talk about. His impulsivity, his loyalty, his uncertainty... All of it makes a very real and very interesting character. And I think that a lot of his traits shine in one of the most horrifying scenes from his perspective: the Yellow Box Warehouse.

Like, let's take a step back and look at the numbers here. On one side of the warehouse, we've got a guy claiming to be L, and the three members of the old Kira Task Force that he brought with him. On the other side, we've got a different guy claiming to be L and three members of the SPK that he brought with him (oh. and the guy from the Task Force that got kidnapped in the mix). Outside, Kira's accomplice is lying in wait. So we've got ten people in all who are ready for the final showdown. The reveal. The evidence that will finally end this years-long nightmare and point to the true identity of Kira.

And of those 10 people, only one of them doesn't have a clue who Kira really is.

Light is Kira. Mikami is X-Kira and finds out who Kira is as soon as he looks in the room. Near and the SPK are all on the same page. Mogi and Aizawa know. Ide's a bit more on the fence but he wasn't completely in the dark. So Matsuda is the only one who goes in totally blind.

If anyone were to re-write Death Note purely from Matsuda's perspective, the Warehouse scene would go from tense to horrifying. To (nearly) everyone else there, this confrontation isn’t meant to reveal an unexpected truth, it’s to confirm something that they already know. But for Matsuda? Near's request to meet at the warehouse is, at worst, a tactic to once again frame Light. Because Light obviously can't be Kira, right? Light will show Near that he's wrong, and the investigation will continue as normal until the real Kira is caught.

But then Near presents that irrefutable evidence, and everything that Matsuda knew for over five years comes crumbling down. Light starts monologuing about how the world had to be fixed and how no one could ever make it as far as he did. Kira and Light are one and the same. Matsuda always thought that Kira was a well-intentioned person who was helping change the world. Ide and Aizawa and Mogi believed that Kira was evil, they were much stronger in their resolve than Matsuda ever could be. But Light had confessed to him once that he too questioned if what they were doing was right. If Kira was doing right.

Light has always been Kira.

And then comes the absolutely tasty part where Matsuda shoots Light. I love how chapter 106 is called "Intent to Kill", because it reminds me of how Matsuda and Light are foils to each other. Better yet, they can be compared against a man they both held such deep respect for, Soichiro Yagami.

See, Soichiro threatens to kill people a good couple times, and even holds a gun to his son's face, but he never has any intent to kill. In fact, he's never killed anyone, as (I think) Mello points out. It's almost kind of silly. Like, Soichiro draws the line at firing bullets or writing full names in the Death Note, and that's it? Everything else is fair game? Weird line to draw, but go off I guess.

Light, meanwhile, justifies killing thousands. But only with the Death Note. With the Death Note, his intent to kill becomes a righteous one, another step on the path to becoming God of a New World. The criminals deserved to die. Those who get in Kira's way deserve to die. Because Light isn't a serial killer. He's doing the right thing! Crime is going down, war has stopped, and Light is the only one who could have possibly gone this far and done this much good.

And then we're back to Matsuda. I believe the mafia raid is the first time we see Matsuda using a gun, and we see that he's damn good at it. So good, in fact, that he's able to fire only non-lethal shots to get the Death Note back. (Also, fun tidbit: I'm pretty sure he's the only one who doesn't go into the raid with a rifle, he's just got like, a standard-issue cop pistol with a light on it.) The same thing happens in the warehouse, at least initially. He fires at Light's hand to get him to stop writing. Then he and Light yell at each other for a little bit about (who else?) Soichiro. Light demands that Matsuda shoot the others, because he's the only one who understands Kira. When Matsuda hesitates, Light resumes writing Near's name. Then Matsuda fires again and again and again. Anything to make Light stop. Anything to make it all stop. But it becomes obvious that he's not just shooting Light as a deterrent. What does Matsuda say as he's doing it?

"He needs to die!"

The others literally have to drag Matsuda away before he can execute Light on the spot.

Matsuda is a character full of contradictions. He dedicates over half a decade to fighting Kira, but he doubts the whole time. He tries to follow in Soichiro's footsteps but in the end makes the same justification that Light did when he first started writing in the Death Note. This man is a criminal. He deserves to die. The Yellow Box Warehouse not only exposed Light's true colors, but Matsuda's as well.

[deartetsuro]

req - hq characters (kuroo lol) saying 'i know, baby, i know' when babying/comforting yn. ervyabebwyrogbrw

please feel no rush/pressure for this and look after yourself :)

Ok igotchu pookie HWJSHAHAHS cuz I need it too. This one goes out to the girlies who crave academic validation 😋 (me)

Song: Mahal Kape Tayo — EJ Clarks, Tothapi

(this one is cute, it's basically "Love, let's go have some coffee" it's a very nice song comfort song and to just wind down to.)

Tags: hurt/comfort, being rejected from a school you really wanted to get into, still living with ur parents, your parents love him, fussy school systems, established relationship, fluff, lots of feels.

You sit down in front of your laptop in your room excitedly, squirming in your seat in anticipation waiting for the results of your college entrance test for your dream school. You studied really hard for those tests and made sure to maintain your GWA, and participate in extra curriculars so it'd look good in your admission application.

The portal finally loads, and you are prompted to enter your test ID to see if you were qualified for admission into your chosen programs.

Your heart sinks your eyes immediately lock onto the apology in the first line "We regret to inform you that after careful deliberation you have not met the standards set to be qualified for your chosen programs..." Something in you shattered, you did not qualify for even one program? "What...?"

You end up shutting off and closing the laptop before you have a chance to be sad about it, choosing not to process such news just yet. And the rest of the day ends up feeling like a fever dream. Just going through the motions, unwilling to accept what had just happened.

You snap out of your trance when your messages are being spammed by your boyfriend.

Tetsuro: Babe

Tetsuro: Baby

Tetsuro: Love

Tetsuro: I saw the post made by (insert university), and saw that the results just came out. How'd it go?

Tetsuro: I bet you passed for sure. Congratulations🥳

You decide not to beat around the bush and give it to him straight.

You: I didn't get in.

The chat bubble that signifies he's typing goes on and off, and finally stops for a while. Second turn into minutes, and you realize he went offline. (💀)

You wonder why he's taking so long. You lay in your bed moping, no tears yet, stuck between "I wanna break down and cry." and "I wanna do something about it."

Sure, you could send an appeal. But the thing is, the school, and programs you chose was highly competitive. What if you're met with yet another rejection?

After a while there's commotion that stirs outside your window, and you brush it off as your neighbors coming to have a chat with your parents. That is, until you hear your mother call out your name and say "Come outside! My son is here."

You sit in your bed confused, you think, Huh?? Duh, my brother lives with us what are you talking about? I see him all day everyday.

But you reluctantly get up and go see what she's talking about anyway. Upon leaving your room and exiting the house through the front door, you're surprised to see Tetsuro standing there with your parents holding a bouquet of flowers, and paper bags stuffed with goodies in one hand.

"Look *anak, he's been looking for you." Your mom chimes in mischievously, and gives you a shit eating grin, while your father only chuckles as he pats Tetsuro's back and reminds him "No funny business." before they turn around and head out to make a grocery run.

We bid my parents goodbye, then he steps forward and gives you a boyish smile, stretching his free arm out for you. "Hi... Sorry I didn't reply right away, I had to pick some stuff up."

You let out a sigh of relief and hug him "You scared me. Who does that?" He looks at you apologetically, as he wraps his arm around you. "I know, I'm really sorry. I was out to get these, — (motioning to the flowers) — and I wanted to get some extra stuff. Please let me make it up to you."

