#this isn't terribly angsty or anything but I'm feeling like writing angst so send in any other requests if you have them

[lambilegs]

Lee who takes care of you after she comes home really late from work one night after unexpectedly being asked to stay longer and you’re just absolutely beside yourself because you have anxietyTM and were convinced something terrible had happened when she wasn’t home when she said she would be and wasn’t answering her phone

lee comforting you after she unexpectedly returns late one night (angst + hurt/comfort)

awe :(( this is so sweet and angsty I'm in love (tysm for the request!! I loveee angst and hurt/comfort, so this was so tender to write :''))

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ✩₊˚🧸.⋆☾⋆⁺₊💤✧

when lee enters the elevator in the bureau, bidding a farewell to agent carter, she immediately sags against the wall, her legs nearly aching. she hasn't had such a packed, tight-scheduled day like this in a while. she got in, and immediately, was flooded with photographic evidence and documents that she had to spend hours pouring over and making notes of. she took a short, twenty minute lunch break, which consisted of making coffee, calling you and eating a quick granola bar. after visiting the library and spending hours on even more research, carter then asked her to stay back to visit one of the victims' homes with him. of course, she wanted, and needed, to say yes, curiosity burning in her to discover more about the recently deceased man and provide answers for his family.

but, she's now weary to the bone. the urge to yawn keeps swimming up her throat, mouth wet with the drool from it and eyelids heavy. she forces herself to remain upright, walking cautiously through the parking lot, eyes scanning around. upon entering her car, she leans her forehead on the wheel, sucking in a deep breath, trying to shake herself out of the exhaustion so she can focus on the drive home. after squeezing her eyes open and shut, she finally starts on her way home to you.

upon entering her cottage, an unsettling feeling washes over her. she checks her watch -- it's late, sure, but you're usually up at this time, doing some work of your own or on the couch, watching television. but, her home was eerily silent. she quietly locks the door, slipping her shoes off and neatly placing them on the rack, before venturing further.

she calls out for you, her chest beginning to tickle with nerves when you don't answer. she silently makes her way to her bedroom, door creaking as she pushes it open. "babe?"

her breath hitches when she sees the state of you. you're curled into her blankets, eyes teary, mouth tight with anger. when she steps in, you practically glare at her, and the sharpness of your stare is enough to have her freezing in place. "what is it?" she asks, voice hushed, the teeth of worry beginning to sink into her gut and sending her muscles contracting.

you sniffle, mouth quivering, and she feels herself frown. god, you look so distressed, and at once, both betrayed and immensely sad. the complications of such an expression has her unnerved, and she tenses up, waiting for your answer.

"do you remember what time you said you'd be home, lee?"

immediately, it clicks, the memory of her call with you making its trail through her brain. in the footsteps, she remembers her words, promising to be home by 7:30PM. when she had just checked her watch, it was 10:28PM.

her eyes shift to the ground, shame coursing through her at the broken promise, fingers thrumming on her thigh as she tries to formulate a response -- anything, really, it just had to be the right response. you deserve that much. "I... I'm sorry. carter asked me to stay back, and I couldn't say no."

"well, did he also ask you to not call me?" you ask sarcastically, your words containing a bite that she isn't accustomed to receiving from you.

"no, he didn't," she answers truthfully, though part of her suspects your question was rhetorical. "that was my fault. it slipped my mind, that I had promised to be home early, that I should've called you." her voice lowers, thick with shame at her own irresponsibility. "I'm sorry."

your face softens, eyes drinking up the way she avoids your gaze, the way her voice sounds so small, losing the natural straightforwardness it usually possesses, and the movements of her hands clumsy, folding in on themselves. "I was just so worried, lee. you said that this guy you've been investigating has a violent history, and has made threats to the FBI. and I..." you breathe in shakily, fresh tears beginning to well in your eyes. "I was terrified something had happened. I tried to reassure myself, but I couldn't do it. everything in my head was panicked and was moving a mile a minute. all the possibilities of what could've happened to you felt even worse than just saying them out loud. and, and you didn't pick up."

