#the ghost of the boy that was ripped away from him

[nescaveckwriter]

Take It Off...

🖋️ A/N:

This one-shot was born the moment I heard “Cry” by Lee Brice—yeah, that song ripped me open, and out came Beau Arlen, bruised knuckles and broken heart. The prompt that lit the fire? "Do I have to take it off again?" from @jacklesversebingo Beau just wouldn't shut up after that. This is my love letter to regret, to stubborn men who break late, and to the kind of love that lingers in the quiet. As always, reblogs and comments keep the muse fed 💌

—Nesca / LadybugBooklover 🐞

⚠️ Content Warnings:

Mature emotional themes (regret, heartbreak, male vulnerability)

Alcohol use (mentions of beer as a coping mechanism)

Adult language (soft cussing & emotionally charged dialogue)

Suggested sexual imagery (not explicit, but references intimacy)

Mentions of past relationship conflict/divorce Not suitable for readers who dislike angst or emotional vulnerability in male characters.

📜 Copyright Notice:

This work is 100% original fan fiction based on the character Beau Arlen (no copyright infringement intended). Do not repost, translate, or copy this work without permission. Tumblr reblogs = LOVE. Copy/paste or reposting = don’t be that gremlin.

© 2025 Nesca / LadybugBooklover 🐞 All rights reserved.

🔢 Word Count: ~960 words of raw, poetic heartbreak…

🐞❤️Tags: @jackles010378 @winchesterwild78 @cutedisneygirl @angelbabyyy99

The curtains were drawn tight, but the shadows didn’t care. They slipped through anyway, dancing across the jagged lines of his face—the face of a man who once wore charm like a second skin. Beau Arlen. Sheriff. Symbol of strength in a town that clung to tradition like gospel.

But that strength? It cracked the moment he saw you again.

He sat there, fists clenched, jaw tight with the kind of grief that don’t come from bullets or bloodshed, but from love gone wrong—twice. You’d think a second divorce would sting less. Hell, you'd think he'd be numb by now. But no. This one gutted him.

And deep down, beneath all that badge-and-gun bravado, he knew it—he knew it was his fault. But damn it, he’s always been a stubborn mule. The kind of man who'd rather break than bend.

He stared down at his phone, thumb hovering, twitching—like so many damn times before. Just one call. One more chance to say what he never could.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding with regret. He could still see her—the way she looked today, standing there like a memory he didn’t deserve. Hair dancing in the breeze, that familiar smile teasing her lips like the past hadn’t burned everything down.

But her eyes… Hell, those eyes. They gave her away. They always did. Beneath the soft glow, they held the weight of a wrecked marriage her first, his second, shattered by his hands. His silence. His pride.

It felt like it all shattered just yesterday—the yelling, the tears, the final blow. But it’d been six months. Six freaking months, and still, the memory burned bright, fresh as blood on snow.

He could still see her face—twisted in pain, lips trembling as she begged him to fight for them, to choose them. Her voice, cracked and desperate, haunted him worse than any ghost. He remembered every damn tear, every choked word.

And worst of all? He remembered how he didn’t say a single thing.

He’d always been a proud man—too proud, if you asked her. But now? Sitting in the dark, in the house they once called home, there was nothing left of that pride. Just misery. Just a broken man with shaking hands, twisting the golden band on his finger like it could somehow rewind time.

“Do I have to take it off again?” he muttered, same as he had six months ago when she walked out the door. Still couldn’t do it. Not then. Not now.

His emerald eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and in the silence, his father’s voice cut through like a blade. “Man up, boy.”

He clicked his tongue, scoffing. “Yeah? Who says men don’t cry?” he whispered to the empty room. “They do… when they lose the only good thing they ever had.”

A dry, bitter chuckle scraped from his throat as he stared down at the bottle in his hand. Cryin’ into his beer again. Or was it the pillow on her side of the bed last night? Shit. Didn’t matter.

Either way, he was drowning. And damn if he didn’t feel pathetic.

He still couldn’t look at taillights the same. Not since she drove away, tears cutting down her soft porcelain cheeks, headlights fading into heartbreak.

There was no denying it—he was a man undone. A man hurting.

Before he knew it, his thumb hovered over her name. Then, dialed. Just like that. And when she answered, it felt like the world stopped.

“Sweetheart?” Her voice—soft, brittle, angelic.

“You don’t get to call me that no more, Beau.”

“Well, shit,” he murmured, “at least I know I’m functioning then.”

He sighed, already wounded.

“S… Sorry. I know. How’re you doing?”

She cleared her throat, but he heard the tears anyway.

“Good, I guess. If you count out the heartbreak, the lonely nights, and the empty mornings.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“Oh? That’s what good is nowadays?”

She giggled, a sound that twisted the knife in his chest.

“For the last six months, it has been.”

Her sarcasm was raw, sharp-edged.

A pause.

Silence.

Then her voice cracked.

“Why can’t you just say what you really feel? Dammit, Beau—I wish you would.”

Then he breathed out the truth like a confession:

“You wanna know how I feel? Fine.”

The only response was the quiet sound of sniffles.

“I miss you. I love you. And I hate myself.”

“I hate my pride. I hate that I let you go. I hate waking up in that cold-ass bed without you beside me.”

“I miss your sleepy smile, your dancing in the kitchen with my damn t-shirt barely covering your thighs—Dammit, I miss everything about you.”

His voice broke.

“I love you… but mostly, I’m sorry.”

Then—the line went dead.

He stared at his phone like it had betrayed him. She hung up. After all that. After finally bleeding the truth, she ended the call.

“Damn,” he whispered.

He left the half-drunk beer sweating on the table, dragged himself toward the bedroom like a man twice his age. Crawled into bed, sinking into another sleepless night—

Ding-dong.

“What the hell,” he muttered, pulling himself up, bare-chested, worn grey joggers hanging low on his hips. No shirt. No energy to fake it.

He yanked the door open—then froze.

There she stood.

Beautiful. Real. There.

He barked out a surprised laugh. And without a word, he swept her into his arms, spun her around, and kissed her like a dying man clinging to oxygen.

She smiled, eyes shining.

“Hello there, Sheriff.”

He knew they had shit to work through. Wounds that hadn’t healed. Words that still needed saying. But one thing was certain—

Because he was.

And she was.

That wedding band?

It stays.

He’s never taking it off.

[queereads-bracket]

Queer Historical Fiction Book Bracket: Round 1B

Book summaries and submitted endorsements below:

The Spirit Bares Its Teeth by Andrew Joseph White

Endorsement from submitter #1: "In an alternate London, boys born with violet eyes become Speakers, mediums who can communicate with the dead, and girls born with violet eyes become their wives. 16-year-old Silas Bell is desperate to avoid becoming another man's wife, but his attempts end with him institutionalised and diagnosed with 'Veil Sickness', a disorder turning violet-eyed girls mad. When the ghosts of former patients appear to beg him for help, he must solve the mystery of what, exactly, happens to everyone society throws away."

Endorsement from submitter #2: "T4T and autistic representation"

Mors vincit omnia. Death conquers all.

London, 1883. The Veil between the living and dead has thinned. Violet-eyed mediums commune with spirits under the watchful eye of the Royal Speaker Society, and sixteen-year-old Silas Bell would rather rip out his violet eyes than become an obedient Speaker wife. According to Mother, he’ll be married by the end of the year. It doesn’t matter that he’s needed a decade of tutors to hide his autism; that he practices surgery on slaughtered pigs; that he is a boy, not the girl the world insists on seeing.

After a failed attempt to escape an arranged marriage, Silas is diagnosed with Veil sickness—a mysterious disease sending violet-eyed women into madness—and shipped away to Braxton’s Sanitorium and Finishing School. The facility is cold, the instructors merciless, and the students either bloom into eligible wives or disappear. So when the ghosts of missing students start begging Silas for help, he decides to reach into Braxton’s innards and expose its rotten guts to the world—as long as the school doesn’t break him first.

Setting: Victorian London, 1883

Horror, historical fiction, gothic, fantasy, paranormal, Victorian, 1880s, young adult

Heart of Stone by Johannes T. Evans

Endorsement from submitter: "Historical fantasy romance featuring a charming vampire and his (human) and very proper male secretary. The best kind of yearning!"

The year is 1764, and following a glowing recommendation from his last employer, Henry Coffey, vampire, takes on a new personal secretary: young Theophilus Essex.

The man is quite unlike any secretary—or any man, for that matter—that Henry has ever met.

'Heart of Stone' is a slowly unfolding period romance between a vampire and his inimitably devoted clerk: lushly depicted in flowing, lovingly appended prose, we follow the slow understanding these two men grasp of one another, and the cross of their two worlds into each other's.

Henry Coffey, immortal and ever-oscillating between periods of delighted focus upon his current passion project, is charming, witty, and seems utterly incapable of closing his mouth for more than a few moments; in contrast, Theophilus Essex is quiet and keenly focused, adopting an ever-flat affect, but as time goes on, he relaxes in his employer's presence.

Craving resounding intimacy but with an ever aware of the polite boundaries for their situation, Coffey and Essex perform a slow dance as they grow closer to one another, and find themselves entangled.

Setting: Birmingham, England, 1764

Historical fiction, romance, fantasy, paranormal, slice of life, 1760s, adult

[batfambrainrotbeloved]

People so often obsess over their grief of Jason- the double vision looking at someone that never left and yet is completely gone

They forget he's mourning himself

[leafyeyes417]

Delivery

Danny really didn’t like the bowing and formality of being the Ghost King. Yes he had a lot of power but as long as you were decent he didn’t feel the need to exercise it. So Danny decided to disguise himself. His choice, a messenger.

He used to have only two forms, his human side and ghost side. Now he has four. A Royal form and his messenger form. His normal ghost form could now could be considered his comfy form, which he uses when he’s just hanging as friends.

Anyway what started the whole messenger thing was when he found out there was an entire room full of paperwork just relating to one guy. Like good for him in his Soul Evasion but not for the poor Ghost King. So he decided to return to sender.

Once in disguise (Thank you minor shapeshifting), he used a portal to get to the guys vicinity. Which happened to be in the middle of a Justice League meeting. Great. Okay Danny you got the bored look down, just do your supposed job.

“I’m looking for a…” he checks a clipboard he pulled out of nowhere. “John Constantine.”

He hears a curse to his left and glances over. Yep that’s the guy. Someone asks, “Why are you looking for him?”

Danny smiles blandly. “I need to deliver a package. It is quite large though so I will need a…” He glances at the clipboard again. “12 by 24 by 30 foot room to place it in.”

Constantine blinks confused. “But I didn’t order anything? Especially not from one of your kind.”

Danny nodded. “Yes this is a late return order I’m afraid. We finally got through some of the back log.”

Perturbed Constantine agreed and Danny was led to a place in the Watchtower after getting a signature for confirmation of delivery. Checking that the measurements were correct, Danny opened the portal and with a whomp the piles of paperwork landed in the room. Impressively none of the towers of paper toppled over, only swaying a little.

The heroes that had followed out of curiosity gaped. Constantine sputtered out a, “What the ‘ell is all this?!”

Danny gave a toothy smile. “This? This is all paperwork tied to you. The Ghost King decided that if you wanted to create so much paperwork then you can be the one to fill it out.” Ripping open another portal Danny waved and said his goodbyes. “Well my job is done. Bye!”

Once back in his keep he couldn’t keep himself from breaking out into laughter. It was so worth it to play messenger boy for that.

Later (not really a connected scene but had to share):

Danny floated into one of the Demon Princes receiving rooms. Constantine had gone through some of the paperwork and he needed to deliver the finished copies. Turns out being a messenger gave him a lot of wiggle room in going to new locations.

As Ghost King he would need to ask permission, get a bunch of gifts, etc etc. Messengers just needed a ‘hey I’m neutral and temporarily entering your territory’ and as long as Danny stayed out of restricted areas he had basically free rein.

Upon getting the sigil of confirmation from the Demon Prince he handed him the papers. The Demon frowned as he started reading and then snarled. “What is this?! That human’s soul was mine so why do I suddenly not have full claim?”

Danny shrugged. “I’m just the messenger but at a guess, the guy took advantage of the fact the bureaucracy was back logged and got some more deals. Heard the Ghost King is having him work through his own paperwork as punishment for making so much.”

Snarling and grumbling, the Demon shooed him away. He smirked. It was fun to see everyone react upon receiving bad news.

[kismetlotts]

call of duty p-links -`◇´-

♡︎ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴅᴏᴠᴇ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴀᴛ ♡︎

18/21+, MDNI, mature themes

triggering, upsetting and explicit content below

proceed at your own risk ⬏

Simon Ghost Riley

Riding Colleague Simon Riley and watching his cold, harsh exterior shatter, revealing this broken, needy man beneath who almost submits to tears when you finally lock eyes.

Ex boyfriend Simon Riley who spits on his fingers and stuff them inside you when you beg-plead him to stop stalking you and raping you.

Boyfriend Simon Riley who drags you into a random room at a gathering before fucking you hard and trying to stay quiet, he doesn't care that people are in the other room, he doesn't care that someone could walk in because he needed you there and then.

Hopping into the bath with your roommate Simon because you were way too impatient, you needed him inside you desperately- he can just wash his grimy, sweaty, work-orientated body later.

Taxi Driver Simon Riley who cant help but give in to his sick desires as he hops in the back to fuck you, ripping off that skimpy little dress you were wearing and pulling your hair.

Heartbroken best friend Simon who fucks you in the kitchen after sleeping over your house, relieving some of his post break-up blues and stress with the help of your sloppy tight cunt.

Toxic boyfriend Simon who fucks his cock into your mouth when you wouldn't let him in your pussy, making your eyes water and your body twitch in regret.

Sex deprived Husband Simon who breeds you the moment he returns home, he had been loyal to you while away on deployment and he just couldn't contain himself when he finally had the chance to bury himself in your wet gooeyness.

