#to try and make her do something about the floodlights

[greater-than-the-sword]

Great to add to my various woes, someone came into the front yard and clipped the tree branches and left them piled up there, while I was gone, and I have no idea who it was or if they had any right to do so (the landscapers only come on Tuesday and I wasn't gone over Tuesday plus they would have taken the debris with them)

SORRY IM PARANOID ABOUT PEOPLE MESSING WITH THINGS OK?? PEOPLE KEEP MESSING WITH THINGS

[p0orbaby]

could you maybe write some pregnant smut with either alexia or leah please and thank youuu 🤭

this isn’t at all what you asked for because my mind went blank… but i wanted to give you something. a follow up may be on the horizon

rich!reader, postpartum sex ban, let’s gooo

-

You are experiencing what can only be described as an emergency.

Not a life-threatening emergency, no. Not in the conventional sense. There is no fire. No armed robbery. No medical professionals are needed.

And yet—despite the complete absence of immediate danger—you are suffering. You are in crisis.

Because it has been six weeks since you have been able to have sex.

Six weeks.

Forty-two days.

One thousand and eight hours.

You do the maths frequently. It brings you no comfort.

Because your wife—your unreasonably attractive, infuriatingly smug wife—has been making it worse.

You don’t think she’s doing it on purpose. But then again, you also didn’t think you were the kind of person who could be undone by the mere existence of another human being, and yet—

Here you are.

Postpartum. Horny. Not okay.

Your last shred of dignity clings to the edge of a cliff, gripping so desperately you might cry.

And then, because the universe hates you, you are forced to endure the absolute worst possible setting for your suffering: a Champions League match.

Barcelona vs Lyon. Quarter-finals. Home leg. A packed stadium. Your baby in your lap. Your wife on the pitch.

It is the worst possible arrangement of things.

Because Alexia, captain, leader, heartbeat of the team, is also—unfortunately—a menace to your well-being.

She is everywhere. Commanding. Dominating. Bossing the midfield. Calling for the ball. Intercepting play. Creating chances.

And she is sweaty.

She is so sweaty.

Her shirt clings to her back. Her thighs glisten under the floodlights. She is locked in, sharp, a threat. She pulls her shorts up—a little habit she has before every free kick—and your stomach drops to your knees.

You are not okay.

You have not been okay for weeks.

You shift slightly in your seat, trying to focus on anything else. You fail spectacularly.

Isabel, blessedly oblivious to your suffering, sleeps peacefully against your chest, one tiny hand curled into a fist against your shirt. She has not known suffering a day in her life.

And then—because life is cruel—Alexia scores.

The entire stadium erupts.

She roars, fist in the air, running to the corner flag, chased by teammates.

And you—seated in the most privileged of all possible seats—are struck with the deep, undeniable realisation that you have never been more attracted to anyone in your entire life.

Which is a problem.

Because you are in a box, surrounded by people.

Important people.

The president of the club is to your left. His wife is beside him, clutching his arm, thrilled, eyes wide. Across from you, executives are clapping. Your in-laws—who insisted on coming—are beaming.

And yet—all you can think about is how badly you want to jump your wife in front of all of them.

You clench your jaw. Adjust your grip on the baby. Breathe through your nose. Try to survive.

Twenty minutes later, Barcelona win.

The final whistle goes. The team celebrates. Cheers. Applause. The smell of fresh beer being flung into the air in the stands.

And then—the worst possible thing happens.

Alexia jogs off the pitch.

Your body, betraying you completely, tenses in anticipation.

You know what’s coming.

You have seen this play out a thousand times before.

Ten minutes later, the door swings open.

You brace yourself.

And then she walks in.

And you—like a complete idiot—forget how to breathe.

Because she is fresh from the shower.

She is in a navy tracksuit. The zip is low. Her hair is still wet, damp against her skin.

She smells like soap.

Like her.

And she knows.

She sees the way you tense. She sees the way your grip tightens on the baby. She knows exactly what she is doing to you.

And then—because she hates you—she leans down and kisses Isabel’s forehead.

Soft. Gentle. Devastating.

Your stomach drops through the floor.

She sits down next to you. So casual. So smug. She touches your thigh, her fingers barely brushing against the fabric, like she isn’t completely destroying you.

And then—to make things worse—she focuses entirely on the baby.

You stare at her.

You cannot handle this.

She hums softly under her breath, rubbing small circles into Isabel’s back. Her fingers move so lightly, so effortlessly, and your stomach flips.

Your entire body is on fire.

She adjusts the blanket. Fixes a tiny sock. Makes a soft, affectionate noise.

And you—you actually whimper.

She laughs.

The kind of laugh that makes you want to throw yourself into the sea.

She leans in slightly, voice low, amused, calculated.

“Three more days.”

Your eyes slam shut.

You are in actual, physical pain.

Seventy-two hours.

You might not survive.

God help you.

[happy74827]

One Call Away

[Wade Wilson x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: During one of his "jobs," Deadpool gets a call from his favorite gal [GIF Creds: jdsheart]

WC: 1970

Category: Fluff, Major Comedy {TW: Deadpool’s Humor/Nonfiltered Personality}

This man is so hard to write. I’m always stressing the noggin when it comes to planning and plotting 😔

『••✎••』

"And away we go..."

One neck crack and a couple of hip twists later, he was off like Aladdin and his fucktoy carpet, scaling the building similarly to a chameleon on LSD.

The only thing that was missing was some epic music.

He'd been chasing this baddie around the city for almost two days now. Some big-shot mob boss with ties to Hydra, or the Mafia, or the Yakuza, or some other three-letter-acronym organization. It was hard to keep track of them all at this point. They were all the same, except for the name.

They all had their own agenda.

Kill him, keep him prisoner, pay him off...

Wade never cared enough to listen because it was always the same. He just got hired to do the dirty work, and the pay was good.

The killing was better.

This one, however, was particularly good at eluding him. He'd been trying to get his hands on this man for a few days now. It wasn't as though he was trying to be stealthy or anything, either. He'd walked right up to his front door, knocked, and was greeted with a spray of machine gun bullets.

So, the usual.

But then the guy ran and didn't stop. It was like the fucking Roadrunner met Sonic the Hedgehog, and they decided to fuck around and find out.

Wade was getting real sick and tired of being a Roadrunner, too. He had a reputation to uphold. He wasn't known as the Merc with the Mouth for nothing. He was supposed to be the one doing the running and the killing.

Not the other way around.

Finally, finally, he managed to reach the roof where the guy was currently taking cover behind a small brick shack. The sun was rising, but it was still dark, and there were a couple of floodlights shining on the rooftop. It made him think of the night he'd had that heart-to-heart with Blind Al, even though all she really wanted was for him to bring her some of that special brownie mix.

What a night that had been.

But anyway, this monologue is starting to get too long, and we should probably move things along, eh?

Right.

So, the baddie.

His name was something long and non-English.

Salvatore, or Santino, or Salvation... Whatever the fuck it was, it didn't really matter. What mattered was that it was time to make him dead.

He stepped around the corner and was met with a spray of bullets, all of which lodged themselves into his Kevlar vest.

"Oh, come on!" he yelled over the sound of the gunfire. "This is real leather, you know. I'm tired of all the offscreen sewing and shit."

When the spray finally ended, he took a moment to catch his breath.

"…ow," he whispered to himself.

"You shouldn't have followed me here," the man said.

"Yeah, whatever," Deadpool replied. "Look, I'll make this easy for you. You drop down and give me fifty, and I'll let you keep that hideous mustache you're sporting."

The man's eyes widened in surprise.

"It's not that bad, is it?"

"Yes, yes it is," Deadpool assured him. "You got a squirrel living in it or something?"

"It's just a little bit of gray, you dick," the man argued. "What about you? What's with the mask? Are you hiding a mustache under there, too, or something? Maybe some acne scars?"

Deadpool shook his head and stepped forward, his guns drawn.

"Don't come any closer!"

"You know, this would be much more intimidating if you didn't look like a cartoon mouse."

"Stop it with the mustache!"

"Alright, alright," Deadpool said. "Enough with the mustache. But what is it about your hairline? I can't put my finger on it."

The man sighed in exasperation and pulled out his pistol, aiming it right at Deadpool's face.

"Hey now, don't point that at me," Deadpool scolded him. "That's not a very nice thing to do."

He ignored him and pulled the trigger, a loud boom ringing out as the bullet fired. It whizzed by him but missed its mark.

"You really are a dick," He grumbled before aiming his gun right between the man's eyes. And he was going to shoot, honest.

He really was.

But then his phone rang, and he was well-reminded of the current song playing through his head.

I'm a buff baby that can dance like a man. I can shake-ah my fanny, I can shake-ah my can!

Needless to say, he was distracted.

He lowered his gun and looked down at his pocket, where his phone was still ringing and still vibrating against his leg.

"Shit, hold that thought," He said to the guy, and he holstered his gun.

"Wh-what the hell are you doing?!"

Deadpool put his finger up to shush him before pulling his phone out of his pocket to answer it.

If you're an evil witch, I’ll punch you for fu—

"Heyyyy," he said in a sing-songy voice, "you've reached the phone sex hotline. For kinks and fetishes, press one. For booty calls, press two. For your favorite mercenary, press three."

"Ey, pendejo—" His opponent started, but he cut him off by snapping and raising his finger.

"Cut it, Tuco Salamanca. Breaking Bad called and wants its meth-cooking mustache back."

"Wha-I-you-"

"Anyways, this is your favorite merc speaking. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

"Is this a bad time?"

Wade's eyes widened in shock, and his jaw dropped open when he heard her voice on the other end of the line.

"Baby girl! Is that you? Oh, how I've missed your voice. It's like hearing an angel, or an angelic chorus, or a whole bunch of angels, but you're the most important one. Like, the lead singer or something."

"I literally saw you last night." Your voice was always drenched with the most amazing kind of sarcasm, and he'd missed it.

"And?"

"It's only been a few hours."

"And?"

"That's a short amount of time."

"And?"

You sighed, but he knew you weren't really annoyed.

"Anyways, you sounded busy," you continued, "so I'll just let you go."

"What?! No! Don't hang up!" He shouted into the receiver. "I've only fiddled with my pistols! Nothing interesting is happening right now!"

"Your pistols, huh?" You asked a hint of mischief in your voice.

"Well, yeah. They're the most important part of the mission, you know."

In the corner of his eye, he could see his target making his way towards the edge of the building. Quickly and efficiently, without dropping his attention from his conversation with you, he lifted his gun and fired a shot at the man's knee.

"Ah, fuck!" the man screamed in pain. "My knee!"

"Hey! Language!" Deadpool scolded him. "The lady of the house is listening!"

"Lady of the- what the fuck?!"

"I said language, you mustachioed rat!"

"Mustachioed rat?" You asked.

"Sorry, babe," he replied. "You know how excited I get when Downtown Abbey is on."

“There’s gunshots in Downtown Abbey?"

"Gunshots? Oh, no, no. That was… uh, a car alarm. Yeah, the neighbor's car alarm was going off."

"Uh-huh," you said, not sounding very convinced. And, of course, that was right around the time the guy's gun went off again, this time hitting him square in the shoulder. It made the phone fall out of his hand and clatter onto the ground, but the call was still connected.

"Dammit!" He yelled, looking at the fresh blood dripping down his arm. "That's gonna take forever to heal!"

"Who are you talking to?" The man demanded, his gun still aimed at Deadpool's face. "You're working with someone?"

"Hey, now, I don't remember giving you permission to talk," Deadpool told him, holding his bloody arm up to his face. "Look, I've gotta call you back, babe. I know it's been so heartbreakingly long—"

"Again, only a few hours," you said.

"—but duty calls. Love you, bye."

"Love you, bye."

With that, the line disconnected.

"Ugh," he groaned, his heart aching for the loss of your sweet voice. "I miss her already."

"Ey," his opponent growled, drawing his attention. He started speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, which Deadpool didn't really understand, but he didn't have to. The guy was just ranting and raving.

"Alright, alright, chill," Deadpool said. "Just calm down. It’ll all be over soon, little buddy."

"I am not little! I am a giant!" The guy protested, and Wade could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. "And I will not chill!"

"Well, can't argue with that, I guess," Deadpool said with a shrug, and he took aim. But before he could pull the trigger, the guy was running again.

"Hey, what did I tell you about running?!" He yelled, but his voice fell on deaf ears as the guy reached the ledge.

"I am a giant!"

"No, you're a giant asshat!"

"I will not be bested by some masked buffoon!"

"Buff? Me? Why, I never!"

"You're the biggest asshole I've ever met!"

"You know what? I am a big ass! A big, round, bubbly ass." He paused for a second. "Hey, what's your favorite flavor?"

"Fuck you, you red-clad imbecile!"

"You know, I'd ask you out to dinner first, but we're kinda past that now."

"Argh!"

"Alright, enough stalling," Deadpool said. "It's time to end this."

"Yes," the guy said, turning his gun back on Deadpool. "It is."

Of course, Deadpool being the smart-ass he was, he'd already taken a step to the side. As the bullet whizzed past him, he reached for his gun.

"Now, where did I put that thing? Oh, there it is."

He aimed the gun and fired, and the man fell back onto the ground. The bullet hit him right in the middle of his forehead, his blood splattering all over the concrete.

"Ha ha! Fatality. Deadpool wins!" He said, his voice taking on the deep, grounded tone of the narrator from Mortal Kombat. "Flawless Victory."

He stood over the body for a few seconds, reveling in his victory, before he felt the presence of another.

The gun on his right side got ripped from its holster, and the barrel was aimed back into his face, as it always seems to be.

But, he already sensed it was coming, so his fingers wrapped around his other and aimed that right in the golden spot… and let’s just say, The Golden Girls was a little less golden and a lot more crimson.

"Wow, this has got to be a record," He said as he bent down to stare at the new one’s anguish. "Two dead ugly mustaches in the same day. You can call me Sweeney Todd because shit… I just shaved you the fuck up."

He didn’t give the poor bastard a chance to even whimper before he fired another two shots into the man's head. All in all, this had been the easiest payday he'd had in a while.

He picked up his cell phone and slipped it back into its pocket before bending down and scooping up the mustache man's pistol.

"Ooh, lookie here, a nice, shiny new pistol," he said to himself. "Just what I've always wanted. Well, I don't actually need it. It's not like I have any other holes in my body, but you know what they say. The more the merrier."

He stuffed the gun in his holster and turned around, heading back the way he'd come.

"Time to get back to the good stuff," he said. "I have a date with my favorite girl."

He hopped up onto the ledge and looked down, his eyes locking on the window to his apartment.

And when he arrived, bloody and battered, you could only smile while holding up little ole Mary Puppins in all her drooling glory.

God, how he missed his girls.