she nods quietly to your words, wanting you to have the space to express what her actions caused. she knew you dealt with anxiety, and was well-aware of how her being an agent could impact that. yet, still, she managed to screw up. what is wrong with her? guilt latches onto her gut and tightens its grip, and she feels her fingers, slippery and clumsy, continuing to fiddle. "I understand. I'm really sorry, baby. I promise, it won't happen again." when she looks up at you, your lips part at the sight of her eyes sheen with tears, eyebrows scrunched together in determination. "it won't happen again. I'm sorry it did, though. I know the circumstances, and it was messed up for me to forget to call you again. and I'm just -- I'm sorry." she feels a tear slip down her cheek, and her hand flinches to wipe it away before deciding against it, not wanting to draw attention to it in case you missed the sight of it in the dim lighting. "I've just been so caught up in work, and this case, and just got lost in it today. and I was so tired, and carter asking me to help him was just so rushed that I didn't get to even think, and..." she falters, realizing she's rambling, trying desperately to explain herself and make this up to you. but, she knows no amount of excuses will ease your hurt. only her promise to do better will. "I'm sorry."

she swallows down the urge to cry, wanting to remain focused on you. but, you're quiet for so long, and the silence of the room causes anxiety to unfurl in her, the sudden feeling making her shift.

finally, in her peripheral vision, she sees you move, and tentatively looks up to find you sitting up in the bed, arms stretched out.

relief flushes through her, as welcome a feeling as a gust of wind on a humid summer day. she immediately walks towards you, sitting down on the edge of the bed and burying her face in your neck, arms clinging to you, desperate to feel your touch, your forgiveness. "baby, I..." her words catch on a broken breath, the urge to cry choking at her.

"I know," you whisper, hands combing through her hair. "I was just so scared. I tried to call, but you didn't pick up."

"I'm sorry," she says, voice muffled against your skin. "I was out with carter, but I should've told you." her arms tighten around you, and through that motion, you feel the guilt whirling inside her, the love threatening to spill from her lips.

"yeah, you should've," you say, pausing as a small sob bubbles up in your throat, tears beginning to leak as you remember the anxiety that had plagued you just minutes ago.

she hears it, immediately pulling away to watch you, mouth clamping shut, worry creasing her temple, as you start crying again. for a moment, she just watches you, devastation gnawing at her from seeing how pained you are. she should've done better, she knows that now, but the guilt is ceaseless. she never wants to cause you such worry, such hurt.

her arms wrap around your waist, long fingers drawing gentle circles into your back, as you weep into her chest, soaking through her dress shirt. she silently lets some of her own tears fall, paying no mind to them as she strokes your hair and quietly listens to your broken words and croaking hiccups, murmuring apologies into your hair, which still smells fresh from your shower.

"I-I'm sorry, too, for snapping," you gasp out through your sobs. "I was just scared and anxious, and it made me antsy and upset with you, but I know it was an accident. I shouldn't have snapped, I'm sorry."

something inside her softens at your apology, the earnestness of your words enough to comfort her. you taking a harsh tone with her always feels unfamiliar and unsettling, and to hear you take it back helps her more than she'd like to admit.

after you calm down, the hiccups slowly beginning to subside, she combs your hair back from your sweaty forehead and damp cheeks. her eyes, wide and earnest, explore yours and you nearly shrink under the intensity of the gaze. the feeling is moulded into a sweet longing when she presses her lips to your cheeks, softly kissing away your hot tears. "what can I do?" she whispers against your skin, her touch so light and delicate.

you shrug, voice still raspy from your cries. "just, stay with me. and, I don't know, can we hang out?"

her eyebrows draw together, face firm as she gives you a hard nod. "of course. I want to." she pauses, eyes glancing to your lap as she swallows. "you know that, right? I want to be here with you."

you nod, not trusting your voice. everyday, she eagerly greets you upon her arrival at home, and even on days when she's weary and drained, her head immediately lays in your lap, face nuzzling into your thigh. you know she wants time with you. despite her quietness, her actions show that. the way she almost always keeps her promises as to when she'll return, her consistent calls when at work, your long talks before bed. you know it.

she holds you for the rest of the night, turning on one of your comfort shows when you admit still feeling uneasy in spite of her return home. she makes each of you a cup of tea, bringing it to bed, and carefully placing it in your hands. she rubs your back, whispering gently, "I'm here, I'm home," (the words ease her as much as they do you, the comfort and safety of having someone to return home to making her overcome with emotion and gratitude) pressing kisses to your brow. but, she doesn't rush you, she never does. she just stays near you, ready to wait however long needed, so long as it meant you could breathe easily.