And you do. You nod into his chest, breaking away from the hug gently to lead him into the house and into the living room. "Sit down Tetsu, I'll get you somethi—" He interrupts, helping himself to our kitchen counter, placing down the flowers and paper bag. "No worries love, I got it. You've had a long day, just kick back and relax."

His words send a wave of warmth throughout your chest, finding comfort in him. You move closer to him, wrapping your arms around his waist as you whisper a small thank you into his shirt.

He smiles as he starts working on replacing the old flowers in the vase on the kitchen counter. He unwraps the new flowers, and arranges them, albeit a little messily, into the vase. You look over his shoulder, "It looks beautiful Tetsu." He smiles, giving it one last touch before setting it back to it's original spot. "I'm glad you think so." Your eyes follow his form as he goes to wash his hands before reaching into the paper bag to reveal...

"Now how does coffee and ice cream sound?" You can only giggle as he lifts up a whole tub of cookies and cream ice cream, and a jar of my favorite coffee. "That sounds like an amazing idea Tetsuro~"

He pulls a chair for me and he moves on to fix us our mugs of coffee the way we both like it. Setting my mug and a spoon down in front of me, and taking his seat beside me. "Here's your order miss~ And some ice cream, on the house." Rolling my eyes at his playful tone. "Gee thanks Tetsu..." He just chuckles and opens up the ice cream for the two of you as you dig in.

It's sweet really, how he put comfort before confronting the problem, allowing you to process what was going on. Patiently waiting for you to open up to him as to not overwhelm you.

"So... Do you want to talk about it?" There it is, the dreaded question. "About what?" "You know..." You know, and it stings really badly but you decide to play it down. "Tetsuro I'm okay. There are other universities..."

Tetsuro looks at you knowingly, but instead of speaking, he just pulls you into his embrace instead, in his embrace where you felt safe enough to be vulnerable. Through this simple action, he'd allowed you to acknowledge the squeeze in your heart when thinking about the joyous reaction of those accepted into their priority courses.

To feel your frustration, sadness, and even envy, as the weight of your own expectations crash down on you. "I worked so hard for this Tetsuro..." You sob into his chest, grasping at the fabric to anchor yourself. "All those late nights studying for the test, trying to maintain my GWA, all while participating in extra curriculars! I want nothing more than to be able to go there..." You bury yourself into his embrace, and he rubs your back.

"I know baby, I know." He pulls away to cup your cheeks, making eye contact. "I was there baby. I saw you, and I remember very clearly. There were times I had to remind you to sleep because you were up late studying." His eyes soften as he wipes your tears gently with his thumbs.

"Or to remind you to eat because you forgot about lunch while working for a project. Or walking you home because your training for contests didn't ent til 6pm and I didn't want you going home on your own that late."

"The thing is, I know for a fact that you are one of the most hardworking, — and not to mention, loveliest — students out there. So what if some automated university admission program can't see your worth then so what? Things won't always go the way we envision them, but I know you. I see you. And you are able to thrive no matter where you go."

His words were sincere. You could tell from the conviction in his eyes, and you can't help but crack a smile through your tears. "Damnit Tetsuro... I was trying to have an emotional moment just now... You sure know how to cheer me up."

Planting a chaste kiss on his lips, and leaning back into his embrace. "Thank you Tetsuro." The blush that takes over his face doesn't go unnoticed. "You're right. I'll thrive in whatever environment I'm put in. After all, it's the students that make the school. Not the other way around, right?"

"Hah~ you're absolutely correct. That's my girl. I'm always so proud of you. Now how about we finish this ice cream before it melts?" You both share a laugh, before going back to eating your ice cream. The coffee long gone cold, but the warmth he brings to your chest makes up for it.

You were so grateful to have him. Though the situation planted a bitter taste in your mouth, to be loved by him left an overpoweringly sweet aftertaste. Being loved by him is reminiscent of the warmth that meets your lips from drinking a good cup of coffee.

*anak, meaning my child

[Here's a little excerpt from the song that I really like! And the translation hehe]

Wag kang mag-alala, maupo ka lang. Pagtitimpla kita. Mahal kape tayo, ang ating paborito. Ang lasang 'di nagbabago, tamis at init ng pag-ibig ko, para sayo

Don't worry, just sit down, and I'll fix you a cup of coffee. My love, let's get some coffee, our favorite. The taste that doesn't change, the sweetness and warmth of my love for you.

HI MY LOVES I kinda went nuts on this one. HWJFKED sort of self indulgent??? Not beta-read btw. Point out whatever mistakes you see. Anw I was inspired by a post by a college applicant who got rejected by UP despite passing the UPCAT bc apparently her school wasn't well known, hence less credible, and had less graduates than public high schools. Ok bye ILY ALL

[canisbrutus]

hi.. wave… inbox return

can i request trentlius or jimpete stuff??? or those characters separately??? i yearn for petey content.. yes

yes yeeeeees my friend, ill hook you up with some trentlius for now, and i'll see about the rest after i sort my other requests. ahems.

Trent & Cornelius 🎬📊

alright. so. these two are doomed to fall apart in my pov.

so i apologize if this is a bit of a downer for you but they still got some interesting quirks to play off of.

the way i see it, trent is a guy with problems. they both do admittedly but trent's are more glaringly obvious.

one of trent's lines admits he drinks cough syrup. and one of cornelius' lines mentions his own grandpa smells like galloway.

and for those unaware: drinking cough syrup (presumably Nyquil here) is kinda just like. a Worse drunk.

like booze it fills your head with a cloud. but it also fills your body with Lead. instantly.

having a panic attack? so pissed off you just wanna break some bones? feeling yourself about to spiral about your own worthless future? about being scum of the earth?

take a shot and all that will grind to a halt.

as some may say. 'that ichor is an anchor of apathy.'

cough syrup might not kill your brain the same way alcohol will but it Will fuck up your organs. acetaminophen will land you in a hospital bed or a Casket if you overdo that one.

that being said, cornelius probably has some hangups about it affecting intelligence and his social state at Best, considering his experience with his grandpa and focus on intellect.

very strong point of tension for arguments and whatnot.

(sidenote: as somebody who was dependent on nyquil to cope before i could legally drink, i know what im talkin about here. if you wanna know more details abt that feel free to ask)

anyway in general cornelius strikes me as somewhat of a prude.

no drinking no drugs. not much of a thrillseeker.

on stage he could be anything, but outside of it? he needed perfect grades to get into those major colleges. no room for distractions, no room for error.

trent is very much the opposite.

he doesnt have many prospects academically so he throws himself into acting. gotta go to hollywood, go big or go home, as they say.

that being said. trent Did convince him to come out and have some fun on occasion.

it was always so funny seeing cornelius squeal and screech at everything.

though trent probably got slapped a few times for laughing at him like the rest of the school does.

but: they liked watching movies together, picking apart actor's mannerisms and themes and whatnot.

reenacting them on occasion.

i can see them going stargazing, too. those clear summer nights.

cornelius likely wanted to work for nasa. his heroes were those calculator women that got us to the moon, probably.

summer nights, yeah. bullworth has a year-round schedule.

and id wager things broke off... either early in chapter 1 or just before jimmy arrives in school.

cornelius had looked up to earnest greatly. and when they were caught having a moment in the library... well. ultimately cornelius trusted his judgement when earnest degraded That bond and told him not to associate with such ruffians.

he was Better than that, after all.

trent didnt take that the greatest. but he did pick himself up and move on to, you know, Kirby.

was he completely fine after that? no. but he was an Actor. so it didnt matter as long as he Looked fine.

regardless. in earnest's speech running for class president, he mentions cutting off The Arts. which includes theatre.

which almost certainly felt like a stab in the back for cornelius, and brought Doubt into his mind.

he'd begun isolating himself further, 'ivory tower' and all that, just throwing himself into his studies completely as to avoid becoming vulnerable with anyone again.

that Doubt was later confirmed when earnest goaded the jocks into attacking them for a quick wank; earnest did Not have their interests at heart.

after that, well. i'm sure cornelius wanted to apologize, to take back how distant he'd been, to maybe rekindle what he lost with trent.

even if they did struggle together at times, trent had begun pulling him out of his sheltered view, and cornelius had seen through his act and shown him genuine Care.

music blast

[hc masterpost link]

[ask--eggman]

if it isnt too sensitive a topic, would you be willing to talk about your grandfather? were studdying his work in my collage course and id like to know more about what role he played in your life

Hrmm. Well... I suppose I can appreciate the interest and how you've come to me as the best source, instead of haughty old historians that have written some silly books you might've read, who may dare claim they know as much about my grandfather as I do or feel they have anything interesting or valuable to say!