[undertheorangetree]

Tantrum

Summary- Art’s girlfriend sucks at tennis. He helps her feel better.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Stanford era Art. Exhibitionism. Body worship. Cunnilingus. Wee bit of fingering. P in V sex. Riding. The fluffiest giggliest sex you've ever seen. Me not knowing a damn thing about tennis.

Author's Note- Hi idk if you noticed but i have Challengers brain rot rn specifically for Art Donaldson :// As a theatre kid I simply had no choice it was always gonna be him. Read the full fic on AO3.

When Art had looked up at her with big pleading eyes, all but begging her to allow him to teach her the basics of tennis, she was in no position to refuse. It had been sweet, how badly he wanted to share his passion with her, the kisses he had peppered across her neck and chest in order to entice her into it, and she couldn’t so much as imagine denying him. Forget the fact that she had never held a racket in her life, that her strengths had always been rooted in academia rather than athletics.  If allowing him to teach her would make him happy, she would do it.

Though not without complaint.

She lets out a frustrated grunt as the ball hits the net- again- before turning her head up to glare at Art when he barely manages to stifle his laugh. He smothers it immediately when he catches sight of her glower, hand coming up to rub at his mouth as if he can physically wipe away his smile and she feels her teeth grind together.

“You can’t laugh. You’re the one who wanted me to do this so you’re not allowed to make fun of me,” she complains, her voice half petulance half hurt and immediately his face morphs into something more apologetic.

“I’m sorry baby.” He makes his way closer but she simply rolls her eyes, turning her nose up when he reaches out to her. He takes it in stride. “I’m not laughing at you, you’re doing very well. It’s just funny to see you so frustrated.”

It’s her turn to laugh, though it is little more than a humourless bark. “I am not doing very well. I suck.”

He makes a sympathetic noise as he attempts to reach for her again. She allows it begrudgingly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as his hands close around her elbows, face dropping into her neck to press a kiss there. She thinks that he’s about to praise her further, try to coax her back into committing herself to the game, but he stays silent, continuing to lavish her with silent kisses.

She’s happy for the odd hour they decided to come here, the tennis court completely devoid of any other life. It’s a colder night than it should be for mid spring, the floodlights and moon the only two things to provide them with any light, and she’s grateful finals have chased everyone else away. She’s glad to have this time alone with him, despite her frustration. To feel like they are the only two people in the world.

“You’re just hitting the ball too hard,” he explains, face still half buried in her throat. “And you aren’t even attempting to aim. Putting everything you have behind the hit doesn’t make it a good one if you don’t know where you’re sending it. There’s more to tennis than just force, you have to be smart about it.”

She scoffs, reaching up to press her palm against his forehead and shove him away, ignoring the shit eating grin that’s made itself known on his face. “Just go over there and hit the damn ball. Before I leave you here by yourself.”

The grin doesn’t fade, his amusement more than clear, but he does as she asks, returning to his side of the court. She lets out another aggravated sigh as she returns to the position he had told her to wait in, knees bent as she waits for him to serve, realizing more and more that she prefers to watch him play tennis rather than do it with him. She finds far more joy watching him from the stands as he chases after the ball, sweat dripping from his curls and grunts echoing in her ears. Here, where she is the one chasing the ball like a damn dog and failing to send it sailing over the net when she does manage to catch it, there is no time to admire Art in his element.

She almost feels bad for her poor attitude, wishing she was less competitive so that she could simply enjoy this quality time with him, but every failure does nothing but enrage her further, sending her spiralling further into frustration.

Read the rest here :)

[bullet-prooflove]

The Skatepark: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @cowardlycandy

Summary: Pope reacts badly when you try to share your feelings.

Companion piece to:

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.

Prequel to:

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Everything - Pope's family life clashes with your time together.

Positive - Pope didn't expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.

Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.

Misery - Baz starts to notice there's something wrong with Pope.

The skatepark is where Pope comes when he needs to get out of his head. The sound of the wheels rolling against the concrete creates a satisfying noise, one that drowns out the ringing in his ears as he skates up the ramp, and then down the ramp.

Up and down.

Up and down.

The repetitiveness of the motion is soothing, relaxing his muscles, evening out his thundering heart.

“Are you planning on doing this until the sun comes up?” You ask him as you stand on the tarmac outside the half pipe, your hands thrust into the pockets of your jacket. The floodlights beam down on you, the darkness shrouding the rest of the park from view.

It’s two in the morning and Pope has already been here since midnight. His t-shirt clings to him with perspiration, his dark curls plastered to his forehead. He doesn’t respond, he just continues the same motion.

Up and down.

“Alright Andy.” You say finally. “I shouldn’t have said ‘I love you’, I can see that now.”

He drifts to a stop in front of you, his dark eyebrows furrowing into a frown.

“You didn’t mean it?” He asks, his voice raw with emotion as he steps off the board.

“Oh I meant it.” You tell him. “I just didn’t mean for this part to happen, I didn’t realise you’d walk out and end up coming to the skatepark.”

“This isn’t about you.” He says, placing his foot on the board to it tips up towards him, he grabs it with his hand, tucking it underneath his arm.

“OK.” You say, shrugging your shoulders as you begin to turn away. “Then I will just leave you to your skateboarding.”

He stares at your back, the dejected slump of your shoulders as you take one step towards your car and then another. He hates this, he hates fucking himself because he’s too fucked up, too broken to react normally when you express your feelings.

“I can’t say it.” He blurts out and you pause, turning back to face him. “You told me you loved me and I just… I tried to say it, I wanted to say it but the words…” He clears his throat as he looks away. “I just can’t do it.”

“Oh.” You say, your lips pursing together in a line. He can see the hurt in your features, the devastation. “If you don’t feel it, you don’t feel it. At least we know now right? Before this carried on.”

“Dylan-” He begins but you’re already walking away and Pope, he just stands there, watching you go.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[mixolya]

lyaaa hi may i request exes to lovers with rin where reader is a news reporter is covering rin's match? Like its the first time they've seen eo again after many years if u know what i mean 😊😊 THWNK U

ᓚᘏᗢ — rin itoshi: five years and a whistle !

synopsis: five years ago, rin itoshi walked out of your life. now you're standing at the edge of the pitch, mic in hand, trying not to fall apart as his name rings through the stadium like a memory you can't shake.

rin itoshi x reader ⭑ second chance / exes to lovers (?) / slowburn + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: hi anon thank u for ur req!! this was so fun to write aaaa dear anons i love ur creativity!!!!

the stadium is electric, all floodlights and roaring fans. it should be just another night in your career. you've interviewed plenty of champions. reported live during title wins, crushing defeats and trade dramas. nothing should faze you. but your fingers still shake around the mic as the clock winds down, and rin itoshi's name chants through the crowd like a spell.

five years.

five years since you last saw him. five years since you were stupidly, hopelessly in love with the boy who loved football more.

five years since he left without a real goodbye. no call, no explanation, just a number disconnected and a silence that felt like punishment.

and now he's here. his hair is longer now, falling messily around his face. his jaw is sharper, body leaner, but his eyes are still the same. stormy and steady and yours, once.

the stadium is still loud, still humming from the last-minute goal that sealed the win. cameras flash, reporters scramble and rin is standing in front of you like a ghost wearing cleats, the weight of five years balanced on your microphone.

you clear your throat, mic in hand. red light blinking. you're live. you square your shoulders.

"rin itoshi, congratulations on the win tonight. incredible finish to a tough match. walk us through the final goal?"

"it was instinct," he says simply, and the sound of his voice makes your stomach clench. "saw the gap, took the shot."

his answer is and clipped and straight to the point. just like the text he never sent. you smile politely, pretending it doesn't sting. "clearly paid off," you reply. "that kind of precision under pressure... was it something you've been training for specifically?"

a pause.

"we've been working on quick transitions. timing and reading defenders."

"we," you echo, as neutrally as you can. "you mean the national squad? or the club?"

he looks at you again. "both."

you keep going, professional smile glued on. "there's been a lot of talk about your return after the last injury. a lot of people were wondering if you'd slow down, maybe play safer. any thoughts on that?"

"no."

"the corner of your mouth twitches. "that's all?"

"i'm not here to play safe," he says, eyes steady. "that's not how you win."

you nod. "well, you certainly reminded the crowd of that. a lot of eyes are on you this season, especially after last year's headlines. some say you're colder on the pitch than ever."

"i don't play to be liked," he replies without missing a beat. "i play to win." you know. you know because he told you so many times and your grip tightens on the mic. "and off the pitch?"

that gets him. the slightest flicker in his eyes. "off the pitch," he says carefully, "i still don't care what people think."

you almost scoff, but instead you nod again. "unsurprising."

the tension thickens between you, camera still rolling. everyone watching sees just a reporter doing her job. no one sees the five years behind it. you adjust the mic. almost done.

"last question," you say. "now that you're back in full form, what's next to you?"

he doesn't look at the camera. he looks at you. "closure."

your heart jumps, but your face doesn't move. you force a smile. "right, well, thank you for your time, itoshi. congratulations on your win again."

the red light on the camera blinks off. done. you don't wait for the crew. you mutter something about meeting a friend and walk off the field, fast. you make it halfway down the tunnel when..

"wait."

you freeze.

"can you- can you just stop for a second?" ok.

you turn slowly. he's jogging after you, jersey sticking to his chest, dark hair a mess and his eyes unreadable.

"you need something, itoshi?" you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be. he winces. "you never called me that."

"you never left either," you snap. "so i guess we're both doing new things."

a beat. the hum of the stadium is distant now and it's just the two of you. the camera's off, you're not hiding behind the mic anymore.

"i didn't know you'd be here," he says.

"and if you had?"

"i don't know," he admits. "maybe i wouldn't have scored."

you almost laugh. "funny."

"i'm serious."

"so am i," your voice softens. "you hurt me, rin."

"i know."

five years of silence sits between you so loud and bitter and heavy.

"i didn't know how to say goodbye," he murmurs.

"then don't pretend now like it ever meant something."

he's quiet. you take a step back. "i have to go."

but then..

"i'm sorry," he says quietly. and you stop again.

"i'm sorry," he says again. "for disappearing. for being a coward. for not staying when i should've."

you look at him and for the first time, you think maybe he means it.

"closure, huh?" you whisper.

his lips twitch. "maybe not yet," he says. "but.. can we try?"

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[childrenofcain-if]

Alternate universe where D is a football player because I can honestly see it 😂

They'd still be FwB with MC, who's a cheerleader (I love cliches heh). But at one of their final matches, they immediately run to MC after winning and kisses them in front of everyone. I've been thinking about this a lot

the locker room smelled like a nauseating mixture of sweat and antiseptic. there was an overall nervous energy in the whole area because of the upcoming game: the biggest of the season.

yale (bulldogs) vs princeton (tigers). the oldest college football rivalry in america since 1873. truthfully though? you really did not have that as your priority at the moment.

D’s shoulders were tense as they leaned against the row of lockers, their football gear half on, half off, like they couldn’t decide if they were gearing up for the game or gearing up for this conversation with you. you stood in front of them, your arms crossed, trying to hide the way your voice wavered as you spoke.

“why are we even doing this if it doesn’t mean anything to you?” you asked, your words sharper than you’d intended. you didn’t want to sound hurt, but the cracks were already showing and you hated yourself even more for it. “you said you loved me, D. was that a joke?”

D flinched, their jaw tightening.

“it wasn’t a joke,” they muttered, not meeting your eyes. “you know it wasn’t.“

“then what the hell is this?” you gestured between the two of you, the space that felt both too close and too far apart. “why can’t you just—” you stopped, biting back the lump rising in your throat. “why can’t you just be fair to us for once?”

D ran a hand through their damp brown hair, their helmet still sitting on the bench behind them. “because it’s complicated, alright? i’m really not good at this. i don’t know how to—”

“how to what?” you interrupted, your voice breaking. “how to be with someone who actually loves you? how to let yourself care about someone? how to not be a complete asshole?”

their silence was worse than any answer they could have given. you felt the sting of it like a slap.

“forget it,” you said, your voice quieter now, resigned. “this isn’t worth it. i’m not worth it, apparently. not to you.”

“don’t say that,” D said quickly, their voice low and rough, but before they could step toward you, the door opened, and your cheer teammates poked their heads in.

“hey, come on!” one of them called, her tone light but urgent. “we’ve gotta go!”

you hesitated, your gaze flicking between D and the exit. you wanted them to say something—anything—that would make you stay, that would make you believe this wasn’t just another dead end. but they didn’t.

so you left, letting the door swing shut behind you, leaving D standing there with their heart in their throat and everything unsaid on their tongue.

***

the stadium was alive in a way that almost felt sentient, the roar of the crowd reverberating through the air, through the ground, through your chest.

the cheer routine was designed to dazzle; full of sharp, explosive movements, tight formations, and splits that skimmed the edge of possibility. every count of the eight-beat rhythm had its place: a high V at one, a perfectly synchronized clap at three, a ripple of tumbling that broke apart and came back together like a flock of birds midflight.

there wasn’t room for hesitation. you had drilled it for weeks, the choreographer shouting corrections until the moves were muscle memory. your body knew what to do, even if your mind was stuck somewhere else.

somewhere else was D.

you couldn’t see them from the sidelines, not at first. the field was a mass of bodies, yale’s blue and white clashing violently with princeton’s orange and black, and it all blurred together under the floodlights.

the roar of the crowd pressed against you, a wall of sound that rattled your ribs, the kind of noise that demanded participation. you gripped your pom-poms tightly, smiling like your heart wasn’t threatening to give out, and launched into the first set of motions.

high kick. clap. shimmy. back handspring.

on the outside, you looked flawless, exactly like what the crowd wanted: all energy and excitement, no cracks in the façade. on the inside, your chest was a knot, the fight with D replaying on an endless loop in your head like a broken VHS tape.

the pyramid was next, the most complicated part of the routine. the bases braced themselves, strong and steady, while the flyers climbed onto their hands. you were in the middle, the top of the pyramid, the highest point for the crowd to see. it was a position of trust. you had to believe your teammates wouldn’t let you fall. it wasn’t something you usually thought about, but tonight, the irony cut deeper than you wanted to admit.

when you extended into the final pose, one leg straight, one bent, arms raised, your eyes landed on D for the first time.

they were in the huddle, standing tall as the team circled around them and the coach, their helmet tucked under one arm. the older man was shouting something you couldn’t hear, D’s face fierce with focus. you wanted to stay angry, but instead, you felt your chest tighten.

D was magnetic in the way they moved, their command of the team absolute. you hated how much you still wanted to be near them, how much your body betrayed you even when your heart was screaming.

the pyramid dismounted, your teammates catching you as you came down. you barely noticed the applause; you were too busy watching D jog onto the field for the first play.