when you both fall asleep that night, you immediately sink into a slumber, the exhaustion of the anxious night wearing you down. she watches you for a while, brushing her knuckles against your cheek, a protective urge surging through her to stay up in case you woke up, for she knows how difficult it can be for you to rest easy on such nights. but, as her eyes get heavy, she curls closer to you, her knees lifting in her usual fetal position of sleeping. your hand lays next to yours, and she cups them, quietly kissing your fingertips. when your eyes briefly flutter open, heavy-lidded and bleary, she smiles, her stomach feeling like it will burst at the sight. "wake me if you need anything, okay?"

you lazily grin, nodding into the pillow. "okay."

she pauses, eyes searching yours. "I love you, okay?"

"I love you too, lee."

with the quiet confession whispered and lost into the night, you both sleep, minds, at least momentarily, at ease from the assurance.

[maydays-writings]

The Information Kiosk

Last Updated: 4/8/2023 (11:53 PM GMC-5)

Number of Requests Open [5/5] Welcome! Here lies writings of all sorts, from that feel-good fluff to the most painful angst!

(Minus the dirty stuff, we don't do that here...)

My Main Blog is maydays-medbay, and all of my OCs are listed on the pinned post

I write for a lot of continuities, however the requests that I will be taking will be mild for the time being. I am very rusty, and I don't want to overwhelm myself right from the get-go by taking all of the requests that I can.

I will mainly write for my OCs as of right now, but I will also make things for canon characters here and there depending on my mood (or if the prompt is really good...). I will NOT, however, be taking any reader insert requests. I don't feel as though I'd give them the justice that many other writers can, so I will avoid them until I become more comfortable with my writing style, speed, and feel as a whole. I hope you all understand.

Headcanon Posts will be under the #Mayday's Headcanons tag

Writing Posts will be under the #Mayday's Drabbles tag (even if they aren't exactly drabble-sized)

Certain characters will be labeled as such, as well as the continuity, au, genre, ship, or other associated tags

Anything that is a sensitive topic will be labelled with #Sensitive Content as well as what the topic is

The current continuities that I write for are Transformers Prime, Beast Wars Transformers and IDW/MTMTE. I am most comfortable with them, so I can do them best. Other continuities will be a...struggle at best.

For more information about my [current] request guidelines, refer to the stuff below the cut! Thank you, and I hope you enjoy your stay!

Styles of writing will include both headcanons and normal writing. The length of these will vary depending on my mood and how many ideas that I have over the subject. It's very situational. Though feel free to request a specific type, or none at all.

The actual information inside the request can be rather vague or descriptive. That's up to the individual giving the request. A full on scenario is fine too, if you've thought of one that you want to see.

I will write for darker content here and there (including some triggering topics), but I might struggle with these a little and they will take more time. I never want to write them in a romantic light, so I take my time and do as much research for the topic as possible to avoid that. (If I ever accidentally do lean towards romanticizing something PLEASE tell me so I can fix it or take the fic down altogether)

Specific characters and genre are not always required together, but at least one should be in the request to make my writing easier to make. The characters can be either canon or OCs, it's up to you.

Ship requests are fine, so long as the actual pairing isn't something like MegaStar or OverPan.

I also don't write NSFW, kink, or ships that include certain types of problematic content like P3dophilia or Inc3st. Don't send in requests including them, simple as that.

If there is a certain ship or character that I don't write for then I'll ignore the request until I can add that specific thing to a "Won't Write" list.

REQUEST EXAMPLES:

Hi! How about something angsty? Like, someone gets hurt and then is found by another character, and they freak out when the hurt character passes out?

Do you think you could do a fluffy work regarding [X] ship? Maybe something kind of domestic?

What are your headcanons for [X] character in [X] continuity for [X] AU?

What do you think about [X] character?