Toxic Boyfriend Simon who fucks you hard to let off all of his steam, spanking, slapping and hitting your body because he was fucking pissed at you and nothing else could calm him down- you deserved it anyway you fucking whore.

Captain John Price

Boss Price who calls you into his office for some steamy cunnilingus when everyone is packing up ready to go home, lapping his teeth around your clit and diving his wet tongue into your greedy hole- let him have a taste, its the least you can do for your boss.

Birthday-boy boyfriend John who walks into the bedroom to see you all wrapped and tied for him, completely at his mercy in white material-prepped and ready for him to use or disrespect.

Stepdad Price stuffing your hole and leashing you up while your mother is away with work, treating you like some stupid fucking bitch and forcing you to do exactly what he tells you since he is in charge and you abide by his rules.

Older boyfriend John who proposes that the two of you start by doing mutual masturbation, he didn't want to scare his young pretty girl off just yet with how rough he can be and his fingers were already itching to feel the inside of your fresh pussy.

Husband Price who fucks you deeper when you beg for it, pounding into you so hard his eyes are shining with pleasure and legs are aching in tiredness, feeling your wetness drip out and coat his dick filling the room with your heavenly squelches- so wet and so fucking feminine.

Friends with benefits John Price who fucking loves watching your arse shake and jiggle with every thrust, he loved your arse in general and was always happy to bite, eat, fuck, taste and finger it- but nothing beats the tasty sight of your cheeks swaying beneath him as he absolutely wrecks you.

Dads best friend Price who fucks you like an animal in heat, if you had taken a second longer to undress your clothes would be ripped to shreds ad hanging off you with how badly he couldn't wait-he didn't even give a shit your heels were still on because he had waited a lifetime to get inside you.

Toxic Husband John who drags you over his lap and toys with you for his own pleasure, smirking to himself when you cry from his spanks and whimper from his fingers- giving his sweet baby a little treat and punishment at the same time because he couldn't understand which one he liked more.

Step dad Price who is way to desperate for you to cum on his fingers, soak his hand in your cum and just to let yourself go, be taken care of and protected by an older male- who cares if it is wrong or not- he just wants his darling daughter to be happy and calm.

Johnny Soap Mactavish

Stalker Johnny who rearranges your guts fast and hard against your bed as soon as he gets his chance, meaty thick cock ramming its way inside with no care as he shamelessly blabbers on how you are his sweet little dove and that he thanks god for giving him this opportunity- you'll never know how badly he actually wanted his hands on you.

Greedy Hook-up Mactavish who makes you squirt just so it feels better for him, your folds leaking and dribbling with your essence but Johnny only cared about the warmth coating and lubricating his tip, making you so sodden it seemed he was sliding into warm, soft, melted, butter.

Best friend Johnny who proves you wrong when you assume hes lying about being able to make any girl cum by just his fingers, dragging you onto his bed and fingering you steadily, mouth salivating in thirst as he watches your cum propel outwards and squirt all over his sheets.

Perverted Boyfriend Johnny who cant stop himself from sucking harshly on your nipples, mind already engrossed with sick fantasies of drinking your milk, you cupping him in your arms and feeding him gently like the good boy he is for you- you'd never find out though, to you he was just teasing your breasts, sucking, pinching and having a little fun, totally normal.

Step Brother Mactavish who fucks you in his room late at night, the pints he'd had previously making him increasingly more open and confident than usual, his tip hitting the spot you craved it to his gaining a small little spank from you and a whisper to keep quiet- you cant let mummy and daddy hear the two of you.

Childhood Best Friend Johnny who fucks you so hard you squirt all over yourself and him, finally seeing him after so many years and letting him fuck your ass had gotten you so excited you couldn't hold yourself back- Johnny wasn't fucking complaining each squirt that shot out of you made him almost cum- fucking your tight hole on the brink of orgasm, he never would've guessed you were capable of that.

Perverted neighbour Johnny who invites himself in to show you just how trained his tongue is, guiding it all over your thighs and pussy, working you easily and calmly it has your eyes watering in delight.

Simons best friend Johnny who fucks you in Simons bedsheets, thick dick filling you up more than his ever could until your left a collapsed mess in ecstasy, the scent of your boyfriend on the duvet and the groans coming from his best mate sent guilt straight to your stomach but it was already overwritten by pleasure- Disgusting fucking tramp sleeping with other guys and enjoying it.

Kyle Gaz Garrick

Boyfriend Kyle who just wants to feel your soft lips on his monster cock, he would never force you to do anything you didn't want to do and it would be silly to ask you to suck him- but could you please at least spit over the tip or maybe just lick it a little?

Roommate Gaz who cant survive the day without a morning quickie, your arse bouncing right in front of him and hole lustfully swallowing his juicy dick gets him in the perfect mindset for his hard work, morning television roaring in the background as you both chase your orgasms- you don't mind, do you?

Boyfriend Kyle who fucks you as fast as he can the second he hears 'faster' spew from your glossy lips, his stamina and pace unmatchable and sometimes you feel like you're about to explode with how powerful he is, Kyles a sweetheart but he isn't always so soft, slow and romantic- the man can fuck like a king.

Husband Kyle who has an obsession with filling your stomach with his massive cock, seeing the thick outline of himself through your skin deep in your stomach stirred something up inside him, fucking you harder and harder sometimes you bleed from his accidental roughness, it set him alight watching it bulge- made his savage side snap into action.

Konig

Obsessive stalker Konig who watches your window as you shower and finally builds up enough courage to join and fuck you in it one day, picking you up from behind and slipping inside your warm homey hole, drool falling from his mouth and onto your shoulder as you cried, he didn't understand why you were so adamant for him to get off of you and stop making love to you, it was no big deal- if he made you dirty and sweaty again he will just help you wash again.

Step Brother Konig who rapes you while you sleep and accidentally creampies your hole once you wake up and whimper, he didn't mean to cum honestly, he whispers apologies and a long string of worried 'fucks' as he pulls apart your cheeks watching his semen leak out of you- please don't be angry at him.

Boyfriend Konig who makes sure to use three or four of his fingers to stretch you out and prepare you for his cock, its just that big- he will kiss you on the cheek, licking away your salty tears of pain while he fucks his fingers until you, it is only a matter of time until you grow accustomed to the feeling- it will only hurt for a little more you just have to trust him.

Perverted Boyfriend Konig who fucking loses it when he sees you in your cute innocent frilly little panties, not being able to hold back his groans and his cum as he absolutely saturated them, painting them white- it is okay though, he promises to buy you a new pair- only if you let him keep these used ones- for personal reasons of course.

Brothers best friend Konig who selfishly ruts against your clothed pussy at night, breathing heavily and shaking as his precum soaks through the cotton of your panties, the room pitch black from the darkness aside from your lamp and he was supposed to be sleeping next door on the floor with your brother but here he was- sick look in his pleasure-ridden eyes as he looks down at you- whispering for you to just go back to sleep- he promises he wont go inside.

Philip Graves

Boss Graves who spanks your ass repeatedly when you disobey his orders, you work for him and you do exactly what he fucking says- there should be no 'Why's or 'No's it is 'Yes Sir' or else you are staying behind at the end of the day, and trust him when he says he will not be letting you leave until he is satisfied that you have learnt your lesson.

Toxic Boyfriend Philip who honestly does not give a fuck if you are tired or not, he will touch you, eat you, fuck you and rape you if he has to because to be in a relationship with him is an honour that you are taking for granted- he will treat you however he wants- at the end of the day your just a piece of pussy.

Boyfriend Philip who loves your perfect little nipples, he loves squeezing them, pinching them- sucking, biting- you name it and he loves it, he loves when you were silly little tank tops around the house that shows them pointing through and he loves when you let him cum on them- the minute he come face to face with your breasts and nipples, its like the world melts away.

Manipulative, Insane Boss Graves who hates when you crawl away from him and his hard cock- you know you want it, he can see it in your big doe eyes, its fuels him with rage when you cry and threaten to report him if he puts it inside you so he threatens your job back, promising you that if you ever told anyone or reported him that he would come for you and no matter how fast you tried to escape that he would always outrun you.

Husband Graves who upsets you during an argument so he decides to tug your panties down and fuck you in all the ways you love just before bed, his breath hot on your neck and sweat forming under both of your pyjamas from how fast his cock was entering you- the music of your panting and the scent of sex in the air made it safe to say neither of you got much sleep but at least he is back in your good books.

[damselneedssaving]

「 KISS ME THROUGH THE PHONE 」

OLDER!CLINGY!DAMIAN WAYNE X F!READER

★ SYNOPSIS: Unable to be apart from you for long, Damian chooses to call you while on patrol—and when that isn't enough to satiate his aching heart, he swings by your window to wish you a good night in person, and maybe a bit more.

★ TAGS: damian is 18+, suggestive content, longing/yearning, fluff, it physically hurts damian to be without you

★ A/N: inspired by 'kiss me thru the phone' by soulja boy, more longing/yearning Dami because no one can convince me that man is not a complete romantic who feels like his chest is being ripped out whenever his beloved isn't next to him 🥰

line divider by @cafekitsune

"I miss you," Damian's voice calls from the other side of the phone, tone so sincere, so loving, that you can feel it in the warmth of the moonlight spilling into your room.

Your lips curve up, eyes melting as you stare out your window like he's right there, stood at your fire escape just waiting to be let in. "You've said that five times already, Dami."

"And I'll say it five more: I miss you, Habibti."

The smile on your face grows without your permission, and your finger practically has a mind of its own when it moves to the sill of your window, tracing little hearts on the surface like some sort of lovesick schoolgirl.

He's always known how to reduce you to one.

"Isn't your dad with you? I thought he doesn't allow calls to partners on patrol."

You can practically hear the eye roll in his voice. "Tt. That man wouldn't know true love if it hit him over the head with a frying pan."

His words make you perk up, slumped over form suddenly upright with life and light and all the stars twinkling in the sky of the night as you exclaim, excitement seeping into your tone, "You watched Tangled!"

"Of course," he replies, firm but soft, like it's obvious, but without all the derision that usually comes with that. "You asked it of me."

His words are simple, but they're kind, sweet, like the candy floss he bought you on your date the other day—and just like how it's flaky strings melted on your tongue, you, too, melt on the spot.

"Dami..."

It's all you can say, his name all you've ever known, and all that you wish to know, as you stand there, under the rays of the moonlight, eyes closed and mind swarmed with the ghost of his touch.

"I miss you, Habibti."

You miss him too.

But your eyes open, crinkling further at the corners as your gaze drifts down and you whine out with all the fluster of a girl embarrassed by her man, "Dami..."

"Hm?" a smile speaks through his tone.

You kick the air. "Stop that..."

"Stop what?"

"Saying that..."

His chuckle sounds from the other side of the screen, hot enough to warm your insides.

"Saying what? That I miss you?" he asks, though you know that he knows the answer to his question, going on to then say, "Would you prefer I tell you how cold the night is without you by my side? Or how it feels like there's a hole in my chest as I jump under the starry sky?"

"Dami..."

"It's true."

"No"—you shake your head, turning away from your window with one arm crossed over your chest and a smile upturned on your lips—"I mean—I miss you too..."

The line goes quiet. Too quiet.

"Dami?"

No response.

"Damian?"

Still, nothing.

Your teeth graze your lip, biting down on it by the smallest hair as you feel your insides turn into ice, fingers readjusting themselves around your phone.

The silence is loud—

—until it isn't.

Like glass, it's shattered through by the sound of tapping, and when you turn, heart in your throat, you all but melt at the sight that greets you.

There, with one hand holding his phone up to his ear, and the other tapping its fingers against your window, is the love of your life.

Relief washes over you like a wave, drenching your form until your shoulders fall from its weight and you're left floating step-by-step towards your suited-up boyfriend.

Under the whites of his mask, his eyes hide, unreadable, but they don't need to be, you know by the fall of his shoulders and the slight smile on his face that he's just as eager to see you as you are to see him.

Splaying your hand over where his rests on the glass, you give yourself a moment to take him in, to calm the swell of your heart as you feel the way he stares at you like you're the only one in the world.

A beat passes with the two of you just staring at each other through the glass.

For a moment. All is right. All is warm. All is sound.

And then your heart cries out, and you find yourself lifting your window not a moment after.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, breathless, disbelieving.

"You said you missed me."

Then he adds, without even opening his mouth:

'So here I am.'

Your eyes crinkle for the umpteenth time, and he wastes no longer to perch himself on your windowsill and reach for your hands with his own gloved ones.

"Damian, you have to patrol."

He rolls his eyes, smile still on his lips. "The streets are safe enough in the hands of Batman alone." Then, his eyes crinkle. "I'd rather be here with you."

Warmth swells in your heart, and you almost can't help the way you lunge forward, wrenching your hands from his grip to instead, throw your arms around his neck and bury yourself in his chest, smile a little too wide against his suit.

The position is a little awkward, but it still feels right, natural, when he winds his arms around your back, and the warmth of him bleeds into your form.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, Habibti."

Raising your head from his chest, you usher him in, and it's only then that his eyes wander, head tilting down a little in that familiar way it does when he's taking you in.

And as you take a step towards your bed, as you move to lead him further into your room, your body is abruptly halted, wrist in his grasp, before you're yanked with a firm tug straight back into his chest.

A smirk tugs at his lips.

"Habibti," he whispers, smug, like the word is a secret shared between just the two of you, his head dipping until his nose brushes your own. "Do you always wear such attire to bed?"

Your eyes widen, breath hitching in your throat as his gloved fingers start to play with the hem of your shirt.

"Perhaps you knew I wouldn't be able to resist visiting, and wore such clothing on purpose?"

His teasing runs hot and heavy on your ears, and he pulls you closer by the waist before you can even think of turning your gaze away.

"In that case, you wouldn't mind if I were to indulge, would you?"