***

D’S POV

D glanced toward the sideline. toward you. again.

it was ridiculous, the way you could disarm them from thirty yards away. you weren’t even looking at them. your head was bent close to one of your friend’s, your pom-poms hanging loosely in your hands. you were supposed to be listening to your captain, but D could see the faint smile on your lips, the way you kept sneaking glances toward the field like you weren’t paying attention at all.

like your eyes were searching for D.

D tore their eyes away before anyone could notice. they didn’t need their teammates teasing them about this—not right now. it was bad enough that their chest felt like it was caving in every time they saw you, bad enough that your fight before the game was still fresh in their head, your voice sharp and shaking, your words a blade sliding between their ribs.

why can’t you just be fair to us?

the truth was, they didn’t know how to. not the right way. not in a way that didn’t make them feel like they were standing naked in a room full of strangers, every scar and bruise and ugly thing about them laid bare.

you deserved better than the mess that they were. you deserved someone who didn’t flinch at the idea of love. someone who could give you everything without being afraid they’d ruin it before it began.

but even as they told themselves that, D knew they couldn’t let you go. not really. not ever.

“alright, team,” coach barked, snapping D back to the present. “this is it. princeton’s undefeated this season, but so are we. you want to be champions? prove it. show everyone you’ve got what it takes.”

the team roared their agreement, slapping helmets and clapping shoulders, the kind of camaraderie that made D feel grounded and restless all at once. they shoved their helmet on and jogged out to the field, their cleats digging into the turf, their breath coming steady and sharp.

they could do this. for the team, for the win, for yale.

no.

for you.

***

the first quarter passed in a blur of plays and hits, the kind of bone-rattling intensity that left D’s hands shaking with adrenaline. they took the snap, rolled back, dodged a tackle by inches, and launched the ball downfield.

the crowd erupted as yale’s receiver caught it just shy of the endzone, but D didn’t stop to celebrate. their eyes found you again, like a compass always pointing to their north star.

you were clapping, your pom-poms bouncing, but there was something off about your gorgeous smile. it didn’t reach your eyes, and D knew it was their fault. they’d put that ache there, and it killed them to see it.

focus. they had to focus.

***

the second quarter was worse. princeton’s defense was relentless, their linemen big enough to make D feel small—a very uncomfortable thing. every play felt like a war, every hit a reminder of how close they were to losing. the score was tied at halftime, and the locker room was a mess of noise and sweat and tension.

“get your head in the game, diaconu,” their coach snapped, pulling D aside as the team filed out. “you’re playing like you’ve got something else on your mind. whatever it is, leave it in here. got it?”

“got it,” D said, even though they didn’t.

they didn’t leave it in the locker room. they carried it back onto the field, where it sat heavy in their chest, driving them forward and holding them back all at once.

you were watching. D could feel your eyes on them every time they stepped up to the line, every time they called a play. it made them want to be better, to play harder, to show you that they weren’t just a coward who couldn’t say the words you needed to hear.

it wasn’t enough to just win. they had to earn you back.

***

YOUR POV

you watched in horror as princeton’s linebacker, a hulking person who looked more suited for professional wrestling than college football, blindsided D after a throw.

it was a dirty hit, helmet to helmet, and D went down hard. you froze, pom-poms slack in your hands, as the crowd erupted in boos. for a second, D didn’t move, and your chest seized with panic. but then they rolled onto their side, their hand going to their helmet, and relief flooded through you so fast it made you dizzy.

they got up, wobbling slightly, and waved off the trainers who tried to check on them.

your fingers dug into the plastic of your pom-poms, the edges biting into your skin. you wanted to scream at them to stop being so stubborn, to let someone take care of them for once. but you were stuck on the sidelines, powerless to do anything but watch.

it was the last quarter and the score was tied, and every play felt like life or death. the crowd was on its feet, the noise deafening, as D took the snap for the final play. they dropped back, scanning the field, their movements precise and fluid. princeton’s defense was closing in, but D didn’t flinch. and then, with a leap that seemed to defy gravity, they threw the ball downfield.

touchdown.

the stadium erupted. the crowd screamed. the cheer squad jumped and waved their pom-poms like their life depended on it, but you couldn’t move. you just stood there, your heart pounding, your eyes locked on D.

they ripped off their helmet, their face flushed and damp with sweat, and for a moment, they let their teammates surround them, clapping them on the back, shouting their praise. but D’s eyes were searching, scanning the sidelines, until they found you.

and then they ran.

it wasn’t graceful or dramatic—it was desperate and urgent, like they couldn’t get to you fast enough. the crowd blurred around you, the noise fading into a dull hum, as D closed the distance between you.

they didn’t stop when they reached you, just grabbed you and pulled you into their arms, burying their face in your shoulder like they were afraid to let go. you could feel their heartbeat racing, their chest heaving as they caught their breath.

“i’m sorry,” D said, their voice muffled against your uniform. “i’m so sorry. i’m an idiot. i was scared, okay? i love you and i didn’t want to screw this up. i didn’t want to screw you up.”

you pulled back just enough to look at them, their gray eyes raw and unguarded, and you felt your own walls crumbling rapidly.

“you love me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

D nodded, their hands gripping your arms like you might vanish if they let go.

“i do. i love you,” they said, their voice cracking. “i love you so much it scares the hell out of me.”

you didn’t even realize you were crying until D’s thumb brushed a tear off your cheek. you let out a shaky laugh, leaning into them.

“i’m still supposed to be mad at you,” you said, but there was no heat in it.

D smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made your chest ache.

“yeah,” they said. “but can you be mad at me and be completely mine?”

you nodded, choking back a sob as you wrapped your arms around their neck, pulling them into a kiss. the noise of the crowd surged back in, louder than ever, and it mingled with D and your teammates hollering suddenly. but it didn’t matter. nothing mattered except D’s lips on yours, their hands on your waist, the way they held you like you were their centre of gravity.

when you finally pulled back, D rested their forehead against yours, their breath warm against your skin.

“will you still be cheering for me, baby?” they asked, their voice soft but hopeful.

you laughed through your tears, pressing another kiss to their lips. “always.”

[catfern]

outback.

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: trucker!abby x afab!reader

music: her - unloved

word count: 1.7k

summary: the night shift at a remote petrol station sounded like easy double pay. but nights get lonely. you've gotta find something to keep yourself entertained.

warnings: porn with a smidgen of plot, fingering, some perverted staring, tiny tiny implied age gap, australia. this is rlly just porn

fern says ⎯ THIS ONE IS FOR ALL THE AUSSIES IN THE AUDIENCE MAKE SOME NOISE!!!!!! this truly is self indulgent cause i miss flirting with hot women who call me darl.

you brought this on yourself, really.

the pale blue of the bug zapper fought a contrast with the dying fluorescents, painting half the aisles in an eery, twilight movie shade. the heat of a high december night was creeping, clinging to your shitty polyester uniform as you camp out in front of the only standing fan.

you had begged for a job, pleaded for it really, in the wickedness of this economic climate. you had run, tail between your legs, from your local chain grocery at the sight of the price of an avocado, and thrown yourself at the feet of the next passing employer. like a squire to the knights of old.

you just hadn’t expected it would be this job.

the gatekeeper of one of the last vestiges of civilisation. the night shift at a deserted highway petrol station.

the flickering floodlights by the pumps fighting an uphill battle to keep the creeping night at bay, you can do nothing but stare, eyes adjusting, ‘unadjusting’, readjusting to the dark over and over again. you’d had a total of two customers since you took over from the day shift crew. one just threw a gatorade your way in exchange for the bathroom key.

the high beam headlights of an oncoming truck shake you from your fading thoughts, baking you into the linoleum tile as you squint, blind. asshole.

you’d been warned about truckers, briefly. handsy rednecks, your manager had called them in passing while giving you a tour of the storage room. desperate old fucks who crawl like dogs to anything with a hole.

you watch with an almost bated breath as the peeling yellow cabin of the long-haul truck pulls into park, your eyes following its jaunty movement through the glass of the front windows. you’re starting to think maybe you should have brought an illegal switchblade to work. if you had one.

you avert your gaze quick, grabbing at something from the magazine rack in desperate hopes to appear disinterested, unapproachable. 15 Ways to Homeschool Your Kids. sure, that works.

the bell above the door chimes, you spy the scuffed leather boots crossing the plastic tiling with heavy footfall. 

“y’got a lounge?”

standing at the counter, you have to admit, she’s not what you pictured when you saw the truck. not that what you see is at all worth of complaint.

a thin sheen of sweat clings to her, echoes of the heat of the road. her skin is flushed, the contour of her muscle sitting, almost man-made, in a thin, cotton singlet. her hair is tied tight, her features, sharp, discerning, eyeing you down. you try not to stare, too obviously, at the soft outline of her nipple piercings beneath her shirt.

“hm?” you’re distracted.

“a lounge, darl. trucker lounge?” she repeats slowly with a bite of a smirk, looking at you like you were only a little bit stupid. your stomach drops with the honey of the nickname.

your eyes dart around the small space of the shop. you barely had space for the 3 aisles and the dingy bathroom. you clear your throat, trying to shake the feeling of fascination, “oh — uh, nah.”

she scoffs, a wicked, small laugh, before retreating to browse the snack section.

you watch her, when you think she isn’t looking. small, caught glimpses in your feigned disinterest. she’s been on the road long, a tension in the broadness of her shoulders obvious as she readjusts her posture, eyeing the chips. you try bury whatever rears its head in your stomach when you hear her groan as she squats to better see the canned fruit. a roughness in her voice, lead with age and smoke.

you drop your reading material and smile, tight lipped, polite, as she approaches the counter. a cold meat pie and a ginger beer.

"and uh — pack'a rothmans, thanks, love.”

you nod, turning to wrestle with the rusting cigarette cage behind the counter, when you hear her chuckle, breathy and deep as she talks,

“y’look a little young to have kids.”

spinning back so quick you make yourself dizzy, you swipe the shitty magazine off the counter, discarded and unimportant, “nah, i… i was just bored.”

she rakes her eyes over you, slow, and you can’t help but feel the pull, magnetic, a knot in your stomach as she studies you. you feel caught in a trap, under her gaze. looking up at her, her looming presence is becoming all too real.

you slide the pack of cigarettes over the counter, trapped meeting her eye. a smile, something sly, plays on her lips as she thanks you, moving to catch a breeze of the fan.

an uncomfortable beat of silence passes between you. well, it’s uncomfortable for you. no longer able to hide behind disinterest behind glossy paper, you instead wrestle with yourself to seem at least neutrally interested, not utterly obsessed. you wring your hands behind the shelter of the till.

the woman shakes a cigarette free from the pack, holding it between the skin of her lips. “you smoke?” she’s looking at you, through the corner of her eye.

no, never.

“uh, yeah.”

you follow her out the shop, tied to her artificial shadow in the fluorescents. something is crawling in the night, when you step outside. a cicada silence echoes across the gathering dirt and dust.

she offers you the cig she had been holding, you take it gingerly, holding it in your mouth as she holds her lighter up. she brings her hand to cup the flame, to keep the absent breeze from destroying it. you feel, just slightly, the brush of her calloused palms against the low of your cheek, and you pray that the navy hue of the bug zapper is enough to hide the heat on your skin.

smoke fills your lungs, foreign and quick, an itch inside you that feels impossible. you cough and splutter to the chorus of her raspy laughter.

“you haven’t smoked a day in your life.” she says with a lopsided smile, plucking the cigarette from your hand and bringing it to her lips, taking a long, constrastly confident draw.

you shake your head in between wheezes, “is that what everyone is always going on about?”

“you’ll get used to it, here,” 

she hands it back to you, you feel obliged to take it. to try again, as she so quietly commands. your second go is met with an only slightly irritating tickle in your throat.

“that’s it, good girl,” something that seems so unsure rolls off her like syrup, something you had never known you were so desperate for. her hand finds the small of your back, her fingers dancing circles in something akin to comfort, to praise.

you look up to find her eyes already on you, tracing the contours of your neck in icy blue form.

the smell of artificial pine and day-old dust clings to her, swallows you whole as you fall victim to her touch, light-headed and weak at the knees as her breath fills your lungs.

she’s nothing if not vocal, desperation falling from her lips in tortured moans as she presses herself into the crook below your jaw, drawing your soft skin beneath her teeth, softly licking the littered aftermath, a trail down your chest.

she’s quick to undress you, pulling impatiently at the scratchy fabric of your worn company polo shirt. she’s not phased by any forgotten need for privacy, for decency. she’s only here in passing, after all.

“oh, sweetheart,”

the lace of your bra is a temptation not lost on her, a delight she so happily indulges in after days on the road. in some perverted part of her mind, you wore it for her. maybe, in some cosmic, fated way, you did.

her hands snake down your body, helping themselves to the lux of your curves as her lips press, all-consuming, against yours. her fingers lightly spreading your legs, a mean chuckle souring the kiss.

she’s not at all easy, or kind, the way she pulls you open, watches you fall apart in the brutality of her control. she touches you like she aims to destroy you, her fingers working relentlessly to the pull of your walls, unheard to your pleas to — please, slow down.

“that’s it, darling. come on,” it’s sharp, delirious and oh so pleased to hear you, a whisper tickling the dip of your chest, watching you through the blonde of her eyelashes as you throw your head back, your body rocking to the rhythm she sets.

“p-please, fuck, jesus, fuck!” if she was any meaner, she would have laughed. but god, she’s distracted. driven mad by her own dripping need.

“you wanna come, baby? yeah, yeah?” she’s slowing down, and you chase her question with a desperate, shakey nod. “yeah, you do. come here.”

she takes your hand in hers, delicate, kind, a wicked contrast. under the guidance of her touch, you grip the stiff denim of her jeans, tender, unsure, until she leads you to the heat between her legs and you nearly melt. her hand goes to fiddle with her belt, her eyes finding yours, bleary, in the haze.

“think you can help me out, sweetheart?” she nods along with you, and you’re unsure if she’s copying you, or you are her.

“yeah — i can, please, please,” you whine, your hips still rutting a lazy pace against the now stagnant force inside you. your hand pulls, impatiently, at the waistband of her cotton boxers, pulling them down to sit unceremoniously at her hips.

“fuck, good girl,” she seethes at the languid circles you draw on her clit, gentle and paced, as you chase your own euphoria on her fingers, “come on,” a whisper, hot on your neck, “i’ll go faster if you do, darlin’.”

you pick up in a daze, so compliant to the whim of her demand, so desperate to feel her calloused fingers trace the tide against your centre. rushing that feeling, wretched to have her tear you apart.

her fingers rock against you without care, wrenching every ragged moan from the cut of your throat as her speed picks up, “that’s it, fuck, you feel so good, sweetness. keep — keep going.” hoarse whispers against your chest as she presses sloppy, undone kisses to the ghosts of your ribcage.

you watch, above the broadness of her shoulder, as a peak of the sun paints the horizon a muddy pink, your moans a soundtrack to the emptiness of the desert as you practically bounce on the stranger’s fingers, loud for your own release.

yeah, you lost your job.