I hope these kind of show off what I mean (I'm kind of terrible at explaining stuff lol)

[bestintheparsec]

“I can’t imagine my life without you in it” + “I didn’t think you cared”

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Warnings: none

Words: 900 ish

- Hi anon, you sent this a month ago and I’m sorry it took this long for me to post this; but I hope you like it😅 Also I’m so glad you enjoyed Healer!❤️

Requests | Masterlist

You’re out of the hospital and home now, pouring yourself some more whiskey and walking back and forth across the living room, trying to fill your head with lighter thoughts before bed.

You try to stretch your neck and wince at the bit of pain that strikes your shoulder. Looking down at the bandages, you take another drink from the glass.

The attempt at clearing your thoughts is a weak one at best. Your mind can’t help but go to Javier, replaying that fight you had the night before you’d gotten into the altercation with the sicarios. Hurtful things were said, on both ends, and by the end of it you were left alone with nothing but your frustrated tears.

Your thoughts are interrupted by several loud knocks on your door. You know exactly who it is, and by now you’re feeling more apprehension than hurt.

Javier paces impatiently outside the door to your apartment. 

He’d heard from a very reluctant Steve that you’d been rather severely injured on the field, and he was fuming. At himself, for not being out there that day, and at Steve for hiding it from him, despite it being on your insistence.

Fear is something he’s gotten used to, doing what he does; but he never likes when it’s in regards to you. 

You open the door to find the pained look on his face. After a moment of neither of you saying anything, you step aside and let him in, shutting the door quietly after him.

He follows your hurriedly back to the living room, and reaches out to touch your arm—it’s only a split second before he moves away again, running a hand through his hair. He wears a frown that carries more frustration than usual.

“Are you...alright?” Javi asks hesitantly in a low voice. The tension from the last night you saw each other still lingers.

“Well, I’m home now,” you answer simply. You’d taken a day off of work to recoup, not telling Javier or anyone else except Steve and the ambassador. 

“You got shot and didn’t think it was worth telling me?” He raises his voice just a little.

“I didn’t think you cared,” you whisper. “After the other night...”

“What did you want me to say?” he says, his voice deep. “That I can’t imagine my life without you in it?”

You both go still, the silence cutting sharply through the air. He holds your gaze for a few seconds before glancing away. You look at him with concern and confusion, a furrow in your brows. All you can concentrate on are the deep rises and falls of his chest; he seems to be just as taken aback as you are by the words.

A long pause goes by before you speak again. “Javi, I—”

He interrupts with a hefty sigh, mostly directed at himself; his shoulders fall as he shakes his head. 

“I’m...gonna go,” he says, starting to turn towards the door.

He makes it three steps forward before you stop him.

“No—wait,” you murmur quietly. “Please...don’t go.” You can barely meet his eyes, hating the pleading tone in your voice. You feel his intense gaze on you.

Javi walks back over after a moment, almost reluctantly, and nearly closes the space between you.

Tentatively, he takes both of your hands, then traces his fingers slowly up your arms, barely brushing them along your skin. He doesn’t meet your eyes as his gaze falls on the nasty wound on your shoulder; his jaw clenches when he sees some of the blood that's seeped through the gauze. You don’t know what to say, or if you should say anything at all, so instead you move to rest your hand on his chest; a gesture of reassurance.

He should’ve been there, he thinks to himself.

His eyes finally break away and meet yours again, and you can’t quite make out the expression in them. He looks hurt, though it doesn’t seem to be about your injury.

Before you can read him any further, he carefully tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. He’s even closer to you now, and you can smell a hint of cigarette smoke on him.

Javi cradles your face in his hand, and leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head. He lingers there for a few seconds before pulling away. When you tilt your head up to peer up at him again, he finally pulls you in for a kiss that seems to carry everything he couldn’t say out loud. 

His hands move down to your waist and rest behind your back, when suddenly he stops and pulls back, as though he’d gotten carried away with himself.

“What I said...” he starts, but can’t seem to finish the sentence.

You wrap your arms around his torso, leaning your head against his chest. 

“You don’t need to say anything,” you say. It comes out quieter than you expected, and his arms suddenly tense up around you. Just as quickly, he relaxes again.

Eventually you break apart and he follows you to bed; you're both spent. He doesn’t always stay, and on most nights you don’t go straight to sleep. Somehow it always ends up like this; unspoken words that he’s not quite sure how to say. But when he has you in his arms and everything else fades away, Javier starts to believe he may figure it out one day.