Now that the thought of all of you on that course learning about him through such ridiculous means is getting me all riled up, I feel like I can't NOT say anything now.

I never met him, I was born a little too late for that. It wouldn't have been possible as he spent most of his final years stationed in a top secret research center in space and they weren't letting just anyone up there without a good reason. MY reason obviously should've been a good one and if they wouldn't have thought so, they'd be wrong!

If only I could've been the one on the ARK with the honor of learning directly from the man himself, instead of that other member of the family who took it for granted because as far as I know, she didn't even want to be a scientist, so she was around all that knowledge and opportunity and never even took advantage. Ugh.

Anyway. For as long as I can remember, he was a part of my life, through the words of others. Being the greatest scientist of his time and therefore the most important and notable member of the family at the time, naturally he was going to be the common subject!

Especially being that I was lucky enough to be born as the son of his son. That's something I was proud of from the moment I learned, as early as I became an actual sentient being with thought. Which was earlier than the development of your average child of inferior intelligence, by the way!

So of course, I was immediately fascinated. His long, impressive, successful career as a scientist, making many groundbreaking advancements in the world of science and always striving to accomplish more immediately became one of my greatest fixations.

My father's past and business was such a bore in comparison, even if it did end up becoming useful to me later as a source of income for me to get myself off the ground and pursue better, far more interesting and valuable things. Anyway, let's not get too off topic here.

Naturally, I wanted to learn more about my grandfather in any way I could, through reading about as many of his recorded ventures and accomplishments that were made available to the public and that I could access.

A lot of it was from the news and much older books than later published garbage out there today. I was very precise and careful with my sources, only getting them from those who got their information directly, observed his work themselves and the most important and valuable of all, the things that were published by himself!

This was only as much of what was revealed to the public about his work, mostly pre-the-ARK-type-stuff because they obviously weren't sharing any of the top secret operations going on up there to the outside world. I didn't get any more access to it than anyone else, though I certainly would've deserved it.

I also had a more personal look into him with a couple of photos, though not as many as I wish. Most were from being a parent to my father and uncle but the rare few outside those fascinated me most. He had also written letters to my father, though they were quite a bit older because contact was very rare.

They didn't tell me as much about what he was getting up to on the work side of things but I was interested in learning about the person he was too. I'd perk up whenever I did find him mentioning or at least alluding to things he was working on. Or the rarest but most valuable parts of him documenting a day or two of life!

It wasn't that long until I learned of his passing. I didn't know the details, nobody told me and now I understand that it's because they didn't really know themselves, obviously, but I just assumed it to be because of old age at the time. I was disappointed that it sealed the fact that it was absolutely impossible for me to ever meet him.

Anyway, then I got access to some of his lecture tapes! I'd try to put myself there and imagine that I was his student as I watched. It really did feel like learning directly from him, the closest I could get to the real thing. It was very informative in a few areas I was interested in and very inspiring. I still hold a lot of valuable knowledge from them today.

There was nobody else in this family I felt connected to the same way. He was my hero for being a man who was passionate and devoted to science and made a name for himself by leading an impressive successful life, making an impact and being praised for his brilliance worldwide. I wanted the same! To be recognized and hailed for my own intelligence and potential I already started to recognize in myself at a young age.

He helped me realize my passion and who I wanted to be, I knew I needed to be a brilliant scientist too! If he could do it and become so famous and renowned, so could I! Finally, people would focus on and talk about me in the way they really should, remember my name and hail me for my genius and skill as I deserve! He gave me the hope and the desire to work hard and achieve my goals.

And so I started setting my own goals and trying to create my own things. I wanted to be a great scientist just like him but of course I had to eventually stray from the trail of his footprints and take my own path, to prove my independent genius and potential. It allowed my intelligence, knowledge, and experience to continue to expand. And look where I am today, now I'm the greatest scientific genius of all time!

But decades later we would cross paths again when I recovered his diary. I was thrilled to get my hands on something so precious and valuable and finally learn from him on truly the deepest most personal level, where I'd learn about the research facility and a top secret project he was working on and decided to get some use out of it!

That didn't quite go as planned in the end and I ended up finding out things I wish I hadn't as he'd planned to destroy the world, including his own grandson... To find out after all those years that the very person you held such deep admiration and idolization for was almost the one who caused your destruction... I don't want to talk about this any more.

Well, there you go. Some information from someone much more knowledgeable and actually equipped to speak on the matter.

[whotf-atemywaffles]

Maroon

pairing: jerimiah fisher x reader

summary: Reminicing about a previous relaitionship that was perfect,

when the morning came we were cleaning the incents off your vinyl shelf, when we lost track of time again, the night before it previously happened laughing with my feet in his lap “like you are my closest friend” you said slightly intoxicated, “How’d we end up on the floor anyway?” you say,

“The Cheap ass screw top rose, conrad got, Thats how” You remarked, I see you everyday now,

i chose you, the one, i was dancing with, from cousins to new york, inside or outside, shoes or no shoes. jeremiah fisher was the only one who had caught my eye. Jeremiah Fisher had a magnetic presence that drew everyone's attention. From the moment we met, I couldn't take my eyes off him. We danced together, laughed together, and explored the streets of New York City when he would come to visit. It was as if we were meant to be, and I chose him above all others.

i recall late august sitting on the beach looking up at the sky and it being the same colour as the bugandy on my t-shirt, when you’d spash some sort of red alchoal into me, and how the blood would then rush to my cheeks and ide be so scarlet…no, maroon, I remember how the waves crashed against the shore, the saltwater mist on my skin, and the warmth of the sun on my face.

everything was perfect,

everything was perfect, but little did I know that the silence came and our time together was limited. As the seasons changed, so did our relationship. How the hell did we lose sight of us again? The once vibrant love we shared began to fade, resulting in you sobbing with your head in your hands, ant that the way shit always ends? and we found ourselves drifting apart. you were standing hollow-eyed in the hallway, “we were like carnations people thought were roses” I feel you no matter what, Like the rubies that I gave up.

I still remember the taste of the ocean on your lips as we kissed under the summer sun. The way your laughter filled the air, and the warmth of your hand in mine. It's those moments that I hold on to, the ones that remind me of what we once had. But as time passed, the cracks in our relationship began to show, and we lost sight of the love we once had.

I Lost You, The One I was Dancing with, In new york, no shoes,

i looked up at the sky from my cruddy littleapartmentt, and the sky was just like it was that night, Maroon

It's funny how memories can transport us back to a certain time and place. i mwan i practically wake up with your memory, over me, its a real fucking legacy, to leace, i mean I can still feel the warmth of the summer sun on my skin and the taste of the ocean on your lips. But as I looked up at the sky from my small apartment, I realized that things had changed. its just the way things go.