⎯ kofi

taglist; @whore4abby @endureher @beemillss @afraidofheightss @sentimentalyellow

[freelancelobotomy]

GRAVITY PART 3 NOWWWWW

︻デ═一 CAVITY [S.R]

ೃ⁀➷ SUMMARY: Your ex-boyfriend’s murder plot is foiled by Spencer Reid. Now you’re trying to cover your tracks while figuring out if you can still trust the man who saved you (And wants you).

⋆·˚ ༘ *CW:  Angst, guns, murder, kissing, death, slightly gorey details about death. ༊*·˚A/N: PART 3!!! Can be a standalone but if ur a little confused read part one and part two. If this gets 100 notes ill do part four lol also working on a part two for the other fic that I wrote like a week ago also gonna make a masterlist finally okay bye bye

Everyone thinks they know how they want to go. Peacefully, in their sleep, like the other 99% of the population. You’ve always accepted that death might come sooner—car crash, stroke, some genetic landmine waiting to go off especially because of your job—but none of that scared you.

If that’s how you went, then so be it.

But you refuse to die at the hands of your psychotic, moronic ex-boyfriend.

You slowly rise to your feet, hands raised behind your head, a defeated sigh escaping your lips.

“Alex—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Alexander, don’t do this.” You whisper it, your voice trembling now.

“Shut the fuck up and keep walking,” he hisses into your ear, the heat of his breath making your stomach churn.

You walk. Slowly. Toward the door. Your mind races. Do you let him take you to a second location? No. He said—promised—he’d kill you once he got out. So what is it? Die later? Or die trying to get away from him?

A faint click behind you. He’s cocked the gun. But its oddly quiet.

“Keep. Walking,” he growls, voice flat, cold, and final.

Your legs move. You hate that they do. Your body is in full self-preservation mode, choosing survival over pride, over logic, over resistance. He marches you behind the motel. The gravel crunches underfoot. A dingy white van looms ahead like a hearse in disguise.

Your carriage to the end.

Alexander groans behind you, something desperate in the sound.

“Shut up for a second! I can do this!” he snaps—at himself.

You catch his reflection in the van’s driver-side window. He’s hitting himself. Driving the heel of his palm into his own eye socket. Over and over.

What the hell is he doing? Is he hallucinating? Did he have a schizophrenic break from prison? Psychotic episode?

“I got her for you, isn’t that what you wante—”

You don’t let him finish. This might be your last chance. You swing your leg back hard, lodging your heel into his groin Hard.

He yelps, folding slightly. You spin to grab the gun—but he grabs your forearm, twisting it savagely. You scream, then retaliate with your free hand. One punch to the face. Two. A third—

He doesn’t drop.

He rams the gun into your chest and slams your body forward into the van’s door. The impact knocks the air from your lungs. Your cheek is pressed to the window. You brace for the shot.

And then you see it. In the reflection.

The tip of Alexander’s gun.

It’s orange.

And behind him is Spencer.

Real gun raised. Finger on the trigger.

BANG. A headshot.

His body drops to the ground and stiffens almost instantaneously. Not a sound from him, just silence and the thick heady scent of blood. Your feet are a pinkish-red. It’s probably his brain matter. Whatever it is... its warm. Bile rises to your throat.

You don’t scream. You don’t move. You’re frozen— Eyes locked on Alexander’s corpse.

“Y/N!” Spencer’s voice cuts through the ringing in your ears. He’s running to you, panic in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

You sniff, a sob caught somewhere between your chest and throat. Your vision’s swimming. Nothing makes sense.

“What the actual fuck…”

“Hey. It’s okay. He can’t hurt you again. He’s gone.”

“Spencer…” you whisper. Your voice cracks. You glance at the body—then down.

Your foot nudges something beneath him.

The gun.

The fake one. Orange tip glinting under the motel floodlight.

Spencer follows your gaze. His eyes go wide. He kneels. Looks at the toy. Then back up at you.

Shit.

“Wait here,” he breathes, already turning.

He jogs off toward the motel. You don’t know what to think. Your pulse is still crashing in your ears.

Is he leaving? Is he going to frame you for this?

You want to believe he wouldn’t. You want to trust him. But why would you? He left you once. Years ago. Vanished without a word.

What’s stopping him from doing it again?

But then he returns.

Two guns in hand. One wrapped in a crinkled plastic bag from the motel’s ice bucket.

It’s your gun. From your drawer.

“He came into your room,” Spencer says, breath short. “Took your gun. Lured you out here to kidnap you. And I stopped him. Okay?”

You nod. Fast. Your whole body’s shaking now.

He grabs Alexander’s stiff hand, pries it open, and presses your gun into it. Wrapping his fingers around the grip. His index around the trigger. Forcing contact.

“Fingerprints,” he mutters. “That’s all they’ll need.”

Then Spencer tosses the toy gun into a metal trash can behind the van. It clangs, plastic echoing against metal. A hollow, ridiculous sound.

He plants your real gun in Alexander’s dead hand.

Police sirens wail in the distance—still faint, but getting closer.

You and Spencer walk to the motel lobby.

Your hands find each other’s without words. You sit in the plastic chairs by the vending machines. Sticky floor underfoot. Too much light.

You wait.

Together.

It took the police fifteen more minutes to arrive.

Spencer flashed his FBI credentials and delivered a clipped, practiced version of the story. He didn’t embellish, didn’t dramatize—just enough to sell the facts.

You were there. The gun was yours. The threat was real.

They take you both to the station for questioning.

You’re not stupid. You ask for your lawyer. Spencer does too.

The questions are basic. Run-of-the-mill. The detectives don’t press too hard, probably because Spencer is still technically one of them. Or maybe they see how shaken you are—how your hands won’t stop trembling. How your voice won’t come out when they ask if you need water. You did take them up on their offer to let you wash the gore off your feet though.

So you say nothing. You listen to your lawyer. You keep your eyes on the table.

They let you go.

That night, the police drive you back to the motel so you can collect your things. Everything feels distant. Fuzzy—like you’re watching a blurry movie. Dissocociatively going throught he motions.

You push open the door to your room.

Jiji is curled up on the bed, fast asleep.

He lifts his head when he hears you, purring like nothing ever happened.

“Mrow,” Jiji purrs.

“Jiji…” your voice breaks. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

You stumble to the bed and collapse onto your knees beside him, pulling him into your arms. He’s warm. And soft. Innocent.

You’d forgotten him.

Spencer was right. You are a bad cat mom.

No—worse than that. You’re a bad person.

You were an accomplice in a murder mill. You got your ex-boyfriend killed. You dragged your first love—your only real love—into a web of blood and lies. You can’t do it anymore.

It’s only a matter of time before someone connects the dots.

You clutch Jiji tighter.

You have to find Spencer. Give him Jiji—whatever his real name is. He should be returned to his rightful owner, at least.

You stand, turning around and there he is.

Spencer, standing silently in the doorway.

You jump.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, raising his hands. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I, uh… I came for my stuff.”

You gently put Jiji down.

Then you cross the room in two stumbling steps and collapse into Spencer’s arms, burying your face in his chest.

“‘M so sorry,” you sob, the words muffled by his shirt.

“Don’t apologize.” His voice is calm but firm. He lifts your face in his hands, his thum wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “What happened isn’t your fault. At all. You’re hyperaroused right now—your brain is stuck in fight-or-flight. Seeing someone die… especially like that—someone trying to kill you—you’re traumatized. Your brain doesn’t know how to process the overload, so it’s trying to simplify it. By blaming yourself. Through guilt by means of control.”

“Yeah, but… I made you kill someone.” Again, you think, but don’t say.

Spencer’s jaw tenses. He looks down at the floor, his breath shallow.

“You didn’t make me do anything. He hit you. I saw red.”

His gaze finds yours again—slow, deliberate.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N. I promise.”

You search his face. You want to believe him. God, you need to.

Your gaze flickers to his lips. One of his hands slides from your cheek to your hip, his thumb rubbing back and forth.

“I promise,” he echoes, softer now. He leans in and kisses you.

Slowly and Intentionally. No hesitation or fear, just…want.

You kiss him back. Your hands move instinctively, clutching his shoulders, pulling him flush against you. Your hands trembling, the adrenaline from earlier in the day still coursing through you.

You feel so guilty that you’re choking on it. Bile burns your throat. What have you done? You wanted this—so badly. Once. But that was a lifetime ago. Before the comitee. Before blood. Before tonight.

You still want him now. Of course you do. But this could go so wrong, so easily. You’re lying to him. You're lying with omission, with your hands, with your silence. But what other choice do you have? Prison?

You begin to laugh—soft at first, then shaky and sharp—right against his lips.

“What?” Spencer pulls back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed with concern.

You drop onto the motel bed, the laugh escaping again, jagged at the edges. He sits beside you.

“Today is the stupidest fucking day,” you say, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “I got held at gunpoint, abandoned my cat, and—” you gesture vaguely between you two, “—kissed the guy who took my virginity after he shot my ex.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle. “Normal Sunday for me.”

You smack his chest with the back of your hand. He pretends to reel from the blow, dramatically collapsing backwards, right onto Jiji.

The kitten hisses, writhes out from beneath him, and bolts to the other bed, glaring murder.

“Oh my God,” you gasp through a snort.

Spencer raises both hands. “I’m sorry, Sergio.”

That does it. You laugh—really laugh—and it feels wrong and right at the same time. Like your body doesn't know if it should be crying or hysterical, so it’s doing both.

Spencer stands. His expression shifts, a sudden gravity returning to his features.

“I’m heading back to Vegas,” he says. “Ethan’s funeral is in three days.” A pause. “Let me take you home.”

You sit there a moment, staring at him. Letting the words sink in.

Home.

You think about the job. The suicides. The chandelier. The coworkers that aren’t alive anymore.

All loose ends—tied. Well. Except Spencer.

But he suffered a brain injury. He doesn’t remember what happened. Not all of it. And he literally killed for you.

So maybe he’s the safest loose end there is.

“I’ll get my stuff,” you say, standing.

This will be interesting.

Tags:

[nameless-jamie]

JUST SAY YES

Glimpse Into the Future - Jamie Tartt x fem!PA reader

Masterlist

TW: cursing, kissing, emotions

Jamie Tartt had played hundreds of matches under the stadium lights at Nelson Road. He’d scored breathtaking goals, taken crushing losses, and heard the roar of the Richmond faithful chant his name. But tonight, standing in the dimly lit tunnel, his heart hammering against his ribs, he realized that none of those moments—not a single one—had ever come close to this.

This wasn’t about football. This wasn’t about the game.

This was about her.

Y/N.

The woman who had been by his side through everything. The one who had seen him at his worst and never turned away. The one who had called him out on his bullshit when no one else dared to. The one who had believed in him, even when he hadn’t believed in himself.

And now, she was carrying his child.

A baby. Their baby.

Jamie still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it, the sheer enormity of it. Some nights, he’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, completely wrecked by the knowledge that soon, he would be holding a tiny, fragile little person who was half him, half her. And he knew, deep in his bones, that he wanted her by his side forever.

There was no time for any more second thoughts. He just needed to ask.

"Helloooo?"

Y/N's voice carried across the empty stadium as she stepped onto the pitch, the soft grass crunching under her trainers. There was a teasing lilt to it, but underneath, there was curiosity too. She didn’t mind coming to Nelson Road—she’d spent so much of her life here by now that it felt almost like home—but still, she had been curled up comfortably on the couch when Jamie had called her, insisting that he needed her to come to the stadium because some accident happened there and she needed to help him.

An accident he couldn’t possibly fix on his own.

"Jamie Tartt, you better have a good reason for dragging me out here this late, I was snug like a motherfuckin' bug and—”

Now, as she stepped onto the pitch, her silhouette outlined against the deep navy sky, Jamie felt like he was on the edge of something life-changing, he was ready. He cleared his throat loudly. That was the sign for the team to get started...

“Wait. Jamie? Are you there?” she called again, glancing around.

And then—

The lights flickered on, flooding the pitch with golden brilliance.

Y/N froze in place as the sudden brightness illuminated the entire stadium, making the empty seats glow under the floodlights. She turned to him, brows furrowed, her breath visible in the crisp evening air.

“What the hell—”

And then, before she could finish, the massive screen above the pitch flickered to life, casting a soft blue light across the field. The letters appeared slowly, deliberately, until the message was fully formed:

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

Jamie could hear the sharp inhale she took, could see the exact moment it registered in her brain. Her wide eyes flicked from the screen, back to him, back to the screen, as if she was trying to confirm that this was real, that this was actually happening.

And that was when he did it.

He stepped forward, right to the center of the pitch.

And in one smooth motion—because, of course, he had to be a little dramatic about it—he dropped to one knee.

Wearing his full Richmond kit.

Because, if he was going to propose, he was going to do it right.

For a moment, she just stared at him, completely frozen, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes glistening under the bright stadium lights.

Jamie’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, but he kept his voice steady, soft, honest. He wasn’t nervous about asking the question—he already knew what he wanted, knew that she loved him—but still, his stomach was a fucking wreck. This was big.

“I thought about doin’ this in some fancy restaurant,” he started, his accent thick, rough with emotion. “Maybe somethin’ all posh and romantic, like one of those private little candlelit dinners where they bring out a ring in a glass of champagne or some shit.”

She let out a watery laugh, shaking her head at him, and he could see it—the way her shoulders started to tremble, the way her lips pressed together like she was trying to hold back a sob.

“But then I thought,” he continued, “Nah. That’s not us, is it?”

Jamie glanced around the stadium, exhaling slowly, feeling the weight of everything this place meant to them.

“This is where it all started. This club. This team. You and me. I spent so long messin’ about, not knowin’ what I wanted, not realizin’ what was right in front of me. And now, we’re here.” His gaze flickered down to her belly for a brief second before returning to her eyes, soft and filled with something so much bigger than words.

“We got a little one on the way, and I want them to grow up knowin’ that their mum is the best fuckin’ person I’ve ever known. And I want them to know that I—” he exhaled, a soft smile touching his lips, ”—that I loved her from the start, even when I was too much of a dickhead to say it.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She swiped it away quickly like she didn’t want to lose control, but Jamie saw the way her breath hitched, the way her entire body trembled under the weight of what he was saying.

He reached into the pocket of his shorts—because yes, he had figured out how to keep the ring in there without losing it—and pulled out a small velvet box.

Slowly, he flipped it open.

The ring sparkled under the stadium lights, catching every glimmer, every reflection. He had spent weeks picking it out, agonizing over it, making sure it was perfect—something classic but timeless, something that would look just right on her.

“So,” he said, voice lighter now, teasing, “What do you reckon? Fancy marryin’ me?”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head in disbelief, her hand still covering her mouth like she couldn’t quite process what was happening.