[soulsforsales]

"I love you. I'm sorry."

Jason didn't mean to say it. Not like this. Not now. Not when he's buried deep inside you, holding you like this might be the last time he gets to.

But it happened when he wasn't thinking - just feeling.

You don't even notice it at first. You are lost in the rhythm, the warmth, the way he looks at you like you're the only good thing he's seen all his life.

You don't notice how his hands tremble, how his breath catches every time you sigh his name, when you moan it into his mouth.

He's not rough. Not tonight. He's soft, taking his time, like he's trying to memorize the feel of having you against him.

Jason is all calloused hands and desperate lips, tracing every curve and dip of your body he can reach, worshipping you in ways you didn't think were possible.

When he finally lets go, he trembles, both from exertion and emotion. He's buried in you, breaths coming in stutters because the feeling in his chest has nothing to do with the pleasure he felt. Because it's too much and not enough all at once.

Your eyes are closed, lips parted, and to Jason, you're poetry incarnate. You're someone who sees him, without the mask, without the guns, and you stay.

You see the broken boy who carries too many ghosts, and you still stay.

The feeling in his chest is unconscionable, and then, it slips. Soft, quiet, like someone ripped it out of him.

"God, I love you."

Jason freezes the second it's said, eyes wide, and you feel the panic in the way his body tenses. Like, he could reverse time with sheer will. Like, he wants to pull it back into his throat, but it's too late.

His truth is out there now, raw and naked.

You blink at him, dazed, a little breathless beneath him and his stomach tightens.

"Forget it," he says, voice sharp, not cold. But you can sense the fear underneath.

You know. You always do.

He tries to pull away. Tries to pretend like he didn’t just shatter himself open.

But you grab his face with both hands and force him to look at you.

"Jason," your voice is soft, but it makes him flinch.

Like, he's bracing for another person to tell him there's no love.

Like, he's waiting for you to laugh at him.

Like, he's waiting for you to see him the same way he sees himself.

But you smile. Warm, real, knowing, and it kills him.

"Say it again," you whisper, pressing his forehead to yours.

Jason shakes his head because saying it again makes it real; it means giving meaning to the storm of feelings inside him.

"I can't -"

"Yes, you can."

Your fingers slip into his hair, thumbs brushing the edge of the mask he wears even when it's not on his face.

Your expression softens when you look into his eyes. Scared, shining with tears, and carrying many more emotions than he thought he was capable of.

"Say it again, Jay."

He closes his eyes, and his walls crumble.

"I love you," His voice breaks at the words, and he's barely holding on but the last thing he wants to do is sob into your neck like the pathetic, scared boy he is.

But he also knows that you'll let him, that you'll hold him, and tell him it's okay.

And that terrifies him. Because you treat him like he's worth all the demons he brings along.

You're everything Jason convinced himself he would never deserve.

Jason inhales, blinks away the tears in his eyes, and then; lets go.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

He buries his face in the curve of your neck and you hold him there.

He repeats the three words like they've been circling inside his chest since he met you (Spoiler: they are).

He says them like it physically hurts not to.

And then, after a few quiet moments, his face still hidden against your skin.

"I didn't mean to say it like that," his voice is soft, slightly shaky, like he's trying not to cry, "not like this. Not until I knew... you felt it too."

You laugh at that, "Of course I do, you idiot."

Jason pulls back at that, a ghost of a smile on his face, and presses his forehead to yours again.

"I love you, Jason."

His smile widens and he closes his eyes like he wants the words to seep into his bones, like he wants to carry them in his heart.

Because he never thought he'd hear them. Not like this, not from someone who truly means it.

"I'd die for you. Again."

He says the words, and suddenly your heart feels too big for your chest.

"I know, but I want you to live for me."

Jason nods and exhales like he's never breathed before. Like nothing made sense until this moment.

Like he could live here forever, and it still won't be enough.

After, he holds you all night. He falls asleep with his arm thrown around your waist and his nose pressed against your collarbone.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

[k6tzie]

COD P☆RN LINKS

ghost: your clingy boyfriend just wants to be closer to you, he wants to be inside you. literallysuch a sweet boy with mommy issues, just wanting to be taken care of :( doesn't wanna commit yet and go the full way... stop being so clingy! he was trying to do some paperwork :/ so incredibly jealous ghost coded surprising you when he comes back home but you have a meal for him prepared :) soap: don't even need to take your panties off fully, just push them aside!< pretty red tights are getting ripped off tonight 😊 whilst soap fucks u hard and merciless, ghosts fat cock is throbbing in ur mouth :( he can't stay away from ur pretty lips gaz: he likes recording your puffy pussy when you cum like your own paparazzi! don't worry, he'll lick it up afterwards his pretty cowgirl riding that dick like she owns it 😵 late night after the whole teams' at the bar, you 2 sneak back to his car... staying in a tent for a mission...this close...is never a good idea price: price stuffing his thick dick in you after you 'joked' about breaking up :(he's gonna be deployed for awhile, why not make the most of it? he DID promise good aftercare, don't blame him halloween mission gone wrong! :( your weight is no match for him alejandro: average alejandro camera roll smh he loves seeing u wet all over, and a mark on how much he's done titty man :) sleepover at ale's barrack after dinner rudy: he missed feeling you, so soft and plushy - better than a pillow <3he was too shy to say anything so thank god you removed it typa shit rudy's on pussy so soft and healthy eating that puffy pussy like it's the last supper

[tojisteddy]

Daddy issues | “and if you were my little girl, I’d do whatever I could do…”

cw: 18+ MDNI, 4.1k words (omfg), smut with plot, meanie!simon (he’s a crazy, asshole), Daddy kink, daddy issues (obvi), dd/lg dynamics, mentions of abuse, sexualization of ‘pa, kiddo’ (truly a case of if you hate it just scroll), oral (f receiving), dacryphilia, creampie, full nelson, age gap (reader mid-late 20s, Simon early-mid 30s), no use of y/n (I use [+]).

a/n: obviously influenced by daddy issues by the neighborhood (I know it’s not about this at all, take it up with god), also by take you down by sza :3

You weren’t used to being this needy in your entire life.

You swore you didn’t need anyone, let alone Ghost Riley. You’d been repetitively normal in all your past relationships.

But he’d run through your mind like the Flash going back in time— the older man ruined some of the circuits in your brain.

You’d two gotten into an argument, shocker, but this time over how you were acting. The usually chilled out girl who Ghost would call when he wanted to see his little kitten purr, was now desperate for every little bit of his attention. The blonde despised every bit of it.

“You’re bein fuckin greedy.” He told you, walking away from where you stood after you told you’d wanted to stay over again for another week. Of course, you easily followed right behind, attempting to match his long stride. You never could.

“By wanting to be with you? Aren’t boyfriends supposed to want to see their girlfriends? Supposed to spend time together? There are probably a million girls and guys with sweet boyfriends—“

“—Do I look like one of those buddy buddy, pretty boys you like to fuck to you, [+]?” He turned on his heal, luckily you didn’t crash into his chest like you usually did. His voice was ice cold, “Answer me.”

“No sir.” You mumbled, the air was thick, tightly wrapping around your vocal cords.

“Then why the hell are you bein so damn needy? I told you, I won’t give you all my attention. I’ve got my own shit to take care of and you want me to, what? Hold you on my fuckin hip like a baby?” Well, hey— “Stop bein a damn brat and get the fuck out my face.”

“ ‘M not askin you to take care of me Si, but, I just want-“

“—Cut the shit [+]. You’re pissin me off, why can’t you just fuckin listen? I hate the clingy, desperate shit, get it out of your damn head and get it out of my fuckin house.” He stormed off into one of the bedrooms with a slam of the door.

Simon never had to tell you when he was kicking you out. You’d always go on your own.

He swore if he saw you and you were still stuck on the idea that you had to cling to him, he was gonna rip you a new one.

Did you take him serious?

On a good day, never.

You’d be stuck thinking about how good he looked, blonde hair a mess, veins popping out his neck and his arms, large muscles flexing, face screwed up towards you— you’d lick up all the poison he’d spewed to you over and over. It’s funny, at times like that you’d just wanted to know, if he’d fuck all his anger into you? Maybe you’d cum so many times just from finger fucking you, you’d be a babbling mess, begging for more—

Delusional.

Maybe when he was actually angry with you, not when Ghost was aggravated to the point he didnt want to physically see you.

And at the absolute worst of times, you’d trusted his words. You stayed away for a couple weeks just as you were told because you so desperately wanted to be told how good you were when you got that call. How you weren’t a needy bitch, but the prettiest & smartest girl he’d ever been with.

And of course you could’ve heard those simple words from anyone in a ten mile radius, ask your online followers for a few complements and you would’ve gotten them like clockwork. But you needed to hear it from that meanie.

Did you have a praise kink? Perhaps.

Did you need men’s approval to live? God forbid.

You just wanted Ghosts approval. His rough hands from those long days of being in action to touch your body, the playful head pats you swore you hated it cause it messed up your hair, a good smack to the ass as praise when he instructed you on how to change a car tire, fat fingers trailing your back as you sat in his lap, reading those books you loved a loud. Gruff voice praising after you had such an amazing day at work— as if you’d been the one to align everything so it could all work in your favor. ‘Good job doll, you’re doin well for yourself.”

Those underlying daddy issues would tear themselves out of you— like some junkie, you craved to hear his praises, feel it on your skin. It tingled the ivory inside you like a piano.

You tried taking your mind off it, throwing yourself into work, hanging out with your friends, doing a stream or two just to see if anyone showed up, get your mind straight so you wouldn’t be so dependent.

But giving a stray attention then yanking it away would be plain rude.

Your brain was in turmoil, front of your brain started to thunk, thunk, thunk from how much you were over thinking. To top it off, your father had called you just as you’d gotten done having lunch with some friends.

It’d be a long fucking night.

“No, I'm not moving back to the US just so I can be married off to someone stranger. Are you crazy?” You practically shrieked once you’d heard your stupid father on the other side of the call. No ‘hello,’ ‘how are you?’ ‘It’s been a while’ just straight bullshit.

Something about an arranged marriage with the son of a businessman he was trying to partner with. You wanted to punch him square in his jaw— ooooh calm down. You were okay. It’s perfectly fine.

“It’s for the betterment of your future, [+]. Why am I the only one who cares about that? You can’t go playing around with dogs all day—“

“I have serious clients dad, famous ones. Rich one’s. I’m not grooming dogs for nothing, even talked about opening my own place.” You tried. It was your dream, something not even your boss knew about. But Simon knew, in fact, he was the one who pushed you the most about really chasing after what you wanted. He had the most faith in you, and you yearned to hear him reassure you right now. Even if it was just him saying, ‘dont let those cunts get in your head, you’re my smart girl, aren’t ya? You know best.’

You would’ve killed to hear that right now.

Your father chastised, “A little grooming license isn’t a bachelors degree, is it?”

Oh. You blinked. He always had to take it there when he couldn’t get his way, because everything needed to go your father’s way or no one could be happy. You wiped your hand over your face in frustration, huffing as you continued on to your apartment, tuning out whatever the man was saying with ‘mmhm’.

Like a knight in shining armor but the opposing enemy, there the skull mask wearing man sat in his big black truck right in front of your apartment building. Simon didn’t even have to say anything when he caught your brown eyes, just motioned his head. ‘Come.’

Did he have to tell you twice?

You climbed in the car, heart pounding, not even listening to the words that were coming from the other side of the line because someone ten times more important had showed up.

“Where’ve you been?” He’d filled the cars silence in a hushed tone. Just enough so you could hear but your father couldn’t.

You fumbled around with your purse, looking at anything you could but the man beside you, “…You told me not to come over.”

“And you actually listened?” Simon griminced, eyebrow raised at you as he continued to drive.

Because usually, you’d show up even if you were the one who was mad. Ignoring him like he did you, even if you two were in the same space but you were still together. He’d still pull you in his arms, rubbing his head in the crevice of your neck because you were so damn cute with those eyebrows furrowed and pout.

“I didn’t wanna make you more upset this time.” You wanted to hide yourself but that truck left no room for it.

Well that didn’t work, did it? It just made him more annoyed. To the point Price had to tell him to ease up on the lower ranked soldiers during training. Even if he did push you away, you were a boomerang, always finding your way back to the older brute— a constant. You were a stray cat that would brush into Simon each time he gave you a little attention, a little food, a little love. And he liked it, his cute little thing that would ease his mind from everything even if you were a little annoying. Something to care for.

Like, a puppy? A kitten? No, more. Girlfriend? Of course. A step down to hell. His baby girl. His baby—

Before Simon could get another word out, the rambling from your phone the both of you were ignoring turned into yelling. His hand gripped the wheel with a scuff. Simon hated your father to say the very least, an annoying, prude that man was. He had a nasty habit of calling you and spewing utter bullshit in your ear, critiquing every little one of your life choices even though he didn’t raise you, didn’t pay for anything— he was just another entitled sperm donor. Simon had to tell you to hang up different times because he couldn’t stand someone talking to you like that.

It took Simon back to his own father, that abusive, psychopathic prick. Didn’t know what the hell he was doing with him and his younger brother, fucker always was on ballistic shit. Throwing things against the wall, putting his hands on anyone in that God forsaken house that breathed wrong, drinking non stop and the goddamn yelling. He didn’t want that for you— didn’t want to end up like that bastard. Simon cared about you too much, he wouldn’t let that happen. So in his fucked up way of caring, he’d push you away. Saying anything that came to mind, only meaning 61% what he actually said.

But that proved to be a new dead end.

Which led to a new resolution: he’d fix whatever issue went on in his head and keep you if it meant not having to see you very clearly, shut yourself down to cope or having to hear your annoying father talking down on you like an imbecile.