[writer-of-various]

Another plot twist? Hell yeah. I gotta up my game now.

Summary: She thought she's seen it all. Now, she's in charge of a lost man who's as much as a victim as she is. Her husband isn't to blame for this one.

It is 0300 in the morning, and Emilia Adler couldn't give two shits about being in her pajamas with her curly hair in a messy bun. The guards knew her well enough and stepped aside, not bothering to ask for her ID once they saw the expression of pure anger and annoyance on her face. When the beloved CIA agent is mad, it means no one is safe from her wrath.

She turned down a corner and scowled when she saw the man who woke her up at the Devil's fucking hour already waiting patiently outside her office door.

"Agent Black." She grits out, growing angrier when the man smiles cheekily at her.

"Ah, Mrs. Adler, sorry to awaken you at such an early hour–"

"It's way too fucking early to deal with your games, Emerson. The fuck did you and my boys get into now?" She seethes out, unlocking her office and shoving the man into the dark room. She flips on the light switch and slams the door shut behind her, watching as Black makes himself comfortable in a chair across from her desk.

"You've always been feisty. I like it. Anyways, on to business; your husband is an idiot." Yep, so it was Russell. Emilia slams her briefcase on her desk and sits down in her chair, meeting eyes with the gleaming man.

"Tell me something I don't know." She grumbles, opening her briefcase because she might as well start working on those files. Black notices this and places his hand on top of hers, halting her movements. She looks up at him and frowns, seeing how serious he now looked. "What is it?"

"I think I should show you." What the fuck did her husband do?

\\\

"In 1981, the CIA started a new experiment. It's called 'The Cradle'. William Calderon was a young, fresh faced agent back then. He heard of the experiment, how they were looking for volunteers, and upon seeing no one has yet sacrificed their lives for this project, he volunteered to be a subject. They conducted the experiment on Caldreon, only for it to fuck up and he goes...on a killing spree basically. It's because the brainwashing induces such intense fear. He destroys the facility where the program was taking place and they get him under control, brainwash him a little more, and is introduced to Jane Harrow. She becomes his handler for a bit, until he's put into Frank's Rogue Black Ops team. I know you and Russ don't care for secrecy so I'm sure you heard of their tales. Anyways, Harrow is a bad guy, er, woman, and shit goes down and Caldreon, or Case as he's known by now, kills her."

Black pauses, glancing at the young woman peering through the observation window.

"Why does this concern me, Black?" She whispers, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Black looks back at the window and sighs, handing the file he's been holding over to the other agent.

"He's been through what you, Alex, and Russell have been through. He's been used and abused. He wants to change, for the better. He wants to control the brainwashing. I want you to be his handler, take him under your wing and show him how to control it. Show him he's still human, even if it doesn't feel like it at times. It's the one thing I wish I had really focused on for Alex, and now that's he gone...I don't want that for another person." Black looks at Emilia again, who's facing him with an unreadable expression. She stares at the file in his hand before looking up at him, and her heart ached at the raw emotion shining through his features. Alex's death is still a sore topic among them, and she could see that Black saw Case as a do over, someone he could actually help and not shove aside.

"Okay." And she felt the need, the urge, to help this man out as well. Because she is tired of this brainwashing bullshit that agencies thought they can get away with. "Okay, I'll help him. Can I go in?"

"Yeah, he's been writing the last 24 hours. I've tried to ask what he's writing about, but he barely acknowledges me. I don't know how talkative he's gonna be." Black unlocks the door and takes a step to go in first, but Emilia stops him.

"I think it'll be better if I just went in." She says quietly, and Black looks uncertain.

"He can change any second, Em. You know that. I don't want you getting hurt. Russell would kill me." He tries to joke, but deep down he's scared to let the young agent go inside alone. But Emilia gives him a reassuring smile and pat on the arm before walking in, shutting the door behind her.

"Case?" She makes her presence known, walking along the side of the room so if he were to turn his head, he'll have a full view of her. "My name is Emilia."

"I know." A soft, almost broken voice whispers. "Adler talks a lot about you."

Emilia smiles, walking closer until she's standing beside the man, peering at the papers under his arms. "I hope all good things."

Case nods his head, going quiet again and Emilia takes a seat in the empty chair by his. "What are you writing, Case?"

The man looks at her, reading into her soul, before sliding the papers over. Emilia hides her surprise, gently grasping the papers and skimming through the words. Her smile turns into a frown that grows as she reads everything.

"No one knows. I can't talk about it. But I trust you. If Adler and Woods trust you, I trust you." Case murmurs, and Emilia looks at him. He's exposing himself to her, he's willing to be vulnerable.

"Have you ever had blini?"

\\\

Russell sighs as puts out his cigarette, staring at the two story house he missed so much. He knows Emilia would have many questions to ask, especially with the subtle things he's dropped about what they were working with. He gets out of his car and locks it, walking up the steps and standing there on the porch for a moment, staring at the door. Something felt off. Perhaps he was still recovering over the events of the last few weeks.

He unlocks the door and walks in, frowning when he hears his wife laughing from the dining room. He quietly shuts the door and walks towards the noise he adores, eyes widening when he sees Emilia and a very familiar man sitting at the table, talking over some berry blini. Emilia notices him and suddenly her cheerful expression becomes unreadable, and the man also goes quiet, turning around to face him.

"Case." Russell doesn't bother hiding the surprise out of his voice, looking at his wife questionably. Emilia nods, walking over to him and placing a hand on his chest.

"Give us a moment, please, Case." She says softly, and Case nods, turning back to the pancakes. Emilia drags Russell into the kitchen, busying her hands with putting the pans in the sink. Russell crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the island counter.

"What is he doing here, Mila?" He asks.

"Black asked me for help. You have a lot of explaining to do, Russell. Did you know?" She turns to glare up at him, and Russell winces.

"Yes, I know. I made sure they didn't do anything to him. I just didn't think Black would get you involved."

Emilia scoffed, "Woke me up at 2:30 in the morning. Went to the office dressed like this," she gestured to her pajamas and hair and Russell chuckled lightly, walking over to plant a kiss on her head.

"Still so sexy. God, I missed you." He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her body against his. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, leaning up to kiss him softly.

"I missed you too, Russ. Now excuse me, we have a guest." She pulls away, but Russell keeps his hands on her hips.

"So what are you helping with?"

"I'm his handler." Emilia says, and Russell is dumbstruck the second time that night. Emilia pecks his cheek before walking back into the dining room, resuming her conversation with Case. He stands there for a few minutes before looking into the dining room and observing how Case seemed to speak freely with Emilia.

With a smile, he walks upstairs to their bedroom. Case is in good hands now. They were finally doing something right for once.

[kastlequill]

ii. for you my love i kill

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader word count: 6.5k synopsis: miguel visits the hospital to tie up some loose ends then makes sure you got home safe tags: whump/angst, protective/dark miguel o’hara, black cat!reader warnings: reference of past canonical sexual assault, some torture, broken bones, miguel kills a guy ao3: read here ← prev | next [soon] →

After Miguel left you crying in that alley, he had expected his night to end there.

The plan had originally been for him to head back to his apartment and get as much sleep as possible; no detours, no distractions. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d rested for more than three consecutive hours, but if the Spider-Man wanted to continue starting his days at the crack of dawn, then Miguel O’Hara needed some good ol’ shut-eye. This should’ve been an easy-to-follow, hard-to-fuck-up plan.