“Jamie, you absolute idiot,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Of course, I’ll marry you.”

Before he could even react, she was on him—dropping to her knees in front of him, throwing her arms around his neck, holding him so tight that he nearly toppled over. Jamie let out a breathless chuckle, wrapping his arms around her just as fiercely, feeling her warmth, her love, everything he had ever wanted, right here in his arms.

“You’re such a dick,” she mumbled into his shoulder, sniffling.

“Oi, that ain’t very romantic,” he muttered, grinning as he buried his face in her neck.

“I’m eight months pregnant, I’m allowed to be emotional,” she shot back, laughing through her tears.

Jamie pulled back just enough to see her face, to cup her cheek and wipe away a stray tear with his thumb. “Yeah, well. Get used to it, love. You’re gonna be stuck with me now.”

She smiled—wide and breathtaking and his—and pressed her forehead against his. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Kiss me, please?”

And then—

The sound of popping champagne.

Y/N jumped slightly, twisting toward the sidelines, where the entire fucking team was spilling onto the pitch, cheering and clapping like they’d just won the goddamn league.

“Oi, bruv, about time!” Isaac called out, grinning as he lifted a champagne bottle in the air.

“We were this close to drinkin’ it ourselves,” Colin added, laughing.

“Took ya long enough, Tartt,” Roy grumbled, but there was a rare, small smile on his face.

Jamie groaned, burying his face in Y/N’s shoulder as she cackled, shaking her head. “You got them involved in this?”

“Course I did,” Jamie muttered, rolling his eyes. “What’s a proposal without a bit of spectacle?”

As the team surrounded them—cheering, hugging, clapping him on the back—Jamie felt it, deep in his chest.

This was home.

Not just the stadium. Not just the pitch.

Her.

And as he kissed her, right there in the middle of Nelson Road, with his teammates hollering around them and champagne bubbling over onto the grass, he knew one thing for sure:

This was the best moment of his entire life.

And it was only just the beginning.

[sxnshxnxxnddxxsxxs]

Duke Thomas headcannons becuase please just write him as a black boy:

the first time there’s a summer rain at night after he moves into Wayne Manor Duke sets up the speakers and the floodlights and lives out his 00’s rnb music video dreams

after that Alfred will sometimes drive him around in the back of one of the cars when it rains at night because he doesn’t want his latest grandson to get hypothermia but understands that it is very important to live out 00’s rnb music video dreams

Duke teaches Cass the Usher watch this thing and originally they only use it to tell each other that they’re gonna do some dumb shit but then Cass decides she really likes it and uses it more than the actual sign [ref]

Duke and Cass have a theme song because they are besties and that theme song is black and yellow by Wiz Khalifa whenever it plays they drop everything to rap to each other and if anyone turns it off before it finishes they start it again even louder it becomes a great distraction technique for other batfamily members. they chose the song because of their uniforms but the first time a civilian sees how enthusiastic they are about the song they draw a different conclusion and they find it so funny that they definitely have to keep it as their theme song from now on

Duke lives a no shoes in the house life no matter who’s house it is or what everyone else is doing

He also keeps his Signal uniform exclusively in the batcave because no uniforms in the Manor seems like the natural extension for no outside clothes in bed

Duke sneaks scotch bonnets into the Manor kitchen generally timed with the occasions that Jason is around and in the mood to cook. Dinner those nights feature running eyes and noses from Bruce Tim and Steph along with all the milk in the Manor finishing. It’s great entertainment for Duke Cass Damian Jason and Dick

Duke has locs he lowkey thinks about bleaching the ends to match the aesthetic of his uniform but he’s unsure of if it will make him to conspicuous

When he first moved to the Manor he got pooled into the schedule to pick up hair shop (beauty supply store) supplies with the Fox’s because they’re all way too busy of people to be driving out of the way individually so it only made sense to add Duke to that. He and Tam also timetable his retwist appointments with her hair appointments for the same time

Duke is an instigator Jason and Tim will be having a petty squabble that is about to fizzle out but then Duke walks past them and just whispers a quick “if I were you I wouldn’t have that” and then an hour later a priceless vase is broken there’s holes in the wall and Tim and Jason have matching black eyes. Duke considers it a public service to provide Babs with entertainment for when Oracle hours a slow she agrees and doesn’t snitch on just how much shit Duke starts so he can get away with even more

Duke joins Jason and Alfred’s book club and the first book he picks is Beloved because like they’re in this big old gothic manor respect the aesthetic

One time Bruce walks passed Duke on ft to his friends and he’s performing “Wisdom” and Bruce thinks it’s something Duke came up with himself and is trying to be a supportive dad and is like “that’s great son” with a really strained smile and Duke just sticks to the bit like “you really think so?” bruce even more pained “yeah it’s amazing” [ref]

He also has exclusively satin pillowcases and gives everyone in the Manor a set because it’s good for the hair and therefore a good use of Bruce’s rich people money

Duke upon realising that he was gonna be adopted by a bunch of crime fighting pseudofurries and was going to join them in the crime fighting said this some white people shit and that’s why he chose Signal rather than some bioluminescent bird

[abbotjack]

Hi!

Rereading built for battle, never for me again for the 10th time and I keep thinking Reader and Jack were married before but I don’t see it. Am I way off base?

Hi! Oh my god—thank you for rereading Built for Battle, Never for Me ten times?? That’s genuinely unreal and means more than I can say!

They weren’t married because Jack never stopped being a soldier.

Jack Abbot is a man forged in impermanence. Raised by systems that taught him how to survive, not how to stay. His body was trained to move, his hands to act, his heart to suppress. The military didn’t just teach him trauma—it gave him a purpose with rules. Deploy, treat, evacuate, repeat. He was taught that love is what you die for, not what you live with.

And the Reader—she loved him anyway.

She fell in love with a man who belonged to forward motion. A man who promised a future but never stepped into it. Who could say “I love you” under floodlights in a medical tent but couldn’t buy a bedframe. Who could set a rib but never learned how to set a table. She loved him through all of it. Through his rotations and his relapses. Through his silences and his sacrifices. Through the versions of himself he kept trying to outrun.

But you can’t marry a ghost.

Marriage is structure. Jack only knew rupture.

Think about what marriage symbolizes in narrative: permanence. Naming. A public promise. It says, I’ll still be here in the morning. And Jack? He doesn’t believe in the morning. Not really. Not in the way that requires routine and repetition and commitment. Not in the way that demands peace.

That’s why he’s always volunteering. Why he folds his shirts like field dressings. Why he keeps one hand in the war, even when the war isn’t asking.

He’s addicted to volatility. To the kind of purpose that hurts. Because at least that hurt makes him useful. At least in that space, his damage serves something. A body. A cause. A reason to be bleeding.

Marriage would’ve forced him to look at all the quiet things that scare him : Mornings without adrenaline. Laundry that means you’re coming back. A woman who knows you down to the last broken thing and still wants you anyway.

That’s why the moment she asked, “Then stay,” and he didn’t?

That was the wedding.

That was the altar.

And he left.

Their love is a ghost story, not a romance.

What do ghosts do? They haunt. They linger. They show up in the corner of your eye and vanish when you turn. They refuse resolution. That’s what this story is.

They never had a wedding. They had a timeline full of almosts. She memorized his prescriptions. She kissed his scars like they were bridal vows. He bought her coffee filters in bulk. He left his dog tags on the nightstand. He promised to come back. But he never bought a ring. Never said “I do.” Never let stillness win.

And so instead of a marriage, they had a myth. A legend of what they could’ve been if Jack had known how to choose her. Not just in the dark. But in light.

The symbolism of what they had is found marriage, not formal marriage.

There’s a scene—the one where she folds his socks while he packs—and that’s your metaphorical marriage ceremony right there. No witnesses. No vows. Just grief moving through the motions of commitment. Her folding things while he leaves? That’s the housewife act. The final image of a woman who gave him every part of herself except a ring, and still got left behind.

Because the heartbreak is not that they never married. It’s that she acted married. She cooked. Waited. Kept a drawer for him. Bought Advil in bulk. She built a life out of borrowed time.

She mourned him while he was still breathing.

And he? He came back between tours like she was a checkpoint. Not a destination.

And when she shows up in the trauma bay years later?

That’s the twist in the myth.

That’s Penelope on the gurney—not weaving at the window. Not keeping the bed warm, not unraveling the shroud by candlelight to hold off the world while waiting for him to come home. In The Odyssey, Penelope waits twenty years for Odysseus—loyal, steady, faithful while he fights monsters and sleeps with sea goddesses and delays his return in the name of glory. But in this version?

She doesn’t get a hero.

She gets a man who never came back. She gets Jack Abbot, standing over her unconscious body in the trauma bay—older, haunted, engaged to someone else. She’s the one who waited. And bled for it.

Because she wasn’t a wife. Just loved like one.

Just left like one.

And now she’s lying there, broken under fluorescent lights, while he wears a ring he never offered her.

And that ring—God, that ring—it isn’t just metal. It’s betrayal made tangible. It says: I could’ve done it. I could’ve stayed. I could’ve chosen you. I just didn’t.

Not for lack of love. But because he couldn’t bear to sit still long enough to give her a name that meant “home.”

She never got to grieve him because there was no funeral. She never got to rage at him because he didn’t cheat—he just vanished. She never got to move on because there was no divorce—only distance.

And now she’s waking up to the sound of Jack Abbot’s voice.

In his hospital.

Wearing someone else’s ring.

[sweetvoidstuff]

Fading into the Shadows - Gravity and Gold (4)

Jungkoo x Reader

Summary: (Y/N) wants a normal university life, hiding her gravity powers, while Jungkook strives to be a perfect hero. When villains attack their campus, she is forced to make a choice—stay hidden or fight. Their encounter changes everything.

Masterlist

Story List

Wordcount: ~900

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please let me know—I’d love to hear your thoughts. I plan to publish one chapter per week, so stay tuned for more!

Chapter 4: Fading into the Shadows

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and electricity. The battle was over, but you could still feel the weight of it pressing down on you. Your muscles ached, your head was spinning, and worst of all—you weren’t sure what happened next.

The second the villains had fallen, reinforcements flooded in. More heroes. More uniforms. More people who would have questions you weren’t ready to answer.

I need to leave.

Before anyone could notice, you slipped into the shadows, using the last of your strength to lighten your steps, making your movements barely detectable. You moved swiftly, avoiding the floodlights and the murmuring voices of the other heroes. They were too focused on securing the area to realize you were vanishing.

Except for one person.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

You froze.

Your golden lightning throwing hero stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his dark eyes locked onto yours like he had expected this. His uniform was torn in places, smudged with soot and sweat, showing of some tattoos on his arm, but he still held himself with the confidence of someone who wasn’t used to losing.

You swallowed hard. "Home?"

Jungkook let out a dry chuckle. "That’s cute. But you and I both know that’s not gonna fly." He took a step forward. "You’re not some civilian who just happened to get caught in the crossfire. You helped. And not in a ‘lucky bystander’ kind of way. So tell me—why the hell aren’t you with us?"

"Don’t wanna be."

The words were out before you could stop them.

Jungkook’s smirk faded, his expression growing unreadable. "You don’t want to be a hero?"

"I don’t want to be anything," you corrected. "I just want to live my life. Without all of this." you gestured vaguely to the ruins of the battlefield behind them. "Without people like you showing up and dragging me into something I never asked for."

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. He stared at you for a long moment, like he was trying to piece you together—like he couldn’t understand why someone with power – so much power wouldn’t want to use it.

"You don’t get it," he said finally.

"I don’t need to." You replied, already taking a step back. You turned and disappeared into the night before his body felt lighter again and before he could stop you.

The Next Few Days

You did what you always did—you blended in. You stuck to the back alleys, avoided any locations that heroes were known to frequent, and kept your head down. It wasn’t hard. People didn’t pay much attention to you. That was the way you liked it.

But Jungkook?

Jungkook was impossible to ignore. It took less than a week for him to be there.

Everywhere you went, it seemed like he was there. At the market, where you tried to grab a quick meal. At the park, where you liked to sit and think. Once, you even caught him leaning against the entrance of your favorite bookstore, scanning the crowd like he was looking for you, waiting for you to show up.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

And then, one afternoon, he finally cornered you.

You had just stepped out of a convenience store when you spotted him leaning casually against the railing outside, sipping from a canned coffee. He looked up the moment you walked past, falling into step beside you as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You know, you’re really bad at hiding," he mused.

You huffed. "Or maybe you’re just really annoying."

Jungkook grinned. "Could be both." He took another sip of his coffee. "You really don’t want to talk about it, huh?"

"There’s nothing to talk about."

"You’ve got power," Jungkook said, his voice dropping slightly. "More than most people I’ve ever met. That’s no small feat either. And you act like it’s some kind of burden instead of a gift."

Your fingers curled into fists clutching your shopping bags tighter. "Maybe that’s because it is a burden."

Jungkook stopped walking. "That’s bullsh*t."

You turned to glare at him. "You don’t get to decide that."

"No, but I do get to ask why," Jungkook shot back. His expression had darkened, his usual playful arrogance slipping into something more serious. "You could help people. You could be part of something bigger. So why are you so damn determined to run from it?"

Because I know what happens when people like me get noticed.

Because the Hero Program isn’t what you think it is.

Because power always comes with a price.

You took a slow breath. "You and I are not friends. You helped me back there and I thank you for that, but I don’t owe you an explanation."

Jungkook’s jaw ticked. You could tell he wanted to argue, but after a tense moment, he let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

"Fine," he muttered. "I’ll drop it. For now."

You didn’t miss the last part.

He wasn’t giving up on you.

And you weren’t sure if that scared you more than anything else.

[coyotelip]

starchaser microfic: theater || modern au || @into-the-jeggyverse || wc: 680

The theater was supposed to be empty at night. Sirius's whole brilliant plan for their first prank of the year was based on this, no one cares about an empty theater at night, so sneaking in and replacing a couple of audio recordings would be the easiest thing to do, and the coin toss put the job on James's shoulders.

So James is surprised when he enters the main hall through a side door and sees a row of small lights on along the stage. They are far from the floodlights, so the yellow light doesn't allow him to see much, but it underlines the movement of a couple of figures on stage. He takes a few tentative steps down the aisle, making sure he hasn't been spotted yet, and sinks into a seat in the third row.

The two figures on the stage from this distance have now become clearly shaped - a girl with long red hair, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and leggings, pulls her sock in an incredible balletic manner, folding her hands at her stomach, and then jumps up and down, moving her feet in the air; not far from her, a guy dressed in black with dark hair long enough to be pulled into a short, low ponytail stands and watches her every move.

“You need to relax that leg, don't focus on the foot, concentrate on your torso so you don't lose your posture,” the girl's voice comes.

“Mhmm,” the guy nods in response and takes the same stance himself, slowly extending his leg to the side, bending it, and extending it again.