Ghost’s own head was reeling— he would never let anyone talk to you like you were an idiot. Couldn’t even imagine it. Yes, you were a little agitating, a little fucking dumb— but that was fixable. Nothing Daddy couldn’t fix. And if you trip and fall on your mistakes, the older man was right there to catch you. He’d refix your problems a thousand times over if he had to, why? Because he adored you to pieces.

But you weren’t an idiot, you can’t fix inherent incompetence.

His princess wasn’t incompetent.

That’s why every fuckin time you were on the phone with your father, which was already rare, he wanted to shove his booted foot right the man’s ass. Sew his asshole shut and keep feeding him, and feeding him, and feeding him. Water board the guy and show everyone how he was the fuckin embarrassment and not his sweet precious daughter—

Simon would try to hold whatever anger was festering this time because you, for your mothers sake, were trying to fix the relationship you didn’t break.

He was off the rocker, yes, but he’d get the shit together. Quick. Somehow. For you.

Be good, good, be good, be good—

“—And I bet you’re still fucking around with that ass aren’t you, [+]? You can be such a fucking idiot, it’s time to grow the hell up-“

You weren’t a fucking idiot. Never. If Simon didn’t call you that, what made anyone think they had the right to?

He didn’t hesitate to snatch the phone out of your hands, “—Are you out of your fuckin mind!?”

His voice boomed, filling the car, not even your father was talking anymore. The only sound that could be heard was the engine and the tires rolling on the pavement.

“Ya don’t say shit to your own kid for a decade but now you think you can run her life because you got some money in your pocket? Money you haven’t even spent a single pound on her—“ there was a quick muffled noise from the other side of the phone but Ghost was faster, “I’m disrespectful!? I wish I gave a shit about what you think of me or what I’m doin with your fuckin daughter. She’s with me for good reason.”

“—The next time you call you’d better have one foot in the grave or I’m gonna find you and make sure you do my fuckin self.” The blonde pressed the red button on the screen, a few more taps to block the man who, the blonde man had decided, wouldn’t be in your life.

After putting your phone in your lap, his hand immediately went to the back of your neck and letting out a deep breath, rubbing the baby hairs with his thumb. Soothing you. You saw Simon mouth move but you didn’t hear what came out of it. It was like your ears were shot just for a second, your heart beating loudly, you had wrapped yourself in a daze whenever you’d talk to your father and this had to be the first time someone not only yanked you out of it, but fully and undoubtedly protected you.

“Kid.” he barked, more profound.

Your big brown eyes snapped over to him, your brain finally catching up to what was happening in the moment.

“You’re okay, ‘s okay. I’ve got you, gonna take care ‘f you. Promise. You want that? Want me to take care of you, hm baby?” His voice was so soft, inviting, pulling you into whatever he’d had set for you in his mind.

How could you say no, when all you ever wanted was to be Simons?

“Yes sir.”

Famous last words.

Like you’d ignited a flame, his brown eyes flickered with mischief.

Ghost, the usual menace, rough man was being cloying with you.

Leaving gentle kisses all over as he made his was down to the heat in the middle of your legs. Big hands roaming the rest of your body as he slid your black, wet, underwear off, throwing your legs over his shoulders and giving a nice smooch to your cunt.

“So fuckin pretty baby, ‘s all for me?” His tongue slide up and down your vulva.

“Y-Yeah,” you said breathlessly, eyes fluttering shut as Ghost lapped up every juice that was coming out of you.

The older man scuffed, slipping a finger inside your tight walls and slowly thrusting them. “ ‘yeah’? That’s all you gotta say? Don’t be stubborn with me doll, wanna be nice to you today.”

You felt a pinch to your thigh, a warning, “keep those pretty eyes on me swee’art, need you focused on me.”

Your head tilted itself to the side, nodding your head and biting your lip to contain your moan but it’s barely doing anything as you watch Simon slip another fat finger into you, pumping his fingers faster and finally going up to your clit, taking a little nibble of it and then talking it in his mouth.

“Fu- mmm- fuuuck- wait- Si- I- can I cum? Please? Can I?” You whimpered, peeking down at the brown eyes that were stuck on you. Ghost was smirking, almost enough to get a laugh out of him.

“Course baby, bein so good. Can cum as much as you want today.” His fingers curled just right at the perfect spot inside you and your walls flutter around his fingers. But he’s not stopping, course he’s not, the man has to get a good taste of you, get you cumming with his fingers, without his fingers, without sucking your clit— he sucking out every drop that leaves your cunt.

Ghost was taking his sweet time, as if you didn’t need him inside you desperately. You were aching for more after cumming a fourth time, bucking your hips only for Ghost to press down on them to keep you still.

He pulled his mouth away from you, face covered in your slick, “Jesus baby, cut it out, will you? Thought you wanted Daddy to take care of you?”

“D-do, I do. It’s just- just-“

“Don’t tell me you’re not used to it.” His ends of his lips turned up into a smirk, teasing, fingers rubbing your clit just enough to keep you wanting more yet slow enough to keep your attention only on him.

No. No you weren’t. He’d known that.

Simon usually manhandled you every which way and any position he wanted you in. Edging you as much as he wanted then giving it to you deep and leaving you breathless at every moment. And it’s not like you hated it, you loved every second of it. But this- this situation made your brain melt.

The older man just looooved that.

“Give me another, let me feel it.” His hands went to grope your tits, squeezing and pulling at them as he rubbed his face further into your pussy, completely devouring you whole. The blonde slid his long tongue back inside your hole, thrusting it just right. The man groaned as you pulsed around him, somehow getting sweeter as you fell apart.

He kept touching all over you, the curve your breasts, the peak of your nipples, the dips in your hips and thighs— ever so softly. As if he was revisiting a map he’d known like the back of his hand, making sure he knew every nook and cranny of you, the cause of every twitch, shake, and moan, the reason slick kept flowing down onto his tongue.

Why?

Well a good Daddy just had to know his baby well, shouldn’t he?

You should’ve known, there was no way Simon would ever be nice and go easy on you the whole time he was fucking you. But you were being silly, fantasizing about him slipping inside you and being gentle.

Your mistake for thinking a man so large in size, so brutal with words, with the biggest and fattest dick you’ve ever seen in your life would ever treat your poor pussy kindly :(. You always looked so perfect when he had you crying, so easy to bully, Ghost just couldn’t help himself.

“Si- Simon!” You yelped out, as he finally bottomed out inside your pink walls that were gonna chop his manhood off. He’d had you stuck in an inescapable full nelson, legs spread wide open and beefy arms hooked under knees, forcing your head down to look at the disappearing act of the century happening with his cock and your cunt.

“Look at the fuckin mess you’re makin kiddo, gonna get my thighs wet at this rate.” Ghost was plopping you up and down, up and down on his length, the loud sloshing sound of your sopping wet pussy filling the room.

“No- Si- aangh- it’s too much!” And it’s not like you could even push any of him away, as he thrusted up into you, making sure you took every single inch imaginable.

“Such a fuckin liar baby. What a fuckin liar you are, ‘nd you don’t think I’ve fuckin noticed that you won’t call me how you’re supposed to? Huh? Didn’t teach you to lie like that, did I?”

You’d internally cursed, slapping at his hand for some relief but your mouth only letting out moans. Yes, you were avoiding calling him ‘daddy,’ even though you’d call him that casually, it felt so off today after your falling out with your father. It made your head spin, because it wasn’t just a nickname anymore.

You were craving the missing hole you’ve been ignoring this whole time, to be filled with the man fucking you like a slut in his big arms.

“Told you I’d take care of ya, didn’t I princess? Promised you I’d be reaalll good to ya but— shit, your squeezing the life outta me— can’t be nice if you don’t treat your own daddy proper, can I?” You moaned at his words, shaking your head because this man was gonna make you go insane, tonight. Pushing you past the point of no return, and no, he wouldn’t let go of your hand while he’d did it.

He’d hold your hand and jump with you.

“Come on, call me how you’re ‘posed to kid.” He grunted in you ear, sucking on your earlobe, “Call the only man you’ll ever need, the man who’s fuckin your pretty pussy right, know you want to. Come on.”

He was egging on that delusion that sat, triple boxed up and in the farthest corner of your mind of your mind. Teasing, taunting you, probing at the thought that you swore you locked away that one time it slipped out of you mid conversation months ago.

But Simon remembered. In fact, he’d just needed the ‘okay’ from your plump lips because he longed to hear you call him that oh so sweet yet oh so sinful name once more. He wanted to be your number one. The man you relied on, someone that would never leave you like your father did. Better than your father, better than any one of those little boys you’d fool around with in the past. Damn it, and it was making you wetter.

“Paaa! You feel so good pa!” You mewled, throwing your head back on his shoulder in pleasure.

You felt that maniacal grin form on Ghosts lips on your shoulder, leaving a kiss on your neck— he was proud of you. It tickled something in his brain, scratched the exact spot where his own daddy issues lay. He wasn’t new to hearing a sex partner call him daddy during sex, maybe he exuded that energy— it was in his blood, Ghost didn’t know. But you just kept pushing the line, accidentally calling him that magic word when he’d praise you. And it stuck. You’d call him daddy like it was second nature. Looking up at him with those pretty brown eyes, obediently listening to whatever he had to say. That’s what all the fucking clingy shit was about, the needy, desperation of it all.

Wanting a father figure from a hell raiser— it was arranged. You were a good girl. Ghosts good little girl.

“Therrre you go princess, atta girl! Doin so good for me, cum on your daddy’s dick. Show me how good you are baby, milk me dry.”

You shook your head, belligerent sobs escaping you. You couldn’t believe you’d just call him that, of all things. And you tried to retract it, whining your way through your orgasm that left you trembling, Simon himself filling your tight cunt with every bit cum that sat in his balls.

“I- I- hicc- I didn’t mean to call you- hicc- I’m sorry.” You blabbered out, how sweet. How cute, you were trying to collect yourself. He pulled out of you with a roll of his eyes, flipping you onto your stomach, rubbing the tip against your hole that was leaking with the both of your cum. What a miraculous sight.

“No, baby you did. Don’t worry that pretty little head,” he cooed, slipping his dick back inside you, groaning at the feel of you. “pa’s got you.”

“Come on doll, wanna hear you,” He rocked his hips into you, the room filling with the smack, smack, smack, smacking of his balls hitting your wet pussy, ripples forming on your ass with every thrust.

Your brain was turning to mush, drool forming and dripping down the sheets of the bed. The only thing you were able to think of was daddy, daddy, daddy, pa, pa, pa. How good your pa was drilling into you like a maniac.

Simon’s hand wrapped around your curly hair, dragging you up to your knees as he continued to ram into you, “This allll my sweet little girl needed? Your pa to take care of you like a good daddy should. Fuck, that bastard couldn’t treat you right could he? Show you how a man’s supposed to treat you, huh?”

“Noooo sir- nghhh.” you keened, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Tha’s right princess, don’t worry though— I love you. Your pa loves you soooo. fuckin. much baby. No one’s gonna love you more than me.”

Those words alone is what set off your next orgasm, he was talking crazy, actually. And you loved every second of it, back arching even more so as you pulsated around his throbbing cock. He was still thrusting into you chasing his own orgasm, a string of curses leaving his mouth as you felt the tip of him spasm. He made you so full of him, you’d felt so warm all over.

“Shit, such a good girl for me, gonna take such good care of you from now. What do ya say?” He took you in his arms, laying you on top of him. You could feel his heart beating, chest heaving. Both of your skin sticky with sweat.

“Thank you pa.” You wrapped your arms him.

“Oh princess,” Ghost smiled, pressing his lips against yours, cupping your face with one hand and caressing it with his thumb, “you’re so welcome.”

a/n: it’s three people who are gonna read all this, me being one of them. If you liked it leave me a message or comment. If you hated it, idk. I’m just a big dadbf!simon enthusiast.

most recent masterlist.

[quarterlifekitty]

That Price coming home to his missus with a baby thing was delicious, absolutely divine. Do you think for the other boys and Nik it'd be something similar or would they have wildly different reactions? Btw I absolutely love your writing, I check your blog daily for your new stuff, the way you write is delicious, thank you <3

I’ll give you a little something for Ghost since you made me blush and teehee

Also uhhhh I might’ve fucked up the timing a little on infant development milestones but you’re gonna have to forgive me on that

cw: suspicions of infidelity

Ghost is bouncing his leg the whole time he spends in evac. The heli ride, the plane back to base, the car back to his flat— as soon as he was released from the mind frame of the mission it was like all of that anxiety over you he’d built up over the past year and half came crashing on his head.

You’d’ve left him. You must have. He wasn’t really anything he’d call worth sticking around for. That was the plain and honest truth. He’s thinking of the quickest way he can find you and get on his knees for you once he’s scraped all of the blood and dirt off. It was easy to nod and go along with a sudden job Price called about, back when he was under the impression that it would be a few months tops.

He sees a light on in the window of your shared flat. Fuck, hopefully that you and not some new tenant— that somehow his automatic payments had fucked up while he was away and he got evicted. For a split second he debates whether sprinting up the stairs would be faster than waiting for this god-forsaken lift.

He pauses at the door when he hears your laughter. Thank fucking god. His relief is palpable, he’s thanking you and god and whoever else will listen, he’ll never ask for anything again—

“When did you get so cute, huh?”

No.

You wouldn’t.

Not in the flat you two shared, where you fucked and loved each other and cried together, the world couldn’t possibly be so cruel that you’d—

He gets as far as bursting through the door after he manages to find the right key before he’s stopped in his tracks. You look to the door like a deer in headlights, your eyes wide and with a little spoon of sweet potato puree in your hand. Your hair is a mess and—

There’s a baby looking at him. Looking where mommy is looking. The fat little thing is in a high chair, a mess on its face. The name “Lydia” is embroidered in big, swirly letters on her bib. It was a name he’d talked about, his one decent childhood memory, his aunt—

He drops his duffel and rips off the mask. The baby has these whisps of hair that are undeniably yours, eyes that he’s only seen in the mirror.