~

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[iphoenixrising]

For 700 Followers!

Hi babe.

That is terribly angsty and now I’m intrigued.

(Just a note for babe not familiar with No Home for Dead Birds or Fracture: I write a scene in which Tim literally has a gun to head. This is not lighthearted angst, please be warned if you read this.)

**

At one time, his colors had been red, gold, and green.

At one time, he’d been part of something bigger, something important. A legacy.

At one time, he’d been able to fly without being afraid of falling.

Being Robin had been the epitome. Even with all the terrible things he’d endured, all the injuries, all the catastrophes, all the insane megalomaniacal baddies breathing down his neck, he wouldn’t have traded the tunic for anything in the world.

(Dick had known it, had known how painful it was for Tim give it up once his Dad found out.)

He would have died with the R on his chest and never had a single regret.

Realistically, he couldn’t have been Robin forever, and he’d known that someday he would have to give it up and either move on with his life as a regular person, or take on another name, another mask, to keep fighting the good fight.

He hadn’t expected Dick would take it without a thank-you or fuck you to mark the end. That hadn’t been in the plan.

But it’s fine because Dick was the first and Robin had been his anyway, right?

Right.

Wrong.

Staring down the .45 in hand, the gun his father hadn’t had the chance to use to save his own life, Tim Drake wonders how it all came down to this.

(Last one left standing. Of fucking course.)

How it had all come out so badly, how he could barely step foot back in Gotham, how he had to avoid the Manor, the Carriage House, his own family home. How he couldn’t pick up the phone or answer texts coming from his former team. How he could barely keep himself the fuck together now that Bruce was back. How his hands would start to shake when the Manor phone number popped up (Alfred). How his mind’s eye would go back to Dick at the Big Computer in the Batsuit, telling him they were still equals. How he would imagine what would happen if he hadn’t caught himself when that zip line was cut. How he would sit in his safe house, off the Bat radar, and mourn the times when he was actually–

(happy)

–part of a family.

The pictures from an old Vans shoebox, the ones he’d taken back when he’d had the run of Gotham, following Batman and Robin (Jason), are burning in the kitchen sink. He watches Nightwing’s blurry face melt away and pretends there aren’t tears in his eyes.

The old memorabilia from Haley’s Circus is in a storage unit outside the city, along with a box that has his last Robin suit.

The lawyer has strict instructions to deliver the key and a letter to his former adopted father, Bruce Wayne, upon news of his death so anything incriminating can be properly disposed.

(They wouldn’t need any of it anyway. They could just shred all of it and wash their hands of him. The Robin that never should have been.)

A map with all his safe houses would be send to Conner Kent, along with a letter of apology.

His favorite nerd shirts would go to Ives.

The sundries in his Perch would be for Steph, and the penthouse itself would go to Babs in case things in the theatre went sideways.

Bart would get a zip drive with all their old shenanigans on video, the only copies left once his systems uploaded relevant data to Titan’s Tower and his electronic footprint would be–

gone.

The box with the Red Robin costume he wore was already sealed and addressed to Jason Todd. The note on top was short and sweet: You were right. It never should have been me after all.

He’d already arranged for his share in Wayne Enterprises to be returned to Bruce Wayne immediately, handing him his family’s company back without any strings attached.

Months ago, he’d returned The Red Bird to the Cave when he was sure no one would be around to catch him. The implication that Robin would need the car one day right there in the fact he’d brought it back because honestly, it was never really his in the first place.

Alfred would get his pick of antiques from Drake Manor, and the house itself would be given to the city to be used as a halfway home for runaway teens. He’d made sure the funding would be there to run it for a few years. The donation was made in his mother’s name.

The hilt molds to his palm, the barrel glinting bright in the night. To his credit, his hands aren’t shaky when he slides the clip home and pulls the slide back to put one in the chamber.

(The team had been working fine without him for a while now. Even if they did need someone, there was another Robin to join the roster and keep them moving forward.)

An abrupt light in the darkness, his phone screen lighting up with a missed call notification.

Missed call: Dick the OG

Ironic since the last time he’d come this far, it had been him calling out to the last person he thought could pull him back.

(Not this time. He has a new little brother, a new Robin.)