Except, he hadn’t gone home and was instead currently perched outside the window of a hospital room four stories high.

Because the thing was, Miguel had lied to you—the man you had tried to kill tonight wasn’t dead. A few feet away, the target in question was bedridden but very alive, receiving medical attention for the damage you’d inflicted onto him.

When Miguel stumbled upon you relentlessly clawing at a noncombative man who laid prone in the street, his instincts had compelled him to act first and ask questions later. Every second wasted brought the man closer to death as you’d shown no sign of stopping your flurry of attacks anytime soon. So, Spider-Man had snuck up from behind and put you in a chokehold, compressing your carotid artery just enough to render you unconscious.

While you were passed out, the apparent victim had departed from the scene in a flying ambulance, which left Spider-Man alone to handle the apparent perpetrator: you.

You weren’t what he had expected.

As witness to your capacity for violence, there were certain adjectives Miguel would have thought applied to you, like unfeeling and inhuman. But you’d surprised him by being the opposite: fervent and compassionate.

Which made it irritatingly difficult to figure you out.

Not that he wanted to—he didn’t.

It was just that you had seemed so lost at the chance that this man, who you’d attempted to rid from society, might have survived. Miguel intimately understood the single-minded pursuit of a goal that had become the axis upon which your whole world now hinged. He knew what it meant to latch onto the mere hope that achieving a certain goal might suffice as enough of a sacrifice to stain the door to your heart with lamb’s blood and convince the Angel of Death sent by your best-forgotten past to leave you be, to pass over you.

And because he (unfortunately) had ample experience in this regard, all it had taken was hearing the desperation in your voice and seeing the begrudgingly-pleading look in your eyes to pull the following words right out of his mouth:

You got him, he’d assured you. Already dead when I arrived.

Miguel was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them; among his plethora of epithets, prevaricator was notably absent. He spoke the truth as he understood it, even if it pained him to do so. Even if he wanted to tell himself a lie.

Even if he’d rather use his bare hands to carve a shelter out of Utopian falsehoods and reside in purposefully-ignorant bliss

Moreover, Miguel was unlike the vast majority of Spider-People in that he did not adhere to a strict no-kill rule, either. So the moment those two short sentences left his lips, the fate of the man on the other side of this window pane had been sealed.

“John Doe” was as good as dead.

John Doe; the name presiding medical staff had assigned to the patient of unknown origin. He’d been admitted without an ID card, and his disfigured face didn’t do identification efforts any favors either. You had carved out chunks of flesh from his cheeks, and no patch of skin had been spared the deep, inflamed gashes imparted by your claws.

In the wake of your vengeance, he had become more thing than person.

Luckily, Miguel had Lyla. The AI had pinpointed the man in question by extracting his DNA from remnant blood on the Spider-Man suit and running a cross-comparison with the hundreds of thousands of DNA profiles stored in the city’s database. If he had any prior involvements with the law, there would be a match.

And there was.

John Doe was actually Trent Michaels.

A recent college graduate, son of his school’s dean. Star athlete, doted on by his professors and peers. Squeaky-clean record.

It’d been all too easy to learn your identity thereafter, to then find unsealed court records for a case marked dead on arrival, old images of you smiling, carefree and trusting. Reconciling the life-hardened woman who he’d confronted in the alley and that bright-eyed girl as being one and the same was a challenge, but not impossible. There was still much of her in you, even if she only appeared during the brief moments your guard was down.

As a mechanism for survival, you had been forced to construct walls around yourself of such height and of such thickness that they were too insurmountable for most to scale and too impenetrable for the rest to infiltrate. A man’s wretchedness had been the catalyst for these defensive measures which, while successful in keeping others out, also kept you locked in, trapping you with the demons that weren’t so easily deterred.

Feelings of self-loathing and helplessness; thoughts of self-blame and fruitless what-if scenarios. You were resigned to dealing with it all alone. Though he similarly shared that sentiment, Miguel’s concern was that you’d gladly destroy yourself just to catch all that haunted you within the blast range of your implosion.

Mutually assured destruction.

He refused to stand idly by while you became collateral damage in your own quest for vengeance. The longer Miguel ruminated on the matter, the more his anger toward Michaels grew. His ire tempted him to detonate this ticking time bomb of a human so that there’d be no chance of it exploding around you. But his logic commanded him to suppress the urge to unsheathe his talons and refrain from tearing the man limb from limb.

Sé paciente, sé paciente, sé paciente. Miguel recited the words like a mantra meant to tether himself to the present then pinched the bridge of his nose to assuage an impending migraine. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.

To set the record straight, showing up to the hospital had not been a premeditated decision. One minute Miguel was swinging through Nueva York, taking the usual route that led to his apartment, and the next he was here, preparing to break into a facility for the sick and injured.

Since he had arrived, however, his mind had begun concocting a plan, officially converting this would-be crime of passion into an act of murder. Except—

—killing that maggot piece of shit isn’t murder. It’s what I’m owed.

Not murder. Retribution.

From the shadows, Miguel observed the medical staff’s next three rounds and soundly concluded that they were spaced fifteen minutes apart. That gave him fifteen minutes to do what he needed to do.

With sufficient information on both the premises and the target, operation take-out-the-trash was a go. He dug his fingers under the bottom edge of the double-hung window and slowly pushed upward, sliding it open just enough to allow him to step through and into the room.

Inside, it was quiet save for the steady beeping of a heart monitor and the faint whistling of air entering and exiting through the nostrils of a recently-broken nose. Everything tied back to the bastard who was laying on the hospital bed as if it were an altar and he was its sacrificial offering to the gods.

But there were no gods here; only Spider-Man.

This ritual wasn’t to bring plentiful rain or a bountiful harvest; it was to cage a monster’s soul in the confines of Hell and set free yours from the clutches of all that which sought to do you harm. It was to cleanse the revolting sight that was a supine Michaels sleeping peacefully, oblivious to or uncaring of the pain he’d caused you.

That those scum can walk among us freely, can go about the rest of their lives without consequence—

Try as he might, Miguel couldn’t unhear the break in your voice as you choked on all the things you could not say. The years-long wounds you carried within were clearly still raw; healing them had thus far been a feat unconquered since the root of the injury was still alive and well, preventing definitive closure.

Until now.

The room was larger than average, and a tray of gourmet food on the overbed table indicated the patient’s VIP status. This fancy, non-hospital cafeteria dinner had undoubtedly been provided at the behest of the Public Eye, who wanted Michaels pliable and cooperative during their inevitable one-on-one interrogation. He was, after all, their key witness to not just his mysterious assailant, but also his elusive savior. They’d been clamoring to get whatever information they could on The Spider-Man so that they could then charge him with vigilantism, and Trent Michaels had the potential to be a big lead.

Despite the only light source being a meager nearby computer screen, the combination of white tiled flooring and white stucco walls made the room appear well lit in contrast to the night’s pitch black. The moisture in the air reeked of sterility, which told him that this area was cleaned frequently and thoroughly.

No spilling blood, then. There was no hiding that unmistakable crimson red, nor was there time to properly erase the traces of evidence that would surely stain the pristine-white fitted bedsheets and seep into the slender crevices between each slab of tile.

When Miguel dragged his attention back to the bed, he discovered that Michaels had awoken at some point and was now sitting upright, eyes wary and muscles twitchy. The bruised and scratched-up man looked nervous in the presence of the masked hero.

Soon, he’d be more than just nervous. And by the time Miguel was done with him, he would be nothing at all.