“Simon— is it really you?” You almost whisper in disbelief. Like you’d dreamed him coming through the door before. Makes his heart fucking ache. The words come out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Yeah, mama. S’me.”

[intothemultifandom]

– 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 || 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐞

SUMMARY: The Pack always knew imprints were a sacred thing. But when you're hurt, the imprint bond blurs the line between life and death. It makes for some interesting conversations with ghosts from the past. || multi chapter-fic PAIRINGS: Paul Lahote x fem!Reader TAGS/WARNINGS: Clearwater!Reader; human!Reader; domestic fluff; hurt

2.6k words

Your siblings could tear into flesh, could break his bones if they so wished (and Leah had wished, had almost done it too before Sam intervened)–and yet, Paul considered you the most dangerous Clearwater out of all of Harry and Sue's children.

And it wasn't because you could flit between girl and wolf or because your teeth could rip into jugulars, but because you were you.

[Name] Clearwater: daughter to Harry and Sue, born a year after Leah and two years before Seth.

Before that night, your parents never intended for you to be keyed into the tribe's secret. It was only ever meant to be Seth, who they all anticipated would phase eventually.

But then Leah exploded into a four-legged beast with fanged teeth and matted fur, had shredded the Couch you'd been sitting on–and gods, if you hadn't moved when you did her claws would've gone deeper in your shoulder than it had–before Seth shifted, too.

The night had been a mess, to sum it up simply.

The pack link was overwhelmed by a maelstrom of grief-anger-hurt-blame that Sam ordered those who could get caught up in it all to phase out.

To give your siblings some semblance of calm, however futile, and to make sure you and Sue had help dealing with the aftermath.

The last thing the Pack needed was for someone to visit in the morning to find half the house's occupants missing, one partially mauled and the place looking as though it had been burglarised.

So Paul had phased out along with Jake. Jake, who came with his Dad's strength and his Mom's warmth that it brought Sue out of her shocked stupor and Paul, who didn't know what else to do other than turn your way.

Across the room, you were using the meat of your thighs to push the shredded couch towards the door. Single-handedly steering the couch outside whilst being mindful of your left arm which was bandaged over your chest, smelling of chemicals and iron.

He had expected tears. Had expected to scent the air for undertones of shock, fear or distrust as you grappled with the reality of seeing your sister and brother turning into something dangerous.

Of having two strange boys who could do the same clambering into your humble four-bedroom abode to see if you or your Mom needed help, but there was none of that.

Instead, you continued moving, holding yourself up by sheer force of will that Paul’s wolf stirred beneth his skin. Curious. Intrigued.

You hadn’t acknowledged him nor Jake when they had come in, but Paul moved toward you anyway. Body on autopilot as he followed an invisible path his wolf already seemed to be on.

"Here, I can help you with that," he said, bending down to lift one end of the couch.

On the other end of the long couch, you’d glanced at him for only a moment. A single moment to thank him politely, face solemn and eyes deep and soulful, that Paul struggled not to collapse to his knees then and there.

Because in that split moment, when your eyes met his for the very first time since he shifted, Paul’s universe ended and then began again with you at the centre of it all.

[Name] Clearwater: his imprint—his very human imprint—more dangerous than wolves and bloodsuckers combined after only a single glance.

After your siblings, your arm, your Dad—Paul thought you would stay far away from the Pack, maybe even La Push altogether.

Maybe you would find a job in Forks or somewhere else and hightail it out of there. Or maybe you would apply for a scholarship to some college on the other side of the country.

Instead you had done the least expected thing.

Despite what Paul thought, what he feared, you stayed; and then, you started coming around.

First to Sam and Emily’s where you spoke to his Alpha for an hour the first time you came, and then to Emily during all the visits after.

Sam was good at shielding his thoughts most days, but the gratitude and brotherly love he felt for you echoed in the bond for days after the first visit.

Every now and then you’d head over to drop off some spare clothes for Seth, laughing at one of Jared’s dry jokes before engaging in some light conversation.

About the Pack, about your siblings and how they were adjusting.

Their lives, Paul's life, before and after.

When Jake sheepishly admitted to falling behind in school, you’d settled on the dining room table, ushering him and Embry to do the same, too, as you carved out some time to come over and help them.

You even hung around on days Leah ran patrol, staying through dinner to act as a buffer between her, Sam and Emily when the tension grew too thick for the rest of them to breathe through the evening.

Paul had done a good job existing on the sidelines during it all, respecting Leah’s don’t you fucking force her into loving you by telling her, you sick bastard and Seth’s kinder plea to let you get used to the pack and him first without the weight of an imprint just yet.

But then one day you met his gaze, saw the poorly concealed reverence, devotion and warmth and instantly put the pieces together.

And because Paul knew better than to assume what you would do after all the times he had thought wrong, he did nothing.

He didn't think, didn't panic, didn't fear. Even when you asked if he imprinted, voice soft and eyes searching, and he told you the truth, Paul did nothing but be as he always was when it came to you.

Open, honest, and trusting that you wouldn’t hurt him if you felt even a fraction of what he felt.

And his ancestors must have seen fit to reward him for it because after he was done explaining, you stayed.

You stayed; and then, you gave him a chance.

The red-haired leech was still on the loose, and the pack's energy waned the longer she danced around them. Not that they weren’t trying.

She was simply too fast, too slippery, constantly evading them as they hunted her to no end. And since they hadn’t caught her, Sam figured it was best to amp up patrol to four per shift.

Even if meant older wolves like himself, Paul, Leah and Jared had to double the hours of their still-in-school members to compensate.

Paul understood, of course, but considering Leah couldn’t handle dealing with Sam it was Paul who was stuck being berated and vilified by her any time she so much caught an echo of you in his thoughts.

And Paul thought about you. Constantly.

The only reprieve he had was in moments like this, when their shift was over and Leah ran home along with Jared and Jake all the while you drove over to deliver Seth’s clothes for the following morning.

But Paul was exhausted tonight, so much so that he could barely keep his eyes open as you cuddled on Sam and Emily’s couch.

“Stay,” he murmurs lowly, being mindful of Emily sleeping in the other room. Sluggishly, he tightens his arms around your slender waist, a half-hearted attempt to get you to sink into him further, not that you would.

You may have been on good terms with Sam and Emily, but Leah was still your sister.

And even if you wanted to fall asleep encased in your boyfriend’s heavily corded arms, you wouldn’t.

“You know I can’t, baby,” you laugh, quietly, stroking a thumb over the apple of his cheek.

Your boyfriend chuffs at your words, blearily opening his eyes, before shifting forward so that that you can cradle his jaw.

A tide of emotion rises beneath your breast because even with everything happening, you’re so grateful for these stolen moments that you lean in, all petal lips and strawberry-flavoured gloss and Paul almost groans when your lips meet in a soft, unhurried kiss.

If it were up to him, there would be no red-haired leech and golden-eyed freaks. Just you and him and the taste of strawberries forever.

"I also think you should just crash here tonight," you tell him when you come up for air, slowly beginning to untangle yourself from his embrace.

For a moment, the muscles in Paul’s arm grow tense, and you know your boyfriend enough to know he’s about to protest. Or worse, get up to follow you.

Because if you can’t stay, then he’s going to force himself to escort you home anyway, even when he’s dead on his feet.

Gently, your hand drifts to the centre of his chest to keep him down.

“Em should have someone close by, and I’m going home to Leah anyway,” you remind him, lips curling at his small pout.

"And you can't even open your eyes properly, so I'll be back in the morning. Okay?"

Ordinarily, your shapeshifter boyfriend would move your hand away, before insisting he at least keep you company on your car ride home.

But as always, you’re right.

Paul’s tired. The kind of tired that should be impossible for someone like him, but it’s true.

So when you lean forward to press another kiss to his jaw, murmur quietly one more time for him to stay, that you’ll be okay, Paul relents.

The scent of you in the air, on his lips, is dizzying enough as it is. How can he possibly protest when all of it makes Paul want to–

"–M'okay," he slurs, eyes fluttering once, then twice, before shutting completely.

When he comes to, Paul remembers the scent of strawberries, your honeyed laughter and the lingering warmth of your touch.

It's enough to make him smile, before he blinks. In shock, then in confusion, turning around to take in his new surroundings.

Weird, he thinks.

Usually, when he dreams, he dreams of you.

On the beach, laughing as you kick up saltwater, before Paul runs after you and down the shore. Under the stars, a heated mess of tangled-up limbs, Paul in you and the feeling of you everywhere.

Sometimes, he even dreams of the two of you, together and years older, a little boy with his face and your smile held in your arms while a younger girl made in your image clutches to his pants.

But this time, though, there's none of that.

This time, he's in the middle of the forest, legs planted as if he were a tree himself.

All around him, there is a cloud of mist. Thick and encompassing, strange if not for the unnatural emptiness of the forest.

There are no cicadas clicking. No birds chirping. The forest, forever filled with even the quietest of whispers and groans, is dead silent.

That is, until Paul hears it.

Somewhere in the distance, a single voice hums something old, something ancient, the voice swelling into a song that shakes Paul to his core because he’s not alone.

He’s not alone.

The realisation is enough to spur him forward, Paul managing to take a step forward and then another, walking slowly through winding trees and thick mist before he ends up in a wide clearing where a bonfire has been lit.

Before the bonfire, still singing, sits a lone woman dressed in a traditional buckskin dress with a gentle face and two long braids.

She makes no move to indicate that she’s heard him. But the fire illuminates her face with an otherworldly glow, accentuates the way her throat flexes as she sings, the words sounding clearer now that he’s right in front of her.

It’s an old song, he remembers, one that has endured time and colonisation and everything in between.

He contemplates interrupting her, at first, uneasy by the strangeness of this situation. But then he inches closer, his wolf urging him to sit on the empty log across from her.

And so the woman sings, and Paul waits and he listens, because something in him, something instinctual, pulls at him.

Tells him that somehow this is real, that this is important.

And because the last time he felt this way was in the moments before he looked at you, Paul waits for the song to finish.

“The youngest of my sons made this song,” says the woman says after she stops singing, still watching the fire burn.

“The song opens up a door between your world and here, which my son used to communicate with us.

My older sons would listen to him with me here when he sang. They would even sing with him before he joined us, and they all left this place together."

The flames burn a little brighter, and the woman falters. Tilts her head, as if listening for something only she can hear.

And when she hears it, whatever it is, Paul catches her expression flicker in the firelight (grim, resigned) before she resumes, this time a little more hurried than before.

"But I didn't follow. I couldn't," the woman says, finally lifting her head to meet Paul's gaze from across the fire.

"Not without Taha-Aki."

And oh, Paul thinks, struck dumb.

Because painted in shadows made by the flames, the third wife–a woman he's only ever known through stories and legends–stares at him solemnly, the echo of infinity seared into her gaze.

“My husband’s spirit still roams your world," she says, ignoring Paul's clear shock.

“He guides all spirit warriors here when their time comes, and their imprints, too. This is where they rest for a while before they move on. But never does my husband come with them, though. Too ashamed, I think."

"Ashamed?” Paul asks, speaking for the first time before he stops himself.

The woman before him and Taha Aki were more than wife and husband.

They were imprinted, tethered together by the same forces that brought Paul to you. The same forces that wouldn't have put her in his dream unless there was something wrong with the imprint.

And there could only be something wrong with the imprint if something was wrong with...

"Why am I here?" he asks slowly, dread wrapping itself around his heart–painful and suffocating–as the third wife's face turns sad. Pitying.

…No.

"Why am I here?" he repeats, this time louder and more panicked as he surges to his feet.

Through the fire, the third wife stares at his face, her expression a little more troubled, a little more human, before the truth splits the air and his chest open.

"–Because my husband will soon guide your imprint here, and if you want to save her,"

NoNoNONONO

"–than you must to stop him before he succeeds."

A loud crash sounds in the distance, so loud that Paul slams his hands against his ears and grits his teeth, trying to convince himself that this isn't real.

That it's not the sound of your car folding in on itself that he hears in the distance, glass shattering into thousands of pieces.

It can't be, he thinks, agonised; and yet, it is.

Because the truth is that you're out there, somewhere in the wreckage of it all.

Paul knows it.

Feels it.

"How do I do it?!" he cries, turning to the ancient woman with wild, frenzied eyes when his ears won’t stop ringing.

(You’re screaming).

"How do I stop him?!"

(You’re crying).

The third wife at least has the decency to look regretful, before turning to look over her shoulder and into the long and dark forest.

“Have you not been listening?” she answers, cryptically.

And before Paul can snarl, beg, whatever he needs to do to get more than that (because what kind of bullshit answer is that), a howl echoes in the distance.

On autopilot, his body begins to shake, tremor, the air beginning to shift all around them before–

"Trust me Paul Lahote, you’ll know what to do," the third wife says, still looking into the unknown.

“–But you need to wake up. Now."

When I tell you the brainrot would not leave me alone for this one. But anyway, please feel free to comment, tag & repost. 🐺

©️ @intothemultifandom 2025

[novelistwriter]

The Ghost Kid of Gotham

DP x DC Prompt

When Danny told his parents about him being Phantom, he was strapped down to a table and cut open by them. By the time he was saved it was too late, he became a Full Ghost, with it changing because he died a second time, tears constantly flow from his eyes, chains are around his wrists and ankles, leather straps are around his torso, and his logo is no longer seen, just a ripped off part of his hazmat that shows the scar left behind by being cut open.

He doesn't remember much after being saved, just that he had destroyed a lot of things in his grief, Vlad was the one to tell him, and the Fruitloop was in a bad condition when the Halfa came to him. He's the Ghost King, but the council still runs the Infinite Realms, he's just a figure head with a lot of Power and Influence used, all because he doesn't have his human half anymore, he can't make the Infinite Realms better without it, Clockwork told him that with a sadness in his voice.