The dim lighting outlines the boy's slender physique on the stage, and the darkness around him makes one forget about the large room and reduce it to a spot of light in front of the two figures. The boy's clothes are black and should blend in with the dark background, but James can still see the clear outline of his long, slender legs. Not that he knows much about ballet, but the stance looks perfect.

And then the boy jumps. Repeating the movements of the girl before him, he keeps his posture and arms in place, but moves his feet quickly and lands perfectly on the floor with a dull sound on the wood. James grips the handle of his chair, eyes unblinking, trying to process every moment of what he has just seen.

The girl's leap before was undeniably incredible, but there was something more to the boy. His longer neck, his more angular figure, or his steady expression - he looked as steady as a rock, but at the same time as light as a feather fluttering in a breeze.

“There, that was perfect!” the girl shouted with delight, immediately putting her hand on the boy's shoulder. “Now the next bunch?”

A slight smile spread across his face and he nodded, taking a step to the side and repeating another stance after the girl. On the count of 3, they moved together, quickly turning to face each other and reaching out to grab each other's hands and spin synchronized on the stage. James continued to watch in shock, no longer having time to process the individual movements, two bodies moving so quickly and in harmony, occasionally pressing against each other in this dance.

After only a minute of this duet, James lost track of time and wouldn't have even noticed the hours, but the phone in his pocket suddenly buzzed with new notifications, and he realized why there is this stupid rule about turning off phones during performances. Fortunately, the vibration itself wasn't enough to attract attention and distract the two actors on stage from their duet, so James slipped out unnoticed the way he'd arrived, but he stopped short at the door and turned around.

From a distance, the two figures were again hard to recognize, they were still actively moving around the stage, holding hands, but now it wasn't some kind of choreography, instead the two were just jumping around each other, waving their intertwined hands with smiles.

OR that one au, where Regulus and Lily are the lead actors in uni's theater club. and James is just here

[delusionalfanficwriter]

fever

The stadium was alive with the roar of the crowd, and the adrenaline was coursing through my veins as I sprinted down the field, chasing after the ball. It was a crucial game against Spain, and I was determined to give it my all. But something felt off. My movements seemed sluggish, and my head was pounding with each stride.

I shook off the discomfort, thinking it was just pre-game nerves, but it wasn't long before my vision started to blur, and my legs felt like lead. I couldn't afford to let my team down so I did what I do best and fought through it.

I kept pushing myself, desperately trying to ignore the mounting fatigue and the feeling of my body betraying me. I wasn't about to be the weak link on the field.

It was Sonnett who noticed first. Playing in college together, we practically knew the in and outs of each other. As I jogged past her, I saw the concern in her gaze but looked away guilty until a player on Spain’s team went down and I made my way to the sidelines for water.

"Y/N, are you okay?" Sonnett asked, her voice laced with worry.

I tried to muster a convincing smile. "Yeah, Sonnett, I'm fine. Just a bit tired."

But she wasn't buying it. She could see right through my facade. "You're shivering, Y/N. Something's not right."

I brushed off her concern, attempting to maintain my composure. "It's nothing, really. I just need to push through."

Sonnett didn't let it go. She knew I was too stubborn for my own good. "Y/N, you're not being weak by asking for help or taking a break. Your health is more important. Let's get you off the field."

“NO, SONNETT!” I snap, the fever coursing its way through my body. I see her taken aback and so am I but I try to not let it show because I know she definitely knows something is up as I rarely raise my voice. 

“Chill, Y/N.” She says before the ref signals we can resume the game and I make my way to the field. I can’t help but notice Emily talking to Tobin, Christen, and O’Hara while they look at me… Yup, I’m screwed. 

I try to ignore the concerned faces on the sidelines and keep playing. I defend well until Putellas body checks me and Carmona comes from the opposite direction causing my body to be jostled around until I hit the ground. I hear the commotion of my teammates yelling at the ref to card the players while Kristie and Naeher check on me, bringing me to my feet. All the motion caused my already fevered head to be boggled and the dizziness hits before I go sprinting out to our sideline. I barely make it to the trashcan by the benches before I empty the contents of my stomach. Hands immediately rub my back as another hands me a towel.

“You’re okay, Y/N. Get it all out.” I hear Christen say.

“C-oldd.” I whimper with my hands gripping the trashcan afraid if I let go, I’ll collapse. Sonnett takes off her big jacket and places it over my shoulder within seconds before wiping the hair from my face so she can make eye contact with me. 

She hisses as her fingertips graze my forehead, “You knew you had a fever didn’t you? And you still played? Y/N, you can’t be doing things like this.”

I nod, not really being able to focus on her words, “Can you help me back to the lockers before I puke again or collapse.” I whisper, all the adrenaline wearing off. 

Sonnett and Christen didn’t hesitate to lead me towards the locker room, their concern never wavering. I was still shivering, my body weakened by the fever and the strain of the game, and they wrapped their arms around me to provide support.

The fluorescent lights inside the locker room were harsh compared to the stadium's floodlights, and I winced as we entered. They gently guided me to a bench and began to help me change out of my soaked uniform and into a warm sweatsuit.

Christen and Sonnett exchanged worried glances as they tried to get through to me, but I could barely comprehend their words. Everything felt muffled and distant, and my thoughts were a jumbled mess.

Sonnett's voice was patient but laced with frustration. "Y/N, you need to let us know when you're not feeling well. Playing with a fever is dangerous, and it doesn't make you a better teammate."

Christen continued, her tone equally concerned. "We rely on you, but we also need you to rely on us when things like this happen. We can't help if you keep it to yourself."

I tried to nod in understanding, but my movements were sluggish and my vision was still hazy. They finally managed to get me dressed in the sweatsuit, and Sonnett helped me to my feet, her arm wrapped around my waist before guiding me to a cot in the corner of the room. 

“Take these and lay down,” Sonnett said sternly, leaving no room for discussion. I listen and take the pills in her hand that the trainers told her I needed. Another jacket is placed over me as Sonnett makes herself comfortable on the ground and rubs my back trying to warm me up. 

“Yo-u can-n go bac-k out. I’ll- I’ll be okay.”

“You’re more of an idiot than I thought if you think I am leaving your side.” 

With that we sat in silence for who knows how long until the team came back in, their chaotic selves calming down as they saw me. Mal, Rose, and Trinity came and joked around about how my puking made some of the Spanish players feel ill, which threw them off their game, “You really helped us win the game.” Rose laughed but Tobin cleared her throat.

“Do not encourage her. And if any of you feel sick and play sick without telling anyone, I will make sure you are benched for the next few games.”

The silence in the room is deafening before I crack up, the fever making me delusional and mock Tobin which only leaves her more angry. Christen is by her side ensuring her, “Tobin, she’s sick. It’s the fever. You can lecture her later.”

“I’m going to take her to the bus so you guys can change peacefully.” Sonnett says. 

“No.” I pretend pout, “I want to stay here. Tobin is just being a control freak.”

“Uh no, before you say something in your state that you can’t take back .” Sonnett says remembering how my fevers cause me to have no filter. 

“Like that time O’Hara got caught hooking up with-” A hand clamps over my mouth before I can get the rest of the words out. I bring my gaze to follow the hand up to its owner and see O’Hara glaring back at me.

I could feel the collective tension in the room spike as the words hung in the air. My teammates exchanged awkward glances, and O’Hara cleared her throat loudly, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"Right, well, let's not go down that road," Christen said, attempting to steer the conversation in a more appropriate direction. "Y/N, you should get some rest."

“Yeah, she's right. Sonnett, take good care of her." Kelley forces a smile before looking at me and if looks can shut people up and kill them I would be dead. 

Sonnett nodded in agreement and helped me to my feet, her arm securely around me. "Don't worry, everyone. Y/N's going to be just fine. We'll make sure she gets some rest and recovers."

As we made our way out of the locker room, I mumbled my apologies to Sonnett for my earlier words. She chuckled softly and said, "Don't worry about it, Y/N. You just focus on feeling better."

Outside, the night air was cool and refreshing, a welcome relief from the fever that had plagued me during the game. Sonnett guided me toward the team bus, and as I climbed aboard. 

She sat me next to her and I nestled closer to her, the plush cushioned seat providing a soft landing. She draped her arm around my shoulder, her touch reassuring and gentle. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world to me. My eyelids felt heavy, and I couldn't fight the exhaustion that washed over me.

"Hey, Y/N," Sonnett whispered, her voice a soft, comforting murmur.

I turned my head slightly to look at her, my vision still a bit blurry. "Yeah?"

A fond smile graced her lips, and she brushed a strand of hair from my face. "You know, even when you're sick and delirious, you manage to bring a smile to our faces. You're one of a kind, Y/N."

I mustered a weak smile, my eyes half-lidded. "I'm just a handful, aren't I?"

[little-pondhead]

The Folly of Men -

Chapter 2: #78866B

AO3 - MASTERPOST

[GENERAL TW: Swearing, lukewarm violence, lots of POV changes, and mild body horror.]

[I sacrificed Damian's POV for more time of Jazz, and everything jumps around a little, but I refuse to feel regret. Notes on the timeline are at the bottom.]

-

Two hours went by way faster than Jazz thought. Between gathering the emergency bags, counting cash, and raiding the lab, she barely managed to herd her parents out the front door on time. Luckily, the two doctors didn't put up a fight, so she still had ten minutes to lock up. Like she said, Jazz hadn't touched the portal besides locking it down. The portal's power supply had been re-routed to an emergency shield, blocking anything from getting in or out. As long as it was still on, that shield would hold.

Jazz blew a strand of hair out of her face as she sat on the front porch for a moment. The door was locked, she had everything, and her parents were waiting like scared kids for her a few feet away. All she had to do was arm the security system using the bug Tucker had sent her. It was relatively easy; she had to take off the casing to the alarm next to their doorbell and use a connector to plug her phone in. It took her a moment, admittedly. It wasn't easy to mash tiny buttons when her hands shook with adrenaline.

While she waited for the virus to load, Jazz glanced at her parents, watching them. They looked lost. A little guilty, perhaps? They both looked gaunt and had unshed tears in their eyes, looking positively miserable for all the world to see. They hadn't said a peep after she had stormed off. Not even when she came back to clamp 'Shade Shackles' onto their wrists, hissing something to them about behaving. The shackles were heavy and bulky, restricting them from their wrists to their elbows and locking their arms together.

The shackles wouldn't hold Jack for long, she knew. Not if he was actually trying to escape. But honestly, the man was probably worse off than his wife. He just kept staring into space, dissociating.

Jazz thought they deserved it. After a few more seconds of fiddling, her phone finally beeped, indicating the upload was complete. She unplugged her phone, packed the cord into one of her bags, and stood again to close the alarm casing. Shutters slammed shut over every entrance into Fentonworks. Maddie flinched at the loud noise.

"And now," Jazz muttered, picking up her bat. "We can't go back." The redhead swung like a professional, slamming her weapon into the alarm, setting it off like a loud pig. She took her anger out on the plastic, smashing the buttons and hardware to bits, sending wires flying. Even the brick beneath the alarm was chipped in many places. Well, if there was one thing her parents did right, it was make a decent bat. The creep stick didn't have a scratch when she finally stepped back.

Wiping sweat from her brow, Jazz took in her handiwork. Getting some extra aggression out of her system slightly cleared her head, and she smiled at the ruined building. The alarm was going off at max volume, and some of the floodlights her parents had installed a few years ago lit up the whole neighborhood with flashing red. If the Fentons hadn't had people’s attention before, they sure as hell did now.

"What'd you do that for?" Maddie said, horrified. Guess she was breaking her silence.

Jazz scoffed, turning to pick her bags up and sling them over one shoulder. "Because while I'd love to burn this place to the fucking ground-"

"You can't!"

"Shut up. It's not up to you, Maddie." Jazz spat. "And it's not up to me. Danny gets to decide what happens to Fentonworks. Whether you like it or not, this is his final resting place. I'm not going to rob him of closure."

Maddie snapped her mouth shut.

"Final resting place?" Jack finally returned to himself as he cried at his daughter's words. Thick tears dripped down his face. Jazz had never seen her father so distraught, not even when Vlad moved away to Europe last year. He looked heartbroken.

Jazz sneered, poking her father in the chest with her bat. "You heard me. That fucking portal, your goddamn pride and joy, is what got Danny killed in the first place. That lab is where he died in front of his friends because you two are idiots who refuse to follow any sort of rule."

"No, that's not-"

"Not what?" Jazz rounded on her mother, who shrunk back in the face of her fury. "Not right? That's not what happened? Is that what you were going to say?"

They were attracting a crowd. People were being drawn out of their houses by the alarms and shouting, staring at the two Fenton parents with mild distaste. Everyone knew their children put up with a lot, even if the doctors were well-meaning. Did they finally cross the line?

"It was hard for us too!" Maddie insisted. "All those late nights, his avoidance of us, how he looked at us! It was horrible."

"THAT'S BECAUSE YOU KILLED HIM!" Jazz roared. She was as red as her hair now, and the little ectoplasm that ran in her veins made the edges of her form blurry. As if she was a heat mirage. "YOU KILLED HIM, AND NOW YOU'RE KILLING HIM AGAIN BY HANDING HIM TO THE GHOST INVESTIGATION WARD!"

"Th-they just wanted to study him," Jack sobbed. "T-to avoid and prevent any ghost disease breakouts."

"BULLSHIT!" Her voice echoed down the street. It boomed unnaturally, drowning out the sound of sirens that were a few blocks away. A few neighbors were going pale as they realized the severity of the situation. "You two are doctors! You know how science works! You two built and sold weapons to them! Don't pretend to be ignorant and blame it on the fucking ghost flu."

"You disgust me," Jazz continued. She descended the steps and shoved past her parents. Maddie landed on the ground with an oof! "I hope I never have to see you two ever again." She adjusted her bags and started marching toward Nasty Burger, cutting through the crowd like she was fucking Moses. The police were a block away now. She didn't want to be there when they got to the house.

"Where are you going?" Her mother called. Pleaded, really. "We can talk this out!"

Jazz ignored her calls and walked on. When they spotted the murderous look in her eyes, everyone on the sidewalks quickly got out of her way. She had two minutes now, but the others probably wouldn't mind her tardiness. Her phone buzzed, and she snapped it open.

From: TheFuck

4:12pm yo ms evie just blasted ur rant 2 myspace and yt

4:13pm for an old lady she sure has quick fingers

4:13pm dani just showed up at nb we just waitin on u

Rather than replying, Jazz pushed the door to Nasty Burger open and beelined towards the trio's usual table. Tucker was glued to his phone while Sam and Dani mumbled, pouring over several sheets of paper. She tapped Tucker on the head, making him jump.

"I'm already here."

Tucker spun around. "Nocturn's starry underwear, Jazz!" He whined. "You could have just texted me!"