Soon.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Spider-Man stated the obvious, stalking closer, both hands on his hips, before coming to a stop in front of the several machines that were hooked up to the target’s frail body. The movement held a striking resemblance to that of a predator circling its prey. It was an assessment of strength differential, an evaluation of the energy investment required to subdue. “That makes my job easier.”

As Miguel casually pulled up a chair and sat at his bedside, Michaels donned a look of bewilderment, confused why he had a visitor but showing no sign of fear. Not yet. At present, Spider-Man was still the masked hero who saved his life in that alleyway and not a harbinger of Death who had come here to cast him into the pits of Tartarus.

The man rubbed at his sockets once, twice, affirming and reaffirming that the mythified vigilante was indeed standing inside his hospital room at the dead of night. “Spider-Man? The hell’re you doin’ here?”

Miguel elected to ignore that question, not trusting his ability to maintain an unaffected vocal inflection if he were to discuss anything other than the strict script in his head. He got straight to the point, projecting into the space between him and Michaels a holographic image of you. The you of a few years ago, the you with a cheesy grin spread wide across your lips, ear to ear.

The you who hadn’t yet been made to walk this road of unsatiated vengeance.

“This girl,” Miguel started to say then stopped to assess the man’s face. Though most of it was swollen and scabbing, Michaels could still reconfigure his features into discernible expressions, and Miguel would be damned if he didn’t take note of every single change. “You know her?”

A beat of silence. Michaels flicked his gaze toward the hologram, and the sickly hue of his current complexion paled even further than Miguel had thought was possible. The heart monitor blared to warn that an abnormal spike had been detected in the patient’s heart rate, betraying the truth before an answer could even be given.

He knew you alright.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” was his response, tone a bit defensive as he shifted in unease. “What’s it to you?”

What’s it to him?

To him, it was rectifying a wrong. If he’d known this man’s sin, he would have gladly stayed put on the roof to watch from above as you killed him yourself. Not everyone deserved the helping hand of Spider-Man, or, at least, not that of this dimension’s Spider-Man. Perhaps simultaneously filling the roles of judge, jury, and executioner was a sin in its own right, but Miguel wasn’t stupid; he knew the courts were conditional in how and when they chose to enforce law, sparing the rich and powerful from the consequences of their actions. Death, however, was not so inclined to do the same.

To him, it was honoring his word. He had reassured you that you’d successfully scourged the streets of this vermin, and he wasn’t about to let that become a lie. No, Miguel was going to strip the brute who’d dared to hurt you of the privilege to feel the warmth of tomorrow’s sunrise. Trent Michaels didn’t have permission to look upon the breaking of dawn, to see how the sun warred against darkness and emerged victorious, setting the sky ablaze with its golden rays.

Ultimately, it was very simple: paramount to everything else, you had wanted the man dead, and Miguel wanted to actualize that wish. For you, yes, but also for the sake of every soul who might someday cross paths with Michaels if he were to leave here alive.

This was what came to mind when he reflected on why he’d rerouted to the hospital rather than his own damn apartment. His thoughts demanded to be acknowledged by their maker, and their obnoxious loudness lulled Miguel into a state of reticence.

At the eerie, prolonged silence, Michaels cleared his throat and began to speak.

“She’s nobody. A girl I hung out with freshman year. Things got a little heated one night,” he said with a nonchalant shrug. “It was just some fun. Harmless, really. Then she had to go and make a big deal out of nothing. I’m sure you know what I mean, man.”

During this spiel of utter bullshit, Miguel had slowly begun to fiddle with the pulse oximeter attached to the tip of Michaels’ index finger. The minute fidgeting could be interpreted as absentminded and unmotivated, but that didn’t account for his purposeful and intentional way of doing things.

Miguel clipped it onto his own left finger when Michaels was preoccupied with picking at the peeling edge of a bandage on his brow bone. The heart monitor synced with the well-regulated and steady heart rate of Spider-Man.

That had been Step 1. The second step was a bit more. . . hands-on.

Rolling his shoulders back, Miguel stood up from his chair and gave a short, noncommittal hum. “Can’t say that I do.”

His free hand curled into a tight fist and launched itself at the man’s already-battered face, catching him on the nose, and a satisfying crack pierced the air. The sheer power behind the punch was such that it sent Michaels reeling backward, and his concussed head (your handiwork) ricocheted off the bed frame, temporarily dazing him.

When he came to his senses, shock morphed into contempt. “Y’broke my goddamn nose. That’s the second fuckin’ time tonight!”

Unfazed by the assault, the heart monitor continued to beep, raising no alarms since it hadn’t detected any abnormalities in heart rate. It was a metronome that kept time, but the maestro after whom it modeled its cadence had switched from Michaels to Miguel. Its consistent pattern thus left the medical personnel on duty none the wiser about what had just transpired, nor about what was yet to come.

Beep. Beep.

Beep.

“What the fuck, dude? I thought you were s’posed to be the good guy!” the man cried out, indignant and genuinely baffled as to what he could've possibly done to warrant this assault. He tipped his head back, desperately trying to stop his compromised nose from dripping blood all over.

The small blotches of red that now stained his patient gown weren’t ideal, but no one would think to question a spontaneous nosebleed when said nose was confirmed to have been broken earlier in the night. Punching him had been worth the risk; even Spider-Man wasn’t exempt from the universal human desire to absolutely deck an asshole who deserved considerably worse. Still, the plan had been to keep all blood inside all bodies, so that was what he was going to do moving forward.

Miguel allowed himself the momentary indulgence of basking in the melodic, steady stream of agonized groans. It was music to his ears, an unconventional symphony of which he was the conductor.

A prelude to his magnum opus, a crescendo to its climax.

Leaning forward to block every possible escape route with his broad frame, Miguel grabbed the sniveling coward by the neck and squeezed.

“I am.”

Driven by his instinct to fight or flight, Michaels clawed at the hand around his throat, but his efforts at either of the two courses of action were in vain. The hold was ironclad, immovable, whereas the force he tried to exert on it was nowhere near unstoppable; thus, it did not budge.

In no rush to relent, Miguel relished the way his prey squirmed and writhed, and only when the man’s eyes began to flutter shut did Spider-Man relax his grip with an exasperated sigh.

To die by strangulation was an end too merciful for the likes of this scum. It was over too quick, a brief burst of pain liberated by the peaceful promise of eternal nothingness. No, Miguel wouldn’t bestow the gift of a swift, clean death; rather, he sought to make the final moments of the man’s miserable existence torturous, to send him off to Hell kicking and screaming.

As he struggled to catch his breath, Michaels splayed his hands atop the overbed table to support his heaving body. The shift drew Miguel’s attention, and he glared at the offending appendages because those weren’t gentle hands that delivered care, nor were they hands that offered protection. They were hands that had hurt innocents.

Hands that had hurt you.

Hands that needed to reflect their sins, that needed to be as equally marred in flesh as the man who wielded them was in conscience. Each and every digit would pay penance for his transgressions since all ten had partaken in the atrocity.

The right middle finger was first. Breaking a bone was neither difficult nor complicated, regardless of whether it was his own or that of someone else. Miguel settled on his fists to be his weapon of choice, classic and old-fashioned, close and personal, then he restrained his target with shackles made of webs, then—

Snap.

Before a howl of pain could echo through the halls for all to hear, Miguel shot a wad of his organic webbing at Michaels’ mouth to muffle any potentially-incriminating screams.

“Quiet now, don’t worry,” he cooed in mock sympathy. “You won’t be needing these where you’re going.”

In a state of pain-induced delirium, Michaels extended his trembling left hand for the bedside remote to signal for aid, a Hail Mary that would go unanswered, deemed unworthy of her saintly supervision. Before he could press down on the call button, the device was snatched from his grasp altogether by another string of web.