One thing that Danny can do to make things better is his new power to remove curses by being close to the affected person/object/location, so Clockwork sent Danny to Gotham just as Batman was starting his career as a Vigilante.

Gotham had been cursed a lot in the past, that's why the city is the way it is, Lady Gotham couldn't undo them all herself, so she asked Clockwork, her old friend, for help, he sent Danny, still known as Phantom.

Phantom and Batman first met when Batman had gotten word of a mysterious entity nearby doing something shady, this was Phantom in the middle of removing a curse.

Batman did his usual 'interrogation' tactics, but he was stunned to see a young boy with tears falling from his face, chains on his wrists and ankles, leather straps on his torso and a part of his outfit with a tear in it, showing a autopsy scar.

Phantom had told him what he was doing, and what he is, the Ghost of a Child. This led to Batman seeing if he could help the Ghost move on, all he was told was "I can't move on, she needs help", when asked who 'she' was, all Phantom said was "Gotham" before disappearing.

What Batman didn't know was that he wasn't the only one who was near Phantom, other citizens of Gotham heard what Phantom said to Batman, they believed that Phantom was the Ghost of a Gothamite child who lingers to help the city, they spread the word about what they heard that night.

Over time, Phantom has interacted with many of the big names in Gotham as they appeared, Joker reminds him of Freakshow, but Phantom doesn't attack him, just seeing if playing Jokers games would get the Joker to rethink his ways, thinking Joker is cursed. Before Harleen became Harley, Phantom sought out the Psychiatrist to remember his sister, having told the woman that she sounds like his sister when she helps people. Before Pamela became Ivy, Phantom sought her out to remember his best friend who loved plants. When Croc began to show himself, Phantom seeks him out to talk to him, one of their talks is overhead by citizens, after that talk overheard by the citizens, they try and treat Waylon better. When Scarecrow emerged, Phantom isn't affected by the Fear Gas, but lingers near Crane to remember Fright Knight. Bane almost reminds Phantom of his father, Phantom had cowered during Banes first attack on Gotham with the him nearby, but what Phantom said will stick with the Gothamites and Bad Guys forever.

"Please Dad! Don't hurt me again! Don't put me back on that table!"

After Phantom had said that, the Ghost had run away, leaving Bane, his crew, and many citizens shocked by what Phantom revealed about himself, a child, who was most likely harmed and killed by his own father.

There are others Phantom interacts with. Riddler reminds Phantom of Clockwork, and Phantom both likes and despises Riddler because of that. Grundy is Phantoms regular, as Phantom is drawn to the Zombie because they are the same, undead beings that still linger. Phantom even tries to help the Talons that he runs into, saying that the "Baby Ghosts need to be cleaned of the rotten Ectoplasm in them to be healthy". Leslie reminds Phantom of Frostbite.

When each Robin takes flight, Gotham goes through a positive change in appearance, during Dicks time, it rained less, during Jason's time, there was less Smog in the sky, showing more of the sky during days and nights, when Tim was Robin, Gotham had cleaner air and clearer skies, by the time Damian became Robin, Gotham is as healthy as it could be without the curses affecting it.

Phantom seeks out reporters, running into Vicki Vale during one of her live reports on a attack, he goes up to her, knowing that Gotham's citizens will be watching this broadcast. What Phantom doesn't know, is that both Gotham and its people have grown attached to the Ghost Boy.

"Gotham is healthy, she doesn't need me to help her anymore, it's time for me to go"

[aleese1111]

hii! Could you pleaaase make a baekjin x fem!reader x seongje, i haven’t seen anything like this and ik you’ll write it goooddd 🥹🫶🏻

three wolves, one flame | geum seong je x union!reader x na baek jin

summary: they run the city’s shadows with cold hands and colder eyes—two boys circling the same girl like orbiting wolves, too stubborn to say they care, too loyal to walk away. in smoke, silence, and bruised affection, they protect what they won't name.

warnings: [slow burn] violence, blood, language, implied emotional trauma, smoking,

author's note: i lowkey fell in love with this one. contemplating if i should turn this into a series or just mini chapters because i have no idea on how to continue this.. so please lmk, anyway! requests ,,

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

the air inside baek jin’s office always smelled like old paper, cigarette smoke, and something faintly metallic—like blood that never quite left the floor. the room was small but efficient. a modest desk sat tucked against the far wall, cluttered with files and an aging laptop baek jin used for both homework and union logistics. behind him, shelves groaned under the weight of ledgers, envelopes, and binders—some labeled, some not. a coat rack stood near the door, his school uniform jacket hanging neatly as always, untouched and ghost-like.

on the couch, which was barely wide enough for two, she sat cross-legged, a thick folder open on her lap. her fingers were stained with ink and nicotine, flipping pages with practiced speed. her brows were drawn tight in concentration, but her mouth was already forming insults.

“you’re breathing too loud. move.”

beside her, seong je let out a long, lazy exhale, smoke trailing from his lips. “it’s my lungs. want me to stop breathing next?” his thumb scrolled absently on his phone.

“you say that like it’s a bad idea.”

“you like having me around. admit it.”

she snorted. “i’d rather put out this cigarette in my eye.”

baek jin didn’t look up from his desk. this was routine. predictable. he only paused for a second when seong je flicked a crumpled receipt at her face, smirking when it bounced off her forehead.

“touch me again, i will rip your ears off and mail them to your mother,” she said, without even flinching.

“joke’s on you, she’s already deaf.”

that earned him a hard jab to the ribs with the sharp edge of a folder. he groaned theatrically, tipping his head back against the couch and blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

“i swear to god, you're like a feral cat with a calculator,” he muttered.

“and you’re a hemorrhoid with a motorcycle license.”

baek jin turned a page. the yelling had escalated, but it was background noise. normal. expected.

the argument died the same way it always did—abruptly and without resolution.

she slammed the folder shut and stood. the air shifted. joon and gyung, who had been waiting outside the office door like loyal shadows, straightened as she stepped out.

“collection day,” she said simply, already moving.

seong je rolled his shoulders and stood with her, but she didn’t wait. joon and gyung fell in line behind her like trained dogs, their footsteps echoing as the group left the safe walls of the bowling alley and stepped into the dusk.

@ . !

they found them behind a school, deep in the alley that smelled like piss and motor oil. it was a place for things that didn’t want to be seen—perfect for business.

a few boys loitered under the flickering light. low-ranking union lackeys, careless with the rules. she stopped a few feet away, her presence slicing through the tension like a box cutter.

“you’ve got my money?” she asked, voice cool, indifferent.

one of the boys stepped forward. too confident. too dumb. “you don’t get to bark orders at us, bitch.”

seong je was sitting nearby, on a low concrete barrier, smoking. he didn’t move. not yet. he was watching, the way a wolf watches another predator test its luck.

she didn’t blink. “you’re two days late.”

the guy stepped closer, nudging her shoulder. once. twice.

“maybe you wait a little longer,” he said with a smirk. “maybe say please.”

behind her, joon and gyung tensed. she didn’t say anything, just gave a lazy glance to her left.

gyung understood the signal.

the jab to the gut was fast and brutal—air left the guy’s lungs like a popped balloon. he stumbled back, wheezing, while the others flinched. two of them ran.

“go,” she said calmly.

joon darted after them.

only two remained: the one bent over in pain, and another who hadn’t moved yet, watching with wide eyes, deciding if he wanted to be stupid or not.

she crouched beside the first guy, lit another cigarette with a flick of her lighter, and exhaled slowly.

“you work for me,” she said. “you pay, or you bleed. got it?”

the second guy tensed—fight won the war in his brain.

he lunged.

he never reached her.

seong je was a blur of violence—one second on the edge of the scene, the next driving a fist into the boy’s face hard enough to drop him instantly. no words. no warning. just pure, sharp brutality.

he didn’t stop.

fists rained down, calculated and furious. blood splattered against the wall. the sound of bone meeting flesh echoed through the alley.

she stood slowly, arms crossed, cigarette glowing.

“enough,” she said.

seong je didn’t look at her right away. his fists paused mid-motion. then he stood, blood staining his knuckles, breathing hard.

she met his eyes for a moment. something silent passed between them. then she turned and walked away.

“get the cash,” she called over her shoulder.

gyung moved without question.

seong je wiped his hand on his shirt and lit a new cigarette. he glanced once at the boy groaning on the ground and then followed her into the dark.

business, as always, was done.

@ . !

the streets were quieter now. the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows that swallowed the cracks in the pavement. she walked ahead, cigarette still burning between her fingers, the orange tip flaring with every drag. her steps were calm, composed, like she hadn’t just threatened teenagers and watched one get half-pulped into a brick wall.

behind her, seong je followed. blood still clung to the ridges of his knuckles, crusting dry in the creases, but he didn’t care. he never did. he flicked his own cigarette aside and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

they walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing softly in rhythm. the kind of quiet that buzzed—static thick with unspoken things.

“you know,” seong je finally said, “you could’ve told gyung to handle it before that dumbass even touched you.”

she didn’t look at him. “he barely touched me.”

“he pushed you.”

“and i didn’t fall. so?”

he scoffed, catching up until they walked shoulder to shoulder. “you’re insane.”

“says the guy who beat someone half to death over a shoulder nudge.”

he grinned. “you like it when i get violent.”

she rolled her eyes. “i like it when you shut the fuck up.”

“but you let me handle it.”

“i let you burn calories.”

seong je laughed under his breath, a short, dry sound. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

“for what?”

“for being your unhinged guard dog.”

“you’re not my anything.”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he glanced sideways at her—at the bruise just barely starting to form on her collarbone where the guy had pushed her, at the cigarette held steady between her fingers, at the calm, calculated cold in her eyes.

he liked her too much. it was a problem he hadn’t figured out how to fix.

“...you patched me up last week,” he muttered. “don’t pretend like you don’t care.”

“i patched you up so you wouldn’t bleed on baek jin’s couch.”

“sure,” he said. “totally believable.”

she slowed a bit, enough that he noticed but didn’t comment. she glanced over, squinting at him through the dimming light.

“you’re bleeding,” she said flatly.

“you always say that like it’s a surprise.”

she stopped walking. so did he.

“you’re an idiot,” she said, stepping in close. her hand reached for his face, thumb brushing a cut on his cheekbone. it was rough, not tender—like everything she did. “you didn’t have to go that far.”

“he was gonna hit you.”

“i had it handled.”

“yeah,” he muttered, not smiling anymore. “but i don’t like watching people touch you.”

her expression didn’t change. not much. maybe a flicker in her eyes. maybe.

she shoved his face gently to the side with the palm of her hand. “possessive freak.”

he grinned again. “you love it.”

“i tolerate it.”

“that’s practically a love confession coming from you.”

she started walking again. “say one more word and i’ll smoke my cigarette out on your forehead.”

he laughed, trailing behind her.

and behind the sarcasm and bruised knuckles, there was something solid between them—twisted, loud, dysfunctional.

@ . !

by the time they reached the back entrance of the bowling alley, the sky had faded to charcoal grey. the neon sign buzzed above them, flickering like it was trying to decide whether to die or hang on another day. she pushed the door open with her shoulder and stepped inside, the familiar scent of oil, dust, and stale air greeting her like a second home.

seong je followed her, hands still in his pockets, quieter now. at the door to baek jin’s office, he hesitated. she paused, looking back at him.

“i’m heading to the internet café,” he said, voice casual, but his eyes lingered on her a little longer than necessary. “need to blow off some steam.”

she shrugged, already reaching for the doorknob. “go waste your brain cells.”

he smirked. “you love me dumb.”

“don’t flatter yourself.”

she pushed the door open and stepped inside. he didn’t follow.

“patch your hand,” she added over her shoulder. “or don’t. maybe it’ll rot off.”

“aw, worried about me,” he teased.

she gave him the finger without turning around.

he chuckled and walked off, footsteps fading down the hall.

inside, baek jin didn’t look up as she entered. he was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, pencil in hand, methodically underlining something in one of the ledgers. the room felt quieter without seong je in it—thicker, somehow.

she dropped her bag beside the couch and sank into it with a tired exhale. the tension hadn’t left her body yet, but it always faded in here. in this space where time moved slower, where baek jin never asked more than she wanted to give.

“you’re back early,” he said after a moment, eyes still on the paper.

“boys ran faster than usual.”

he nodded once. “anyone give you trouble?”

she pulled another cigarette from her pocket. “one tried. he didn’t try again.”

this time, baek jin did look up. his eyes flicked to her shoulder, narrowing slightly. “you’re bruised.”

“occupational hazard,” she muttered, lighting up.

he stared at her a second longer, then stood. she watched him cross the room in that quiet, deliberate way he moved—like he didn’t waste energy on anything that didn’t matter. he disappeared behind her for a moment. when he came back, he tossed his jacket over her.

she stiffened slightly, cigarette hovering near her lips.

“still cold,” he said simply, sitting back down.

“i’m not cold.”

“you always say that.”

she didn’t take it off.

they sat like that for a while. just the two of them. him scribbling quietly. her smoking in silence, baek jin’s jacket draped over her shoulders like it belonged there.

no yelling. no banter.

just stillness.

the only sound for a long while was the scratch of baek jin’s pencil against paper and the occasional soft crackle of her cigarette.

“you let seong je come with you again,” baek jin said eventually, not looking up.

she snorted. “he follows me around like a leech. what am i supposed to do? spray him with bug repellent?”

“he’s loud,” baek jin replied calmly.

“so are you, when you feel like it.”

“not with fists.”

she gave a half-smirk, flicking ash into the tray on the coffee table. “you jealous?”

“no,” he said plainly. “he’s reckless. you’re not.”

“he only steps in when i let him.” she tilted her head against the back of the couch, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “you know that.”

baek jin hummed, noncommittal, and went back to his work.

for a while, there was nothing but silence again. not awkward. not empty. just their kind of quiet.