"Didn't feel like it," she shrugged, suddenly feeling very tired. The restaurant was mostly empty, so she threw her stuff into the booth beside them and slid in next to Tucker. The Fenton creep-stick was rested against the edge of the table, acting as a warning. The others had already set aside their bags and weapons in the other booth. Not a single Nasty Burger employee came over to tell them they couldn't have swords at the table, so Jazz didn't bother thinking about it.

Danielle, her free-spirited youngest sister, glanced up at her with a weary smile. She looked rough. The wind had tangled her shorter hair, and her clothes seemed horribly displaced and damp. (She'd passed through a tropical storm half an hour ago.) Dani was swaying where she sat, desperately trying to stay engaged with Sam even though exhaustion was no doubt clawing at her mind.

Jazz felt her mood soften. Sometimes, she had to remind herself that Dani was only a few years old by human and ghost standards. While Danny was also a baby ghost, he had a lot more stamina as a human to make up for it. Flying from New Zealand had taken its toll on the girl.

"Here, Danielle, switch me." Jazz stepped out of the booth, guiding her little sister to sit next to Tucker, who wouldn't mind if the girl fell asleep on his shoulder. Dani didn't protest and conked out almost immediately, soft snores being the only indication she was alive. Sam nodded her greeting and shuffled some papers Jazz's way.

"Here's everything so far," she stated. "We're doing this on paper until Tucker can set up a server."

Jazz flipped through the pages. Each one had a little tab in the corner sticking out so things wouldn't get mixed up. The pages were even color coordinated, just how she liked it. She scanned through sheets of numbers, reports on agent activity, stolen research, manufacturing contracts, and so on. Everything she saw was dated back at least a year, and Sam had taken the time to highlight the discrepancies between all the paperwork. It was the very definition of thorough.

Time for business, I guess, she thought. "To start with, how's the town?"

Tucker got right into it. He turned his PDA around to show her the screen. A tiny map of the town was displayed, with red dots pinned to random spots. "All the monoliths Danny set up are primed and ready. They'll tap into the ley lines in the area to power the ghost shield we set up. I'll set it off when we leave the city borders."

"I called Cujo and Wulf," Sam added. She had a paper version of the town map with more random spots marked in green. "They are rounding up the ghost animals, and I got Grandma Ida to scare a few more human ones into helping. Some of the A-listers are doing a sweep to drive out anyone who stays behind."

"What about the GIW equipment?"

"Dash is getting his football and baseball teams together. Wes is going to load them with a virus before they smash it all to bits."

"Teenage boys are always destructive no matter the species." Jazz remarked dryly. Sam gave her a Look, but she ignored it. Yeah, she was being hypocritical. Who cared? "How's the tracking going?"

Tucker patted the sleeping Danielle on her head. "Thanks to a little miss, I got a lock on his ecto-signature much faster this time. But his aura is big, and we'll still need to raid at least four locations before I can pinpoint him."

Jazz sighed in relief, tilting her head back. Everything was falling into place, and soon, Danny would be safe by her side.

-

Danny woke up with a knife in his chest.

He choked, breathing in the air for the first time in a while. He couldn't feel a heartbeat, but the knife was too close to his core. It was too close to his fractured core. The weapon twisted, digging itself deeper, and he screamed silently in fear. His limbs spasmed, knocking into whoever was standing over him and throwing them across the room with a thud.

Free of the pressing weight, Danny rolled to the side, dropping to the floor and scrabbling at the knife still in his chest. Fabric was tangled with his legs, making it difficult to stand. Had he been placed in a bed? He jerked the knife out, letting it clatter to the ground.

Danny keened as precious ectoplasm leaked from his chest. From his core. Flaps of skin that hadn't healed yet tore back open, ripping fresh scabs and making him lightheaded. Half-formed organs were trying to slip free of his body, and he could barely scoop them back in. His fingers felt thick, and the task seemed endless. What if his core slipped out? How would he know? Could he catch it?

Was this how Dani felt when she was melting? He briefly wondered. A sob tore its way out of his throat. God, everything hurt so much. He tried to inhale, to breathe through the panic attack, but his lungs were either shriveled from disuse or missing. He couldn't breathe. Oh god, he couldn't breathe. The fabric felt like shackles against his legs, stiffing and trapping him further as ice crept through the room. He couldn't feel his lungs, he couldn't feel his heart, he couldn't feel his core. His core was here; he knew it. Where was it? Where was his soul?

Danny curled in on himself, letting go of his skin in favor of shoving a hand into his chest, searching for his tiny core amongst all the ectoplasm and body parts. It was like trying to find a ping pong ball in a pool of Oobleck. The base of his head felt heavy, and he just wanted to cry even more than he already was.

where is it where is it where is it

His body shuddered as Danny started folding in on himself. The heavy feeling got worse. Bones slipped from his joints and pressed oddly against his skin, making it poke out in strange positions. He screwed his eyes further shut as he kept reaching past his ribs. His fingers were ice cold and sent shocks up his spine, making him spasm again. Flimsy organs were slipping past his arm; he tried not to pierce them as they landed back onto the floor with an ugly splat.

Danny kept crying, even as he felt the tips of his fingers finally brush his core. It was ice cold, colder than his skin. He could feel a deep crack in the surface, and he mourned for himself as he pulled his arm back out of his body. He wanted to scream so bad. To yell. To wail. To call for his family and friends and heal in his haunt surrounded by love.

But he didn't have any of that right now. His parents had given him away to the GIW, saying he just needed help, that he just needed to be fixed. That he needed healing. His haunt wasn't safe anymore, and Sam and Tucker had to stay behind to protect the other ghosts. Jazz wasn't even home the last time he checked. And now he was somewhere new, having a meltdown as he lost more blood than he cared to think about. He felt so goopy.

Danny's ears twitched as footsteps rushed towards his room. Was he underground? Everything was echoing. The person he'd tossed sat patiently against the far wall, probably staring at the mess he'd made. He was still whining in a high-pitched kind of way, which was his version of a ghost sob. The door burst open, making him flinch, but he was too weak to defend himself with ice. Danny could only lay there and try to pull himself back together.

-

"The boy is awake."

One of Ra's messengers bowed deeply to him, eyes cast to the floor. The papers he'd been going over were forgotten as he shoved them aside and focused on the messenger.

"I heard he was not due to wake until his organs regrew." Ra's commented lightly.

The messenger's frame tightened up a fraction. "The Demon's Thumb has returned," they intoned. "And has decided to greet the new Demon's Heir."

Ra's hummed, standing up. "I suppose I should have expected this. News does travel quite fast these days." He gestured for the messenger to lead the way, and they stood to do so. The walk from his main office to the medical wing was short as more of his retainers gathered around him. Dr. Vanessa, a thin woman with a vicious fire in her eyes, rushed to join his little circle as they passed the research hall.

"I apologize, sir." She seemed harried, if not a little ticked off. "My calculations must have been off. I-"

"It was not your fault, doctor." Ra's cut her off. "My granddaughter seems to have stopped by for a visit and wanted to pay her respects to the new heir, it seems."

"Ah." Dr. Vanessa's anger at herself vanished, and her face was carefully blank. "In that case, I shall adjust the boy's treatment plan accordingly."

They said nothing else as they approached the boy's room, admittedly at a quick pace. The bind around Ra's heart was urging him forward, to be faster and be by the boy's side when he awoke. The mere knowledge that the boy was in danger made his blood boil as his body revolted against this mind. By the heavens, he couldn't wait for this contract to be fulfilled. He hated magic so much.

Turning the final corner, a loud, keening cry assaulted everyone's ears. Dr. Vanessa flinched. A few guards pulled out their weapons, adopting a more defensive position. Ra's could barely stop himself from rushing through the group during the last few steps. He grits his teeth as another opens the door.

They were treated to the sight of a frost-covered room. The boy was on the floor, tangled in his blankets as he tried to shove unfinished organs, which was a gaping hole that led to nothing. Lazarus water was leaking from his body in copious amounts. His skin was practically translucent, and Ra's could spy his bones shifting unnaturally underneath it all, creating strange angles and planes that did not belong to a human. The boy's eyes were screwed shut, and he was crying even more Lazarus water, but Ra's would bet that his eyes were glowing that same bright green. The keening noise seemed to be coming from him, even though his mouth was shut tight.

Ra's glanced around again. A knife was on the floor next to the boy's head, covered in his blood. Mara al Ghul, his granddaughter and leader of the Demon's Fist, was sitting against the far wall with thick sheets of ice covering her from the neck down, trapping her in place. She was still wearing her mask, so Ra's couldn't see her face, but he knew she wasn't happy. Foolish girl.

Dr. Vanessa glanced at him. "May I approach the patient?" She asked. Ra's nodded his approval, and she cautiously stepped forward, trying to avoid the puddles of bodily fluids.

The doctor knelt, and she adopted a soft look to soothe the boy. "Hello, young man." Her voice dripped with honey. She reached out to tap the boy on his shoulder. "My name is Dr. Vanessa, and I'm-" She got cut off as soon as she made contact. A flash of light blinded everyone, and suddenly, Vanessa was encased with ice. She was essentially a statue now, still with a sweet look on her face.

Interesting. Ra's thought. One of his attendants moved the frozen doctor out of the way so he could walk forward, stopping right at the edge of the Lazarus water.

"Boy," he ordered. "Listen."

The boy's cry petered off at the sound of a human voice and he cracked his eyes open, staring straight at Ra's unblinkingly. He warbled something in a language that grated on everyone's minds. Ra's understood him, though, and switched tongues as easily as he would clothes.

"Boy," he repeated. His voice cracked, and Ra's could feel his granddaughter's burning questions engraved into his back. No one had heard him speak like this before. However, the boy finally opened both eyes wide, which he counted as a win. His interest was piqued. "Boy, listen to me."

The boy's mouth didn't move as he replied, "Hurts..."

"I know. But you are hurting others, and hurting yourself. Let us help."

The boy shivered. "Hurts. Can't. Pain."

"My people will not harm you," Ra's promised. The weight of the promise hung in the air like a bird, and the boy's eyes widened. Making promises in the tongue of the dead was a serious thing. "Calm yourself, and let us help you into bed. You are losing lifeblood. We cannot help if you freeze my people."

A humorless laugh was his reply. "Already dead." The boy informed him. "Almost dead again. It hurts. Please?"

Ra's motioned for the assassins to pick the boy up. He squeezed his eyes shut as hands touched his body but relaxed as one of them handed him his liver like it was a stuffed toy. The ice in the room started melting, releasing the two ladies from their bonds. The attending nurse quickly got to work collecting all the extra things that had fallen out of his body and placing them gently back inside the boy's gaping chest like he was playing Operation.

Once he was situated with all his goopy organs back in his body, the boy tried apologizing to Mara and Vanessa. "Sorry for the cold." He rasped.

Mara glanced at her grandfather, who didn't bother to translate. "I will be informing Mother Soul of this development," she said stiffly before turning and marching out of the room, two assassins at her heel. Dr. Vanessa was likewise escorted out to be taken care of.

Ra's stepped closer to the boy's bed. He didn't pay any mind to the blood, Lazarus goop, and now melting ice that stained his robes; they could be replaced. But he needed answers. He needed to figure out how to get out of this deal with the Gardener. And he needed to know how much power one child could offer him.

"Child." The boy looked lazily up at him. The effort of being awake was taking its toll. "I am Ra's al Ghul, the leader here. May I have your name?"

"Mmm." Some of the boy's bones shifted as he wiggled around, trying to relieve the weird pressure pressing against his skin. Ra's reckoned his whole skeleton might be out of place. "Call me Phantom," he eventually hummed.

Ra's knew that wasn't the boy's true name, but he'd work with it for now. He simply inclined his head in acknowledgment, watching as Phantom started nodding back off to sleep. Oh dear. He couldn't let him rest yet; Ra's needed answers.

"Do you know why you are here, Phantom?"

The boy licked his cracked lips, but still couldn't use his voice. His words were just echoing into the air like he was projecting his thoughts for everyone to hear. "No..."

"You were given to me. By a being who called themselves the Gardener. I am to take care of you."

"In exchange for what?" Phantom was struggling to stay awake. But he instantly caught onto the double meaning, which proved he had a brain somewhere.

Ra's considered his words. "Power," he said simply. "I care for you as if you were my own, and in exchange, you would be the key to granting unimaginable power and knowledge."

Phantom wrinkled his nose but seemed to accept that answer. "Undergrowth is so shady sometimes. But I'll acknowledge the deal between you two. Let me take a quick nap, and then you can let me know what you need..." He trailed off as sleep finally claimed him.

The Demon's Head wasn't pleased that the conversation was cut short, but the bind around his heart had loosened its noose, and he felt it was unavoidable. Now that his foolish granddaughter was out of the way, he would leave and return later. Phantom, while boyish in nature, seemed quite mature once he was lucid enough to talk. Perhaps Ra's wouldn't regret making him the Heir.

-

Jazz was getting antsy. It had been weeks, and they still hadn't found Danny. Raiding GIW bases with just the four of them took a toll on the group, especially since they kept losing supplies (like her beloved creep-stick, RIP). A few times, Danielle had to fly off and keep the peace in other cities, as the ghosts were finding different ways into the mortal realm now that Amity was shut off from the world. She'd taken up Danny's name as Phantom and was exhausted from flying across the country constantly. So, really, it was mostly the three of them.

Luckily, Kitty and Johnny showed up recently, and Dani got them to spread the word about Danny's disappearance and the group's country-wide manhunt. No ghosts had shown up since then.

"We're here," Tucker snapped her out of her thoughts, pulling her to an instant stop. This was one of the four bases Tucker had narrowed their search to. They'd destroyed the other three, gathering evidence and doing what was necessary to defeat the agents inside. And now they were standing in front of the final one, deep inside Yellowstone National Park. It looked like a rest stop with a bathroom, but Jazz knew that the compound was actually underground and most likely ten times the size of the shack.

Sam wrinkled her nose. "This place looks abandoned," She noticed. "At least the others had a front going on. I don't want to ride in a dirty bathroom that's really an elevator. I'd rather go back and fight those creepy clown performers from the pizza place."

"I can just phase us down." Danielle offered.

Jazz shook her head. "Nah, you need to save your energy, kiddo. Who knows how deep this one is."

Tucker crouched, fiddling with his PDA. "This spot does have a front," he told Sam. "It's a rare geocache spot. The only hint for it online that I can find is a shitty riddle that was posted, like, last week."

"Oh, what is it?"

"Uh, here. It says:

Below the keep, just six feet deep, lays a weathered path, born from wrath. A white beast rests, who troubles his guests, so find the key, and beware the banshee."

Danielle snorted. "You're right. That riddle sucks. Who wrote that? Skulker?"