“Too slow,” chided Spider-Man, a cruel smirk hidden underneath his mask as he moved the remote far from reach. “What are you making such a big deal for, we’re just having some fun. Isn’t that right?”

No reply. Just two beady blue eyes glistening with poorly-concealed terror, hoping to appeal to the hero’s better nature. Unfortunately for Michaels, Miguel reserved his compassion for the billions of innocent people who comprised the Arachnoid Humanoid Poly-Multiverse, not a sorry excuse for a man who couldn’t understand that no meant no.

“What was it you said, hm? Harmless?” Knowing the context in which the word had been used five minutes before, it tasted foul on Miguel’s tongue and sounded vile to his ears. “I think this is pretty harmless, no?”

That question, though rhetorical, elicited a vigorous shaking of the head, the man’s intended message fully-transparent and frantic: no, no, no.

Miguel released an exaggerated, disappointed sigh. “That’s fine—we can agree to disagree.”

It continued like this for the remaining four fingers on his right hand. One after the other, Miguel fractured bone with nothing but his enhanced strength and unbridled rage. Each additional crushed digit was accompanied by the further splintering of Michaels’ spirit, dismantling him piece by piece.

By the time Miguel had finished rendering the hand free of functioning fingers, it appeared as though Michaels had given up on trying to weasel out of this nightmare scenario, the pain so severe and unyielding that he had seemingly become numb to it. His joints were rapidly swelling, and angry patches of dark purples and reds bloomed on his skin as blood rushed to the site of the blunt force trauma. It was his body’s attempt at salvaging a sinking ship and relieving its captain of his burden.

But there would be no such reprieve, for Miguel was wholly unsatisfied so long as this man, who had touched and taken without permission, still had operational extensions of his body.

Michaels mumbled something unintelligible through the webbing that was still plastered over his mouth, and, wanting to hear what he had to say for himself, Miguel tore it off. When no words followed, he prepared to resume his onslaught, readying his arm for the swing.

A single syllable stopped him just short of making contact with the left pinky finger.

“Stop,” croaked Michaels, his voice scratchy from the strain of repressed screams. “Please.”

Spider-Man’s fist halted mid-slam and hovered over his chosen target. The plea transported him back to the events that had transpired earlier in the night. All throughout his interrogation, you had maintained a commendable degree of composure despite the clear imbalance in power between the two of you. You had been hung by your feet from the neck of a streetlight and then immediately re-tied to that same pole after being freed of your webbed restraints.

And yet, you’d never begged. Not until your vengeance outweighed your pride did you plead with the vigilante to—

—tell me I got him. Please, tell me I killed him

Your begging had been on behalf of the girl who’d been betrayed by someone she had trusted, on behalf of the many survivors who spent the rest of their lives carrying the knowledge that justice hadn’t been served and that it never would. Even while physically and emotionally under duress, you had thought of them. Because at your core, you represented all that was good and right about the world.

Conversely, no such redeemable qualities could be detected within Trent Michaels. His pleas served only himself, a sick piece of shit who, at his core, embodied all that bastardized the world from its ideal vision.

The man of the hour gulped several breaths of air, eyes closing in gratitude at the perceived fact that this torture session had run its course, mistaking the brief hesitation as a sign of reconsideration.

It wasn’t.

“Stop? I’m just getting started.” Spider-Man flexed his hand then clenched it once again. “We’ve still got five more to go.”

He unfroze and brought his fist-turned-hammer down hard, crushing another distal phalanx beneath the weight of his own fury as well as that which he channeled from you, grinding his knuckles into the new injury for good measure.

“Did I say five? I meant four.”

His assault on the left hand was a blur. He laid waste to the digits faster than he did the right hand, brain on autopilot. The clock on the wall ticked incessantly; fifteen minutes were almost up.

An agonized groan from Michaels eventually snapped Miguel out of his anger-induced stupor, and he blinked down to find that the last four fingers were severely mangled compared to the others, having been subjected to repetitive pummeling in excess. Though he resented losing control, the important thing was that he had neutralized these hands of vice and malevolence.

Now that there were no more fingers left for Spider-Man to break, a nearly-unconscious Michaels slackened his muscles, curling into himself. He probably thought the worst of the night was over.

Not a chance.

“Oh, I wouldn’t look too relieved if I were you, Trent. The show’s not over yet,” Miguel spat, saying the name like it was dirty. Which it was. “We still have the finale.”

The finale entailed grabbing a syringe from a nearby cabinet and pulling its plunger all the way back so that the entire apparatus filled with air. He had briefly entertained the idea of sinking his teeth into Michaels’ jugular and pumping him full of venom but had ultimately decided against it since that would surely get flagged on the autopsy report. Bit hard to explain that one.

Once the syringe was full, Miguel fastened a needle to the tip, and it reflected blue light from the computer when he raised it higher to get a better look.

As he did so, fear at last settled on Michaels’ face. During the obliteration of his ten fingers, he had writhed in pain, his eyes pinched shut and his veins protruding in exertion. Before that, there had been confusion and shock. But until this very instant, fear had remained notably absent, too consumed with surviving the encounter to imagine that Death might still await him in spite of his best efforts.

The appearance of Death came in an infinite many forms. Death was both destroyer and creator, both decomposition and nourishment. Death was the car that did not stop at a red light, the cancerous cells born of mutated proto-oncogenes, the peaceful embrace after eighty years of life.

And when he raised the syringe to the IV line, Spider-Man too became Death.

No one could accurately speculate their reaction to the moments preceding their death. Many liked to believe that they would use their strength to persevere, but in the end, they were the ones who bargained and begged the most. Some were more honest in their assessment, admitting that their souls would be fetched and relocated elsewhere, but they too believed that they would depart this world with their head held high. Fewer still recognized that death was not to be feared or overpowered, but was to be met with open arms and a smile.

Michaels, being the cowardly and spineless man he was, belonged to that first category.

Typical.

“I’m sorry, okay, I fucked up, but I can be better, I swear. If you want money, name a price and it’s yours. I’ll donate to charity, I’ll apologize to h-her, I’ll—” His groveling was abruptly cut off by a sob, pathetic and ugly. “I’ll do anything. Just please don’t kill me. I’m begging you.”

Nothing. The pitiful speech inspired absolutely nothing in Miguel. No sympathy, no reflection, no anything. He was devoid of all but stone-cold hatred.

“Me vale madre.”

Spider-Man injected the pocketed air into the IV line and watched its resulting bubble travel down the tube, disappearing into the stuck vein. The estimated time it took for an air embolism to kill an adult male of this stature was approximately five minutes, maybe ten. But considering the sheer volume of air that had been put into circulation, Miguel presumed complications would arise much sooner.

His prediction proved true, the tell-tale symptoms presenting not even a full minute after the air bubble had entered the man’s bloodstream. The man tried to clutch at his chest but yelped when the motion jostled his fractured bones. Unable to assuage the tightening in his heart, he began to hyperventilate, panting, eyes bulging.

Then came death.

When Michaels’ squirming body went unnaturally stiff, Miguel removed the pulse oximeter from his own index finger and reattached it to that of the dead man. The heart monitor began to blare, both an alert to the night-shift nurses that a patient had flatlined and a cue to the Spider-Man that he should vacate the premises.

He exited the way he’d entered, slinking through the window before sliding it shut behind him. Nothing was out of place. The walls and tiled floor were still squeaky clean and white; the chair he had moved was back in its original place in the far corner; the gourmet dinner was still untouched and positioned on one side of the overbed table, where it would stay uneaten for all eternity.