“you still live off convenience store food?” she asked after a minute, squinting at him.

“i eat what’s easy.”

“that’s not eating. that’s survival.”

“i survive just fine.”

“could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, stretching out along the couch. “you’re gonna die from sodium poisoning before you even graduate.”

“and you’ll die from chain-smoking before i do.”

“touché,” she murmured, a tired smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

her voice grew softer, like sleep was already tugging at her edges. “...how do you do it?”

baek jin paused, pencil hovering over the paper. “do what?”

“stay calm all the time. even when shit hits the fan. even when everyone’s losing their heads.” her voice had dropped low. “how do you not break?”

he was quiet for a beat.

then, “because if i break, everything else does.”

she didn’t answer. her breathing was slowing now, cigarette burned out in the ashtray. she was curled on her side, one arm under her head, the other tugging baek jin’s jacket closer around her like she hadn’t meant to.

he glanced up, setting his pencil down soundlessly.

she was already asleep.

he stood, walked over with soft steps, and crouched beside the couch. carefully, he pulled the jacket tighter over her frame and adjusted the pillow under her head. for a second, his hand hovered near her temple, like he wanted to brush the hair away from her face—but didn’t.

baek jin’s face didn’t show much. it never did.

but something flickered in his eyes. something quiet. protective.

then he stood, returned to his desk, and went back to work.

behind him, she slept soundly under his jacket, breathing even and steady.

and outside, the world kept turning. dangerous. unforgiving.

but in here, for a little while longer, it was still.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

[dcxdpdabbles]

John Constantine doesn't usually like to get involve with beings from the Infinite Realms. They are too chaotic to predict most of the time, makes it harder to trick them. But there is one contact Constantine has and that is Ember. Constantine knew Ember as a human, when he was in his punk rock band Mucous Membrane. They had some good memories together before both their lives went to shit. The only thing Ember asks in return for her help is that Constantine has to play a set with her. No one in the JL or JLD know about this until Constantine has to pull out his Ember card.

"I know someone who can help." John's voice rises over the chatter of multiple conversations, effectively silencing everyone. As one, the group of volunteer defenders- not heroes, John refuses to label this lot as heroic when most of them agree with the crazy shit the governments around the world get away with- turn to stare at him.

He smiles lazily, uncaring of the hundred pairs of eyes that run over his body. A few of the costume-wearing vigilantes grimace when they catch sight of who's spoken, but John recognizes that some of the lingering looks are appreciative, so he peens just a little.

He's a handsome one, he knows, but it's nice to be reminded.

"You know someone who can help?" Zatanna repeat though her words are edged with doubt. It would have been hurtful, but they were in the middle of an "off" of their on-and-off relationship, so it's no surprise. "Someone who could help stop a black hole from sucking in the earth?"

"It's not really a black hole, is it?" He counters, waving his hand at the screen, which is still flashing red and displays the word 'Emergency' across it. The three speesters —Barry, Wally, and Bart —were running around it, attempting to slow down the formation with their own vacuum, but they wouldn't be able to keep it up forever. "More of a portal made of dark matter that some loony scientist ripped open because his wife left him, isn't it?"

"No." Hal breathes heavily, looking utterly horrified from behind his mask. "That's not how dark matter works-"

"Yeah, so we need someone dead enough they can go in and stabilize it, but alive enough that they can use Batman's machine, yeah?" John cuts off the pilot. He's not in the mood to listen to a sky bus driver re-explain everything that Batman just said (though to be honest, John did tone him out). "I know a ghost who can help."

"A ghost," Bruce repeats, his voice steady. That's what he always liked about the detective. No matter what came out of John's mouth, the man always took it in stride and somehow managed to look in control and steady.

That made him so fit that John often fantasizes about breaking Bruce's careful control. He sends the man a flirty little grin, but Bruce doesn't so much as blink. "I thought ghosts weren't able to interact with the physical world."

"They're not usually able to." Zatanna scowls, looking upset. She crosses her arms, sending John a narrow eye and an accusatory glare. He thinks it's unwarranted since she was the one who asked for their relationship to end. He's allowed to flirt with Bruce, come on, it's Batman. "Not unless that ghost has a contact with a living or found some place so drenched in ectoplasm it may as well be on the other side."

"What kind of contract?" Clark questions. John wiggles his eyebrows back at the Kypotian suggestively and has to bite back a grin at the blush that rises on the man's cheeks.

What an innocent little farm boy.

"The sexy kind," John declares smugly, just to make Clark flush darker. It's hilarious when he succeeds. " I'm joking! Ha, no, it's more like a favor between two friends. Ember and I go way back. I knew her in life-"

"That's dangerous!" Zatanna snaps seemingly at her wits' end. "You shouldn't be messing with spirits you knew in life. They tend to get corrupted!"

"Meh, Ember has always been corrupted," John shrugs, not caring that his ex's eyes go wide with horror. "We grew up together. We were even the original members of our own band before her Pa got a new job in America, and he moved the whole family across the pond. She got bullied bad by the stupid rich kids over here until a fire took her life. Her soul came back home to jolly old England, not even an hour after her death. I found her drumming on her guitar in our old hideaway, glowing and flouting. It's actually how I found out I had magic. Anyway, Ember made a pact to always be my friend before she flew into the sunset- and I mean that literally, a natural portal opened up into the Realms. She sent postcards."

"She can help?" Bruce cuts in, obviously trying to get John back on track. At the magic user's nod, the man seems to settle, uncoiling his muscles. It's gratifying that someone on Batman's level trusts John's expertise so much. Say what you will, but Bruce never doubts his comrades' abilities. "Good. Call her."

John grins, pressing his hand against his mouth and blowing out a kiss. "Ladies, Gents and Gits, are you ready to rock!?"

A woman's voice screams back, "Yeah!" causing a few people to jump

"I can't hear you!"

"Yeah!"

"I'm Johnny Con-Job on mic and this fine piece of arse is Ember! Listen to those strings~!" John screams, mimicking a mic while a fast past air guitar riff rips through the air. The noise is coming from everywhere and nowhere, leaving the many volunteer defenders to twist and turn, trying to pinpoint its origin.

Ember burst into the scene, her flaming hair whipping around her whole body as her means of travel before shrinking back onto her head. She's playing fast, angry, and grinning like a devil.

Someone in the crowd lets out a loud scream of joy, "Oh my god, it's Ember McLain!"

John's lips twitch with amusement but he's too busy singing the familiar words that they once wrote together while hiding out from his shitty father and her shitty mother. Both were just a couple of troubled teens no one thought would amount to anything, so they had to believe in themselves and each other back then.

He remembers thinking he would one day marry this girl. Life wasn't fair to those troubled like them.

Once their song ends, Ember lets out a whoop, flouncing down to John's level and punching him in the arm. He grins at her, trying not to notice how she looks exactly the same as she did sixteen years ago when the fire took her and he aged on without her.

"You git! How's it going?!" She laughs, punching him again. Ember's hair is a healthy flame, reaching to the middle of her back, which suggests she has likely enchanted a few humans lately. He's glad. She needs all the stabilization she can get. Her eyes roam his face before snorting "You're old as shit now."

"I'm thirty-two," He scoffs mockingly offended

"Wow, twice my age...." His words trail off as a familiar loneness sinks into her expression, and he wants to kick himself. Right, they were the same age once upon a time. Her face clears up long enough for her to smirk, "I bet your knees hurt from watching other people jump."

John gasps for real this time, but he doesn't have a chance to rebut because Bruce steps up, explaining what was happening to the superstar.

Ember gives him her full attention, nodding along to the plan. She's going to help because she knows the request is coming from John when he summoned her.

"You know Ember McLain!?" Someone hisses into his ear. He turns to the person fully prepared to gloat that, yeah, he knows the rock/pop star that was sweeping the nation, only to gape at the sight of Diana-Wonder Woman for Pete's sake- a starstruck gaze.

For a moment, his tongue doesn't work as Diana grips his upper arm. "My sisters and I used to listen to her music on repeat back home. Do you suppose you can get me an autograph for them?"

John doesn't know how to say no to Wonder Woman, so he finds himself asking his childhood friend, who is preparing to go into a portal made of science, if she can sign five hundred or so cards for free. She squints at him but shrugs. "Only if you can beat up Phantom for me."

"I told you, I'm not going to fight a child, Em."

"Even though he deserves it?!"

[syofrelief]

buzz

unofficial pt 2 to this but you don't need to read the first one. fluff! kisses, too.

Your grin was wolfish when your new little helper trudged into your office.

Soap's head still had a stocking cap's worth of gauze wrapped around it, the purple bruising around his eye faded only slightly. He grunted a hello and stomped to the armchair next to your desk.

"Well hi there, mister," you teased, flicking through your notebook innocently. "Heard you got a bit banged up out there. I like the hair, by the way."

Soap groaned, lower lip pushing out. "Aw, bile yer heid, ah cannae believe they made me shave it off," he whined, grieving his perfect mohawk. You snickered at the reverence in his eye as he patted the bandages gingerly. You wondered what lay beneath it, how his head would look without its trademark style.

"Desk duty?"

"Aye," he sighed. "It's th'worst. No offense."

"None taken. Not for everybody." You could feel the tremors his bouncing knee sent into the floor as he sank into the cushions. A part of you did feel bad for teasing, but it was overtaken by the immense relief blooming in your chest.

Desk duty meant inside. Away from out there. When one of the privates had stuttered out that Sarge's been shot, miss, I can't- you hadn't even let the poor boy finish before sprinting to the bay. It had been a bloody mess. Literally.

Cold terror seeped under your skin, remembering the limp feel of his hand. You shivered.

"Y'alright, lass?"

His voice made you jump. "Hm? Yes. Yeah, I'm...I'm good."

"You look like yeh've seen a ghost." His twinkling eyes made you smile warmly. He had such a pretty face, even bruised up. A little unfair, honestly.

He settled again, chin on his hand as you continued combing through the thick file in front of you. Warm grew on your cheeks as you felt his unwavering stare. You liked having him with you, but recently it had become a distraction. His gaze was a little too open. Too vulnerable in a way that made your lungs struggle for air.

"Johnny," you said suddenly. "Where's Price put you? For desk stuff."

He shrugged, playing with the seam on his pants. "Dinnae, somewhere down the hall."

You cocked your head. "You got a shift today?"

"...Aye."

"You gonna...show up?"

He pouted at you, blue irises shining like the deepest sapphires. Damn those eyes. His fingers stilled on his jeans, all energy focused towards beaming the biggest pleading puppy look he could manage. Your tongue dried and you resisted the urge to pinch his cheek.

"You can't skip," you laughed waveringly, voice light and frail. Great cover-up.

"But...I wanted teh sit wit' you," he pleaded.

Where was this coming from? God, rip out your heart why doesn't he?

"Soap," you said gently. "Go on. We'll talk at lunch."

Grumbling, he dragged his feet all the way to your door, sending you a sour look as he headed off to his own little office. Poor baby, you thought, gaze drifting to the now-empty armchair. Soap wasn't built for desk work; he needed the flashing lights and high octane and loud booms. It'd be a tough couple of weeks.

Sighing, you hoped he wouldn't be too angry with you, reaching for the newest project. It proved to be even denser than the last one, and your head dropped to your desk. Ugh.

Despite banishing him (gently) to his work, you heard him scamper by your doorway more often than was necessary. On day three you'd started timing the intervals. Five minutes. Ten. Six and a half. Ten and fifteen seconds.

The telltale creak of the floor beneath his heavy boots echoed again. Rolling your eyes, you swiveled around to catch him in the act.

Your jaw hit the floor when you saw him. His bandages were gone, and...

"John," you breathed. His government name shocked the smile right off him, and he flinched.

"Aye, whassat for?" He stuck his tongue out, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Your...hair," you said again, hand over your mouth.

It was gone. Gone, gone. Brown fuzz barely covered his scalp, pink scar tissue in knotted lines behind his ears. Your shock was maybe a bit too evident, because hurt flashed across his eyes. Immediately you regretted it, going to stand.

"Hang on, I didn't-"

He sniffed and turned to the door.

"No, Soap, wait!"

You leapt up to kick the door shut before he could leave. Plastering yourself against the door, you fought to keep his gaze. Johnny's ears were a deep purple, and you gently touched his arm.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly. "It's not...it's not bad. It just surprised me. That's all. Come on, please don't...I'm sorry."

He rocked on his heels a moment, gaze still shy. Hair meant a lot to him. Everyone had something in this place. You had so few things to make you, you. Any little feature was clutched onto for dear life. Scented soap, a shade of lipstick, piercings. Soap had hair. He liked taking care of it, combing his hands through it or styling it on lax days.

"Looks chopped, ah ken," he muttered, scruffing a hand over his bare neck. You smiled softly, reaching up to run your hand over the peach fuzz. It tickled.

"It suits you," you said, and you meant it. As much as you missed his waves, his eyes shone a bit brighter now. "Come on, sit. I've got nothing to do."

"Um," he began, and you paused. "Ah...had a question fer ye, actually." He pulled a crumpled note from his pocket, trying to smooth it into legibility. "I...what's this mean?"

You peered at the chicken scratch. Tran/map.

"Oh, they just want a translation of the map. Was this on a picture of something?"

He stalled, trying to remember. "Uhm."

"Here, bring it to me."

Moments later, you had a map sprawled on the floor, annotations and notes in a foreign pen scrawled over it. You were poring over a few dictionaries, trying to find matches.

"So, the best way to do this is to start with any context clues. The..."

Your words fell on deaf ears. Johnny was gazing at you, cheeks pink and lips in a loose smile. Hair drifted from behind your ear, and his hands twitched. He wanted to fix it. He wanted...touch. He'd missed sitting in with you, hearing you hum and the delicate smell of your office. Pretty bird. Smart bird, too, using all the big words he-

"Johnny?"

He blinked, caught. His hand was halfway to your hip, reaching for your keys.