Slowly, without putting down the .45, he presses the ignore when the phone starts buzzing against with another incoming call. He thumbs the button on the side to turn the phone completely off without listening to the voicemail.

The clip makes a difference, but the absurdity of it, of the last time he did this, was when his future self was a murdering, gun-toting Batman, and the only way he could see to stop it was to stop himself.

The press of the barrel is familiar, and not in that soothing kind of way.

He blinks, just blinks, and his face is wet, which is really stupid because no one is going to miss him any damn way.

His chest gets tight when he fingers the trigger guard, giving himself the time he needs to do it right. In the final moments, he inanely thinks about the time he was huddled against Dick, right after he'd almost tried cloning his dead best friends in an insane attempt to bring them back. It's really the last time he remembers being held, being warm, feeling like he still fucking mattered. It was Dick holding him tight with restraining, breathing against the top of his head, fingers buried in his hair.

It's when he could be weak while still in the mask, babbling to Dick about how he can't do this, he can't lose them all. He was crying then, too, when he told Dick about his mom and dad leaving, leaving, always fucking leaving. About how he got used to seeing their backs more than their faces. How he was left standing on his own for too damn long to just let it keep happening. He couldn't keep losing them, couldn't keep seeing people walk away, how it fucking breaks him.

And in the here and now, his chest hitches, eyes fluttering, hand tightening down because he'd said...and Dick had...

"But I'm here, Timmy. I'm always going to be your big brother!"

It had been the last time he'd been surrounded by the famed octopus hold.

(It was the last time for a lot of things.)

He laughed, smothered in Dick shoulder, something further away from a sob. "Then I guess you'll at least never leave me, right?"

"You will never be able to get rid of me. C'mon. We're going the hell home and having a movie day. Screw the Lazarus Pit, Robin. It's time for some R and R."

Dick had half-carried him to the waiting Batplane and talked him down out of trying to use the Pit for his own gain ever again.

The first knuckle rests on the smooth curve, a six-pound trigger.

(In the end, they all leave.)

(Not again.)

Conner's terrible mohawk and leather jacket.

Bart racing Wally at a hotdog eating competition.

Cassie running full tilt to throw herself at him when he'd come to Titan's Tower to ask them for help when Ra's was going to kill everyone Batman ever loved.

Raven nuzzling Gar out of plain sight so no one would think she was totally gone for him.

Jason coming to the Tower, alive good God, and the Robin he used to be super-imposed to be his hero and enemy in the same ghostly figure.

Bruce putting a hand on his shoulder on a ride back to the Cave, chasing the dawn, the Good work, tonight tired but sincere, and his whole body lights up.

His mother looking at peace in her coffin, a lily in her folded hands.

His eyes close on the out-of-the-way safe house, the plain beige walls, stripped and soulless. He keeps the team in his mind, the times he was happy.

Now.

Instead of a resounding boom followed by his grey matter splattering his personality, intelligence, imagination, him all over–

the wall to the safe house caves in under a super punch.

Conner is white as a sheet on the other side, brick and mortar crumbling under his hands. "No! Tim. Tim. Put. The. Gun. Down."

His mouth is dry and his brain pan full of nothing but pain and disappointment.

(But you brought it all on yourself, didn't you? The Robin nobody wanted. The son nobody asked for.)

He isn't numb enough to be calm, cool, and collected. "All...all you have to do–" a hitch in his breathing "–is walk away."

The meta floats in a little closer, hovering over the flooring instead of outside. His hands stretch out, gaze focused and intense.

"Can't do that, buddy. Looks like I should have been more of an asshole after all the League of Assassins shenanigans. Sorry, my bad."

Kon knows he's in trouble when Tim Drake doesn't laugh.

"Tim," he goes to serious in about two point five seconds because the hand holding that shiny automatic tightens enough for him to hear the screws in the hilt strain, "Tim. It's me here, okay? It's just you and me, just like it's always been. We’re besties, whether you're Robin or Red Robin or Tim fucking Drake because that guy is so damn cool." He inches closer, wondering if he's fast enough, wondering if he can really get to Tim in time–

Like the former Robin can read his mind, those violet-blue eye give him a blink.

"I’ve always wondered if you really are faster than a speeding bullet."

“No!”

(...as it turns out, he isn’t.)