The lone evidence of his presence was a fresh corpse with ten fingers smashed and bent out of shape.

They would soon declare their John Doe deceased after multiple failed attempts at restarting his heart, and then they would open an investigation to determine the cause of death. Frustrations would mount when the toxicology reports housed no answers, and stress levels would peak when the patient turned out to be the son of a very wealthy man who was threatening to sue the hospital for negligence.

Quite frankly, none of that mattered to Miguel—the job was done. Whatever bureaucratic shit came next was an addendum, an afterthought scribbled into the margins of tonight’s catalogue of events.

The mission had been accomplished: Trent Michaels was dead.

By all accounts, this kill was yours. You had been the one to drag him to the gates of Hell, whereas Miguel had only ensured that the scum would successfully reach his destination. You had been the one to gather the trash and make all the arrangements to discard him, tracking his location and beating him within an inch of his life, whereas Miguel had only dropped him off at the dumpster yard.

It struck him then that this was likely the first time you’d taken a life. And instead of offering you advice on how to navigate the toll that killing took on your conscience, he had left you in the alley to come to terms with it all by yourself.

He winced. Fuck.

Miguel needed to see you.

“Lyla,” he called. “Give me her address.”

The miniature AI materialized beside him, her tone light and teasing. “Lyla, give me her address what?”

Usually, there was no harm in entertaining the AI’s shenanigans. But tonight was different.

“Not in the mood,” he gritted out, irritation spiking abnormally quick, even for him, as the adrenaline from handling Michaels continued to set ablaze his systems. “Her address.”

Lyla handed the information over without further fuss, and Miguel leaped off the ledge just as a cluster of medical personnel filtered into the hospital room-turned-morgue.

Clearing the tops of buildings in a single bound, he traveled through the city in record time, aided by the strong winds that blew in the direction of your residence. When Miguel finally arrived, he took up position on the roof of the building directly across from yours. From this vantage point, it was almost concerningly easy to see through one of your windows.

You should really buy some blinds, was his immediate thought, grumbling to himself about how unsafe this setup was.

He squinted his eyes and conducted a quick sweep of your apartment, searching every gap, checking every corner once, twice, three times. The place was empty.

A knot formed in his gut at the realization that you hadn’t come home.

Where are you?

The longer the question went unanswered, the louder its echo reverberated, perpetuating itself as if in a chamber. He’d scanned you for injuries and hadn’t found a scratch. You had been coherent, conscious, and as composed as could be expected, but what if he had missed something?

What if you were still in the alleyway, incapacitated by an unattended injury?

The mental image of you agonizing over your wounds, both the visible and the invisible, was enough to will him to a decision. Just as he was about to turn around and swing his way to the opposite side of the city—

A light flickered on, illuminating your living room. It was fairly small, like most other studio apartments in the expensive rungs of Nueva York. His sharp vision instantly honed in on the two black cats that roused from their slumber to greet you at the front door, which had swung open with such force that it’d hit the wall and slammed back into your shoulder.

When Miguel finally laid his eyes on you, tension seeped out of his muscles, the frown line between his brows momentarily disappeared, and his shoulders slumped forward as he exhaled a nearly-inaudible sigh of relief.

You were okay.

Well, okay might not be the right word because you were evidently not okay. You were slightly hunched and limping, shifting your weight from foot to foot, dragging a hand against the wall for extra support should you careen over, which was becoming a more likely reality by the second. As you lugged your spent body to the clawed-up sofa at the center of the room, the legs that had thus far been supportive of your weight buckled with fatigue. All Miguel could do from here was watch you collapse onto the sofa, face-first.

Your shoulders began to convulse, and he stiffened, worried you were belatedly going into shock or having a seizure based on the way you jerked and jolted. Upon further inspection, however, Miguel determined that the culprit of the shaking was neither the former nor the latter.

Sobs wracked your frame. You lifted your head from the seat cushion to rip off the black domino mask with which you’d disguised yourself, revealing a steady stream of tears, black trails of mascara staining your cheeks. Next to go was your white-haired wig, yanked with equal force and chucked across the room.

Gone was the outwardly-confident woman who had managed to rile him up and get the upper hand whilst dangling from a lamppost. Left in her wake was the woman behind the persona. Here was the woman you were when the spotlight faded to darkness, when the curtains closed and the audience departed, when the performance came to an end. Uncensored, unrefined, undone—you.

An unbecoming.

The rational part of his brain told him that this was an invasion of your privacy, that he should leave you to your much-needed crying session and stop peeping through your windows when you were at your most vulnerable. You thought you were alone and had subsequently allowed yourself to shatter, but here he was, heightened senses privy to the whimpers that broke your voice, to the utter despair that furrowed your brows.

And yet he couldn’t avert his gaze.

Such a raw display of catharsis; it was sublime. How long had it been since he last cried more than a few silent tears?

He already knew the answer: Gabriella.

The multiverse couldn’t afford for the leader of the Spider Society to fall apart, not when he was the one keeping this whole operation together. Thousands of Spider-People played their part, sure, but he alone dedicated every waking second to preventing anomalies from destroying entire dimensions. And though he would never admit it, Miguel was at the end of his rope, akin to a powder keg about to explode at any given moment.

Maybe he was more like you than he’d thought. Maybe he should take a page from your book, let himself cry and cry until he had poured everything out from the cavity of his chest. Even Atlas had briefly passed the weight of the heavens off to Heracles, so perhaps the multiverse wouldn’t unravel if he were to open the floodgates, just this once.

The thought left as quickly as it had arrived. Logistically, it wasn’t viable. How could he ever jeopardize the fate of billions for one man? Regardless of whether that man was himself or a stranger, his decision was the same.

He would thus have to make do with a more vicarious manner of release. Your tears were both yours and his. The tears he could not bring himself to shed joined yours as you became a vessel of the emotions that had long since been repressed, both by you and by him.

Where Michaels’ sobs had grated on his nerves, yours made Miguel physically recoil not in revulsion, but in visceral need to comfort. The sight made him want to do something stupid, like jump down from the roof, knock on your door, and ask you if he could come inside

Go inside to do what, exactly? Hugs are a no-go, so that leaves. . . awkward shoulder patting? He slapped a hand to his forehead and ran it over his face with a groan.

This—going to the hospital to terminate your target, showing up to your apartment—was a dangerous chain of events that would further snowball into an unacceptable culmination of feelings. Unless, of course, he impeded it, uprooting this budding thing before it could blossom, terminating these strange thoughts in gestation before they could be spoken into existence.

In which case, the crisis would be averted.

He had fulfilled his heroic obligations as Spider-Man, had ensured your safe arrival, and had kept his word. All he needed to do now was put as much distance between you and him as was humanly possible.

Yes, that sounded like a plan. Excellent. Good.

Great.

As Miguel vaulted off the roof and shot a web at the nearest billboard, he decided that he would not be returning to your apartment ever again; this was the only time he’d let himself check up on you. When he stepped foot into his own apartment a good hour and a half later than he had initially intended, he recited the declaration to himself as he took a hot shower and again as he changed out of his suit. When he awoke the next morning, he fully believed that such would be the case because you’d been absent from his dreams, all memories of you already archived.

It wasn’t until he took the long way home three nights in a row that Miguel finally conceded otherwise. The first night was brushed off as an innocent coincidence, and the second night was justified as having simply found a better path home. But by the third night, he couldn’t deny it anymore:

The true reason this objectively-worse, inconvenient route seemed better was purely because it passed by your building complex and gave him the chance to see you.

tbc.