"You...you okay?"

You were blinking at him, a little confused. He nodded, grabbing the key ring gently. He tugged, liking the jingle. You watched him fidget for a bit, then shakily continued.

His sharp ears caught the waver in your voice. The pink on your neck. A slow grin spread across his cheeks. He edged closer, thigh nudging yours. The keys were a nice fidget, but his fingertips burned to squeeze the soft of your hip. Your mumbling didn't pause as he cautiously leaned his forehead on your shoulder, nose brushing the soft cotton of your sweater.

You'd stopped trying to explain the process, now just doing his work for him. Murmuring the new words to yourself, pen scratching soothingly on the papers. Soap's eyelids were heavy with the heady knowledge that you knew. You knew what he was doing, let him cuddle closer, buzzed hair tickling your jaw.

The pen stopped. He felt your chin twitch, your eyes meeting his.

"Soap," you said gently. "Are you asking for something?"

He didn't move, hands frozen on your hip. Baby blues blinked innocently up at you from his curled position on your floor. A choked sound in the back of his throat.

You smiled, setting your book down with a thud. "C'mere, idiot."

He crawled forwards, burly arms wrapping around your middle. Elation bubbled over in his chest, flowing into his veins like nectar. The soothing coo you let out as you ran your hands up his back send his mind into the stratosphere with euphoria.

He clutched at you like a lifeline as you held him, cheek on his head. The stubble was growing on you. It felt nice, like a soft blanket. You scratched gently behind his ears, resulting in a rumbling purr from his prone form. Soap's head rested on the plush of your chest, eyes half-lidded and bleary.

"Missed ye," he mumbled, grip tightening. You frowned, petting his neck.

"You see me every day, silly goose."

"Yeah, but..." he nosed into your neck, pulling himself closer. "Hav'nae done this inna while. Missed it."

You hummed in understanding, nails raking gentle patterns on his skin. A knot of scar tissue made you pause. He noticed, eyes flicking to yours. Concerned. That echo of terror whispered in your head, remembering.

"You scared me," you whispered, throat tight. You smoothed over the scar, too close to those pretty eyes and the fragile mind behind them. Soap sat up, slowly, something stirring in his eyes. It was too much. You hung your head, eyes welling.

"M'sorry," you choked out, tears bubbling over your hands. He drew you close, murmuring dissent at your quiet sobs.

"Aye, none a' tha', birdie," he sighed, "was just a scratch. 'M alright, doll, look," his hand took your and pressed it to his heart, thumping steadily beneath his warm chest. "See? 'M jus' fine."

You crept into his lap, latching yourself securely under his chin. Soap made no effort to stop you, wrapping his arms tight behind your back. He rocked gently, lulling you until the sniffling ceased.

"Aw, wee one," he soothed into the crown of your head. "Didnae know ye cared so much." His tone had the audacity to be teasing, and you whipped angrily to him.

"Didn't- Johnny MacTavish, how-"

He chuckled, kissing your cheek. "Teasin, teasin'. I ken."

You huffed, brow still pinched. His lips pressed a kiss there too.

"C'mon, it was funny. Laugh. Laugh, bonnie, lemme see tha' smile-"

You tried to keep your face twisted, but the insistence of his lips across your face cracked your composure, face splitting. Giggling as he crowed triumphantly, smacking a kiss onto your nose.

You grabbed his face and pressed your lips to his. A small noise in his throat, his fingers tightening on your hips. You licked gently into his mouth. He tasted warm and sweet, sending a shiver down your back. His hands slid up to your jaw, cupping you delicately. Something blossomed in your chest. This was how it was supposed to be. A feeling, one that had been shoved down in the dark, finally coming up to the surface. You nipped at him, trying to fuse your bodies together. Johnny groaned, cheeks flushed.

When you parted for air, his lips were pink and swollen. He took in your flustered face and heaving chest. Your dilated eyes met his.

"Hi, lamb," he smiled, pinching your blushing cheeks. "Look cute all messed up."

You scoffed, burrowing into his neck. His firm, warm skin smelled of fresh pine. You sucked in greedy lungfuls, nosing beneath his ear. His shoulder sloped perfectly for your head. A puzzle-piece match. Meant to be, your heart preened as your hand fisted gently in his shirt.

"Lass," he said, pecking your hair. You hummed, too content to face him. "Ah've a question."

You cooed contentedly, not really listening as his warm grip kneaded your thigh.

"Can I stay here?"

Your brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"Can...can I stay in yer office?"

Your eyes cracked open, brow raised. "Can you work in my office? Johnny..." you breathed a laugh, shaking your head. "I'd get nothing done. Neither would you, for that matter." He blustered indignantly, puppy dog eyes back in full force.

"But..."

"No, Soap," you laughed, kissing his forehead. "Nice try."

His protesting was silenced when you pulled him closer, lacing your fingers together. You were bluffing, but his pout was cute. You'd ask the CO tomorrow to move his stuff in here.

Soap grumbled, breath puffing over your ear.

"Wha' if I get shot again, then ye have to let me-"

"No."

yippee!

[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒖𝒔

synopsis. it's the middle of the night and jungkook stumbles ( yet again ) through your window, wounded, sheepish, irresistably adorable.

pairing. bts ﹢ spiderman!jungkook x mj!reader ﹢ fluff

wordcount. 1.6k

warnings. minor injuries, blood, language, shameless flirting, spiderkook

notes. to the one that loves jungkook like no other and is now falling back down the marvel blackhole, happy birthday c. 💚

You don’t look up when you hear the thud.

It’s followed by a sharp metallic creak on the fire escape and a muffled ow, which means Jeon Jungkook has once again flung himself into your life — bruised, dramatic, and ten seconds from bleeding out on your floor like it’s part of his nightly routine.

You flip a page in your book.

“I’m dying,” comes his voice through the window screen. He sounds like a Victorian ghost. It’s kind of impressive.

“You said that last week,” you call back, still not looking.

“This time it’s for real,” he groans. “I think I got shot. Or stabbed. Possibly both.”

You sigh and slide open the window. Jungkook slumps through it with the grace of a wounded cat, mask pushed up, suit half-ripped, curls wild, and an actual trail of blood following him like glitter.

“My carpet,” you say flatly.

“Hi to you too.” He grins, teeth and all. There's a cut on his lip. He looks like trouble. He always looks like trouble. And God does it make you feel something.

“Let me guess,” you say, grabbing the first-aid kit. “Drug bust gone wrong? Gang of mutant pigeons? You finally picked a fight with someone taller than you?”

“Bold of you to assume anyone is taller than me when I’m upside down,” he mutters, flopping onto your bed without asking.

You ignore the chaos, kneel next to him, and dab at the gash on his temple.

“Stop moving. I don’t want your blood on my comforter. It’s expensive.”

“I’m expensive,” he mumbles. “Limited edition. Real collector’s item.”

“More like ‘slightly used with minor damage.’”

He laughs — a warm, boyish sound that makes your hand freeze for half a second. You pretend it didn’t happen.

“You know,” Jungkook says, eyes flicking up to yours, “most people would be flattered Spider-Man keeps showing up at their window.”

“You’re not Spider-Man,” you say. “You’re Jungkook in spandex who can’t stay upright for more than fifteen minutes.”

“I got pushed, thank you very much.”

You snort. “By what? A toddler?”

“I’ll have you know she was twelve and vicious.”

You press a bandage to his forehead a little harder than necessary.

He hisses. “Ow. I’m telling your mom you abuse superheroes.”

“She already thinks you’re my boyfriend.”

Jungkook blinks. “Wait, what?”

You shrug. “You come over injured. You sleep here sometimes. You call me at 2 a.m. like we’re in a situationship.”

“That’s slander,” he says, looking far too smug for someone who might be concussed. “I only call you after midnight if I’m emotionally stable.”

“That has never happened.”

“Okay, true.”

You roll your eyes, dropping the bloody gauze in the trash. “Why do you even come here? Don’t you have, like, a nurse sidekick or a secret spider cave or something?”

“I have all that,” he says, hand flapping mid-hair like he's all that. “but none of them smell like your vanilla shampoo.”

You blink. “You are literally injured and flirting with me.”

“Multitasking. I’m gifted.”

“You’re gonna bleed out.”

“Then kiss me before I go.”

You stare at him.

He stares back, shameless, like this is normal behavior. Like he didn’t just crawl through your window half-dead and immediately start being a menace.

God, he’s cute. Unfortunately.

“Not tonight, web boy.”

“So you’re saying there will be a night?”

You pause. Blink. Your brain reboots.

“No. Nope. Totally not what I said.” But your speech is a little too fast. It's giving it away, and Jungkook saw it a million miles back.

“You paused. That was a pause.”

You shove the ice pack into his hand. “Shut up and hold this.”

He grins and does what he’s told.

You lean back against your desk chair, arms crossed, trying not to look at the way his jaw flexes or how his shirt is riding up slightly, revealing the tiniest sliver of abs. You’re not looking. You’re definitely not looking.

“Thanks for patching me up,” he says after a beat.

You glance at him. He’s watching you again — but this time it’s not loud or teasing. Just kind of soft. The kind of soft that makes your stomach do something it shouldn’t.

You flick your eyes away.

“Yeah, well. Don’t die. I’d have to clean up your body and that sounds annoying.”

He smiles like that was the most romantic thing he’s ever heard.

He ends up staying.

Which, of course, he always does.

You sit cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, sipping from a lukewarm energy drink and pretending not to care that Jeon Jungkook is currently stretched across your pillows like he pays rent here. He doesn’t. But you’re pretty sure he has a toothbrush in your bathroom.

He’s in his undersuit now — black and sleeveless and clinging in ways you absolutely do not think about. His arm’s bandaged, his curls are still damp from the wet cloth you made him use, and there’s a tiny smudge of blood drying at the corner of his mouth. He looks like a mess.

An unfairly hot mess.

“So,” you say, gaze fixed on a chipped spot of polish on your thumbnail, “what happened out there?”

Jungkook lets out a breath and stares up at the ceiling like it personally offended him. “Some idiot tried to rob a tech truck three blocks from Oscorp. Had, like, actual alien weapons. Not even subtle.”

Your eyes flick to him despite yourself. “Alien-alien or just suspiciously shiny?”

“Alien-alien. Chitauri plasma rifles. The one with the glowy blue veins? You know the type.”

You hum, casually. As if you don’t know. As if you haven’t watched every Avengers briefing leaked online.

“They really let just anyone steal those now, huh?”

“Apparently,” he mutters. “Anyway, I swing in — like, mid-getaway — and try to web the tires. But these guys had shields. And a drone. A full drone, MJ. Like, Stark-level AI.”

“That explains the new hole in your suit.”

He groans. “Do not remind me. This one was limited edition.”

You rest your chin on your knees, quietly watching him. He talks with his hands a lot when he gets going, all excited energy and half-formed gestures. It’s like he forgets how tired he is. Or how much he’s bleeding. Or that it’s 2:37 in the morning and you’re literally just some girl he keeps crashing into.

Still. You could listen to him forever.

“You should call for help more,” you mutter. “You’re not invincible.”

He glances at you. And for a moment, something flickers behind his eyes. He grins lazily. “You worried about me, MJ?”

“I just don’t want alien blood staining my sheets,” you shoot back. “We both have standards.”

Before he can respond with something equally stupid and flirty, his watch makes a sharp beep. He groans again — louder, more dramatic.

“Ugh, nooo. Not now.”

“What is it?”

He presses the face of the watch and a pixelated message glows to life:

DISTRESS CALLAVENGERS TOWER — LEVEL 4 SECURITY THREAT

Your breath hitches. “Avengers?”

“Yeah. I, uh... I help out sometimes.”

You blink up at him. “You never said you worked with them.”

Jungkook shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like Tony Stark didn’t probably give him that suit. “It’s casual. I swing by. Save a cat. Fight a god. Eat snacks.”

You scoff, but your stomach flips a little. He’s joking — but not really. He’s one of them. You’ve always known he was more than the “neighborhood” part of Spider-Man, but still. Hearing it out loud makes something sharp and weird twist behind your ribs.

Jungkook slides off your bed and stands, tugging his top layer back on. His movements are quick now, practiced, but he’s still limping slightly.

You stay seated on the floor, staring up at him. You don’t say it, but your jaw tenses.

He glances at you, then smiles — that annoying, infuriatingly charming smile that makes your heart stutter when you’re not careful.

“Hey,” he says lightly. “Don’t I even get a good luck kiss?”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

He leans down a little, eyes glinting. “What if I don’t make it back? This could be our last moment. Don’t you want to make it cinematic?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna guilt-trip me into kissing you before fighting an alien or whatever?”

He pouts. “You’re literally my emotional support girl. This is part of the job.”

“Then you should’ve unionized.”

He laughs — full-on, head-thrown-back giggle — and it does something catastrophic to your insides.

You roll your eyes and stand, slowly. “Fine.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Close your eyes.”

Jungkook lights up, immediately obedient.

You lean in close.

...and flick his forehead.

“Ow!” he yelps, stumbling back. “Rude!”

You smirk. “That’s for bleeding on my floor.”

He presses a hand to his chest like he’s wounded. “Cold. So cold.”

You cross your arms and shrug, even as your heart thrums traitorously. “Now go save the world or whatever. I’ve got a chem test tomorrow.”

Jungkook backs toward the window, already lifting his mask into place. His curls are wild again, his eyes bright with adrenaline.

But before he climbs out, he pauses — just long enough to glance back at you, one hand resting on the sill.

“You know,” he says, voice muffled through the fabric, “I’m gonna get that kiss one day.”

You roll your eyes. “You keep saying that.”

“And you keep letting me in.”

With that, he winks — actually winks — and dives out the window like gravity is just a suggestion.

You stand there for a second too long.

Then you sigh, turn off the light, and climb into your bed, pulling the blankets over the spot where he left his warmth behind.

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