Jazz smiled but considered the words seriously. "I mean, it seems pretty literal if you know the context behind it. Why not search for the cache and see if it has a key?"

"Good idea."

With that plan in mind, the four split up to scan the terrain. None of them had ever been geocaching before, but it was a popular tourist activity around Amity. It shouldn't be that hard, could it?

The answer was yes, it was. The group searched for an hour before Tucker finally gave in and sat on a log to take a break. The log promptly crumbled in half, and Tucker shouted in surprise as he landed ass-first on a hard tackle box.

"Oh, come on!" He groaned. "This log isn't even made of plastic! It's cardboard! Who makes a geocache out of cardboard?? It literally rained last night, my ass is wet now!"

Danielle giggled for the first time in weeks. Jazz ruffled her hair, earning a swat of protest, and then walked over to help Tucker to his feet. Sam swooped in to claim the first dibs on the box as soon as he was clear.

The lock was no issue for her as she simply bashed it open with a sharp rock. Sam seemed eager to find more clues and crowed triumphantly when she dug out a key card still attached to a GIW lanyard. "Fucking finally!"

"Good job, Sam." The four gathered around the tackle box. The card seemed legit, right down to the near-invisible security numbers engraved on the back. Their enhanced eyesight allowed them to spot that detail, which was a blessing when sniffing out fake leads.

Dani shot up excitedly. The fact that they were so close to finding Danny renewed the spark in her eyes. "I'll go look for the entrance!" She sped off, turning invisible to avoid any inside cameras. She found it within minutes, and returned to share the good news.

It was, indeed, in the tiny bathroom.

Sam groaned. "I need to learn to keep my mouth shut."

"I'm fine with that, honestly. You loud-mouthed mother-OW!" Tucker stumbled through the doorway to the bathroom, too slow to avoid the whack Sam had given him.

"That's 'loud-mouthed BITCH' to you," she scolded playfully.

The eldest shook her head and ignored them. The bathroom truly was tiny, and hadn't seen the loving touch of a mop in years. Spiders were making webs in the corners and Jazz was pretty sure something had been using the toilet as a litter box. It looked awful and smelled even worse. A smug look from Danielle told her that the girl had simply stopped breathing, and therefore didn't have to deal with the scent of actual bear shit.

She ignored Danielle, too. Jazz could feel her little sister's smugness radiating as they searched everywhere for the secret card scanner. Jazz couldn't stop her organs at will yet, and the twins always took full advantage of that to mess with her. They eventually figured out that the empty soap dispenser was what they were looking for, and the scanner beeped when they swiped the card. The whole room started to shake as they moved down.

Sam and Tucker stopped their petty back-and-forth as they heard the grinding of the elevator cable. "When was the last time this was used?" Tucker sounded alarmed.

"Probably when they built it." Sam grimaced at the sight of the dirty toilet water moving and pointedly moved to stare at the wall. "I want to set myself on fire right now. This is so gross."

"I'll hand you the match."

"I will douse you in gasoline, Tucker."

"Not the time, guys!" Jazz glanced at the ceiling, where she imagined the cable would connect. It squealed and screeched, but eventually, the world's worst elevator trip came to an end, and the one wall with nothing attached to it split open to reveal the pristine tunnel of a GIW facility. All four of them bolted for the hallway, and not just because they were eager to start trashing the place.

"Danny better fucking be here because I do not want to ride that thing ever again." Gasping, Sam rested her arms on her legs, breathing in stale, underground air. At least it didn't stink.

Danielle giggled again (that was twice now!!) and changed forms. "I'll go scout ahead," she informed them. Jazz bid her good luck before she faded from visibility. She wasn't too worried about the girl. Dani had her radio and knew to avoid GIW sensors as a ghost.

Tucker lay on the ground, staring into nothing while they waited. "My ass is still wet," he commented after a few moments of silence.

"No one needs to know that, Tucker."

"Too bad. I might get a rash from this. Did you know I ran out of underwear last week? I'm on my last pair, and now I'm gonna get a fucking diaper rash from them."

Sam gagged. "That's disgusting. Don't tell me this shit. I'm cursing your bloodline just for that."

"You gotta tell me these things," Jazz chided. "I would have gotten you a new set."

Tucker waved his arm in a 'whatever' motion. "Eh, honestly, it isn't that bad right now. I've done worse. Danny and I once tried to see how long we could go without showering or changing in middle school. I went two weeks before my parents hog-tied me and hosed me down in the front yard. Danny managed to go a full month before you did the same."

Realization struck Jazz and her eyes widened. "That's what that was about? Oh my god, he was yowling like a cat when I caught him, and it took three rounds of shampoo just to wash his hair! He's never forgiven me for it!"

"Sounds about right." Tucker shrugged. "I promised him a ticket to the observatory if he won, but you caught him the day of the showing, and he missed it."

"Why don't I remember this?" Sam demanded.

"It was right before y'all moved to town. It's the incident that caused the 'Fenturd' nickname."

Jazz put her head in her hands and groaned. Sometimes, she really wanted to smack her brother.

Danielle popped back into existence, making all three of them jump. Her mood had drastically changed, and she seemed really uncomfortable. "As interesting as that story is, and I definitely want to hear about it later," she said nervously. "This whole place has already been raided. There's no one here except a couple of soulless bodies. And an open portal. Someone was here before us."

All three shot up. "Lead the way," Jazz demanded. Everyone ran down the still-pristine hallway. Barely any dust had settled, and none of them smelled blood. Who had gotten here first?

They slid to a stop before a big metal door. Dani ducked through it to open it from the other side, and everyone was assaulted with the smell of rotting bodies and days-old blood as soon as it started moving. The door was literally so thick it had trapped everything inside. Including some agents, it seemed. A few bodies were pressed against the door and fell toward them when it opened. Tucker screeched and jumped back.

Sam, a true crime girlie at heart, crouched to examine the closest one. "Their fingers are worn through, almost to the bone," she noticed. "I bet if we closed the door again, we'd find scratch marks."

Dani floated above the corpses. "Yeah, it looks like something cut off all the exits and hunted them one by one."

"But what killed them?"

Sam toed a body until it flipped over. The eyes of the agent had been ripped from their skull, and frostbite warped their skin so bad she couldn't tell what their original features were. Danielle floated closer to Jazz, looking highly uncomfortable. "Danny's ecto is all over the place," she whispered. "He was definitely here."

"Right." Jazz hardened her heart. She was here to find her brother, not feel sorry for brutally mutilated government agents. "Let's get going. Stick to the battle buddy system, and keep your comms on."

They proceeded cautiously, only touching a body if it blocked their path or to find a key card. Tucker remarked that if this was a horror game, he probably would have played it, but living it was so much worse. Every single corpse had its eyes removed, and it was starting to wear on Jazz's mind. Dani mentioned their souls were gone, too.

Eventually, after some detours and backtracking, they reached the labs where Danny would have been held. Rage filled Jazz's chest as she saw ectoplasm mixed in with the bloodstains. A table had been set up to restrain a ghost with specialized handcuffs that had FENTONWORKS printed across them in bright green letters. Shattered glass was scattered across the floor and a few organs were decaying quite rapidly. A scientist was slumped across the table, a small knife still in hand. Jazz kicked the corpse.

Without Danielle telling her, she could feel it. This is where Danny had been tortured. Probably vivisected, too. Those were his organs that were rotting on the floor. His blood stains the ceiling. She was seeing red. She wanted to scream. Her baby brother had been tortured by these horrible people, and she didn't even get to kill them??

Danielle tugged on her arm, quietly bringing her back to herself. "The portal," she reminded Jazz. "It's in the next room."

"Sam, Tucker, see what you can recover from in here." Jazz gritted her teeth and let Dani guide her away from that room. "Dani's gonna show me the portal. Scream if you need us."

"Be careful!" Sam called back.

They left the room, going two doors down to what looked like a near-perfect copy of the Fenton's lab. She stiffened as she spied the portal. It wasn't set into the wall like the original but rather floated a few feet in the air in front of it. It looked like a tear in reality, similar to something Wulf could make, but on a much larger scale. She felt dwarfed by it, and dreaded to think about what could come through a portal this size.

Dani pointed out some blinking computers, the only ones still with power inside the entire compound. "They were working on a new portal," she said. "The Fentons sold their research. I'm not sure how we missed it, but they were really close to getting it figured out."

"This isn't from the GIW?" Jazz asked, gesturing to the behemoth of a disaster still swirling next to them.

"No, I don't think so," Danielle zoned out. Her eyes glowed, and she looked at things Jazz couldn't see. "This was opened from the other side. I think someone broke in, took Danny, and left after killing everyone."

"Someone from the Ghost Zone?" Jazz frowned. She bent over the computer, trying to click around for security footage. "But who do we know that is strong enough to kill everyone so physically? Vlad swore to never interact with us again, even if it was life or death. Undergrowth would have left plants behind, Nocturn doesn't like killing in the mortal realm, and Vortex can't sustain himself underground. None of the normal rogues are strong enough, either. Unless they got Desiree to help?"

"Nah, she may be a bitch, but she refuses to participate in murder of any kind. Plus, she's a neat freak. This isn't her work. It isn't Ghost Writer either; he doesn't like writing horror stories."

"What about Frostbite or Pandora?"

Dani wrinkled her nose. "Maybe? Frostbite is a pacifist who is more likely to rescue Danny without killing anyone. And the portal is too small to let Pandora through. She could've sent her warriors, though."

"It was Danny."

Jazz glanced up from the computer. Sam and Tucker were standing in the door, looking pale.

"We pulled recordings from the labs dating back two months. Danny was the one who killed everyone."

"...Pardon? It's only been a few weeks since he disappeared."

"I don't know." Tucker frantically typed away at his PDA, pulling up the downloaded footage and shoving it in Jazz's face. "But it's definitely him. I pulled their files, too. They were looking into time travel, Jazz. The day Danny showed up in their records, Operative K and Operative O were also logged in, even though they were 100% still in Amity during that time. They suddenly added on the time travel stuff a day later."

Jazz zoned out, numb to Tucker's near-hysterical rant. She just watched the tiny screen blankly as Danny was tortured over and over again but refused to give up the secrets the agents were asking for. Every time he refused, he was punished by having his organs taken away and put into jars for study. Then he'd be pumped full of pure ectoplasm, and just like Prometheus, he was back the next day with fresh organs for harvest. The dates in the recording went back weeks. Way before Danny disappeared.

Dani sobbed and looked away from the screen. Jazz couldn't even blink. The turning point in the experiments was when they brought in a little girl, a human girl, in front of Danny. The girl was about five, probably homeless or kidnapped, with pretty blonde hair done up in pigtails. Jazz noted she had been crying and had the number '27' pinned to her shirt. Danny was wary, sure it was a trick until he spotted something off-screen that they couldn't see. He jerked forward, straining to reach the girl, panic in his eyes.

But he couldn't reach her. Two scientists simply wrote down some observations before nodding in the same direction Danny was looking. Without asking a single question, the agents killed the little girl in front of Danny.

Jazz's hands shook as tears filled her eyes. Danny, her sweet baby brother, looked on in horrified shock as the cameras switched. Agents dumped the girl's body in a barrel of ectoplasm and waited patiently until a blue wisp rose from it. Then, using a Fenton peeler, they zapped the child's soul without mercy. Normally, the peeler stripped the disguise off a ghost to reveal their real form. But to a fresh soul as weak as that?

Her soul was burned into nothing.

Danny started screaming and imploded in on himself like a star.

The camera blacked out for a few moments, flickering between glimpses of her brother and blackness. She barely recognized him. His form had warped into something unrealistic. Something straight out of a movie. He was impossibly large now, barely able to walk on two legs when he stood amongst his broken restraints. His chest was a gaping cavern, and when he turned towards the camera, she could spy his tiny core exposed to the world. It was acting like a black hole, pulling at Danny's own skin and flesh like it was trying to suck him in. It was beautiful and strange in a horrible way.

He was too fast for the camera to really keep up with, but Tucker had doctored it to slow down each frame. Danny's face was splitting in two from a silent scream. His hair was flowing wildly, falling over his body, so it looked like he had a white, shaggy cloak.

His hunt never stopped. He didn't slow or hesitate to pounce on everyone he saw. His body was stained red from the gouging of people's eyes, which was the fastest way to reach a human soul. The group watched in horror as Danny leaned over his victims, opening his splitting maw even wider and devouring every soul he could, ensuring that they wouldn't even get peace in death. The churning of his core was getting worse, and at some point, he was spreading ice with every step he took. It looked like he was really struggling to stay standing by the time a few scientists were the only ones left in the compound. Jazz was afraid of what would happen if he collapsed completely. Would his core devour him?

At some point, the cameras really did die, and the screen went dark. Jazz realized she was crying, and moved to give the PDA back to Tucker.

"There's more," he shook his head. "But we didn't watch that far ahead because an outside force added it when I downloaded everything."

Like he said, the screen crackled back to life after a moment. The group realized it was from Danny's point of view. All the agents were dead, and he was stumbling through the halls in a daze, unable to keep his bigger form. He finally made it to the room they were in now, probably drawn to the familiarity of the lab layout. Before he could reach the unfinished portal, however, the freestanding one opened and out stepped a very familiar figure.

"Clockwork?" Jazz muttered, surprised.

As if hearing his name, Clockwork looked directly through Danny, straight at her. "The flow of time has been disrupted." He said softly. "I'll take our young Guardian here to a safe place. We have much to talk about, Miss Jasmine. You, too, Samantha, Tucker, and Danielle. I'll see you soon."

Then, the older ghost's focus switched back to Danny, and it was like he'd never spoken to them at all.

"Daniel," he coaxed. "It's time to go."

Danny groaned but stumbled forward and passed out in Clockwork's arms, promptly ending the video.

Silence descended over the room. Jazz could hear blood rushing through her body, and her heartbeat was pounding in her ears. She thought over what they'd found in the facility, about the state of Amity Park, her parents, and most importantly, her brother. About how he was tortured to the brink of insanity and how he still found it in his heart to love others. To protect them. To care and grieve for someone he'd never met. He must be feeling so much hurt.

Deciding on the next step was easy.

"We need to find Clockwork."

-

[I realized the timeline is kinda confusing, and I promise it'll all match up in the next chapter, but here's a chart on what it looks like right now so it's easier to understand.]

[The top one is the timeline Ra's and the rest of the DC characters are on. The middle is Jazz and the others. Danny is separate from both timelines right now because of the Time Medallion that Dan forced into his core. Right before the start of the story, which is marked in bright colors, Danny and the agents he's traveling with get involved in a time anomaly and are transported two months into the past. The agents still take him to the Yellowstone compound, but the incident makes the GIW speed-run their research on the Ghost Zone and, now, time travel. The timelines sync up again when Tucker finds the video from Clockwork. The total amount of time that has passed since the start of the story to the sync-up is about three weeks.]