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milkytheholy1 · 1 year

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Everything Ends: Part 13

A/N: Surprise! I literally just finished writing this and I wasn't going to upload until later this week, but I was too excited to see the reaction to this chapter. Just from the little stuff I was teasing my girlfriend with, I think this chapter is gonna invoke something in people. Enjoy!

Tmnt masterlist. Everything Ends masterlist. Ultimate masterlist.

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Inside the Spaceship

Large rocks and debris floated through the air, they all seemed to circle the large ship that was slowly sinking through the gaping hole split in the sky. The three brothers tried their best to keep up with one another, leaping from rock to rock as they grew closer to the ship's surface.

"I wish my tech was working, usually my cardio is on the more jetpack-assisted side." Donnie groaned out, clutching and clawing onto a softly spinning boulder. Once the brothers infiltrated the Kraang's ship, they stuck to the shadows like their father had taught them.

The inside of the ship was gooey, with walls covered in slime and a dank smell in the air. It was dark too. Dark enough that the multiple tunnels that lay in front of them were cast into the night, but light enough that if they squinted sufficiently they could see their three fingers in front of their faces.

"Hey, is it too late to be on April's team?" Donnie whispered, head furrowed between his shoulders. Leo groaned but ignored him, he was quite surprised he could manage that, to be fair. With all the times he's back-chatted Donnie, who knew he could hold back a mean comment?

Flicking his gaze over his shoulder, Leo barked out some commands, "You two go look for a way to hijack this ship." Mikey perked up at that, "What will you do?" Leo frowned, jumping down from their hiding position and landing on the ground with perfect balance. He whipped out his katanas, the sound of metal against metal slicing through the air, "I'm going to find Raph." he said, determined.

Once Leo had left, Mikey turned to his older brother, who was staring intently at the tech in front of them. Flipping his gaze between the two, Mikey rubbed a spot on his head, lips in a pout, "How are we supposed to hijack this thing?"

Donnie rubbed his chin in deep thought, "Hmmm, best guess is the main console." then his brows crinkled, "Unfortunately, its occupado!" he pointed a long finger towards the Kraang, who sat comfortably amongst the console of the Technodrome.

A looming shadow grew over the pair, neither one paying enough attention until they could see the slightest bit of movement from the corner of their eyes. Sharing a look of dread, Mikey let out a screeching "RUN!"

---

Elsewhere, Leo was running and ducking through countless tunnels, so many he had actually forgotten which way was left and which way was right. After passing through what could only be his fourth circle of the same inky black cave, Leo stood still.

He wasn't even aware he was panting until he could feel the rapid beatings of his heart bursting out of his plastron. Slumping his shoulders, Leo closed his eyes and just breathed. And soon, his heart slowed to a rheumatic beat. His mind was clear and his senses were more alert, Master Splinter had always warned him that he often lets the world and its circumstances overpower his mind.

Sometimes Leonardo just needed to stop and breathe, allowing himself some time to think and feel. Maybe his father wasn't as bad as a sensei as he thought, he stowed away a reminder in his head to ask Splinter for some more breathing techniques when all this was over.

Flicking his eyes open so casually as though he had just woken up from a sweet dream, an imminent yellow light presented itself. Tracking it through the caves led Leo to a spacious room full of pink vines and large purple windows. Shifting his attention to the eye in the sky, a small chortle switched his attention to the unknown presence in the room.

With a smirk, Leo placed one of his katanas back in its sheath, while the other lay pointed at the Kraang leader himself. With doe eyes, Leo swirled the tip of the blade in the air in a mocking offence, "Surprise!" he teased. His face then hardened much like his voice, "I've come for my brother." there would be no negotiations.

The Kraang leader leaned forward, a smirk of his own reaching the deeper grooves of his face, "Let me guess? Duty?" he snarled out in a jesting tone. Leo tilted his head in confusion but a smile erupted either way, "Pfft, you said doodie."

"Childish fool," Leo could faintly hear the Kraang mutter, though his eye roll was evident of his annoyance and disdain for the young turtle standing below him. The Kraang leader limply moved his right hand, motioning for a demon to walk out into the light. And by command, Raph's hulking frame was cascaded in the yellow and pink rays from above.

His face was emotionless, his eyes looked dead. Leo almost shuddered at the state of his brother, but he knew it wouldn't last long; he'd save him.

The Kraangified-Raph leapt to the ground, the floor around him sticking up in jagged pieces due to the impact. With sluggish and precise steps, he slinked his way over to a back-tracking Leo, "Raph, you're coming with me, whether you like it or not."

Raph's body shook with a thunderous roar, Leo slowly but surely dragged out his other katana, "Raph, buddy, c'mon...I don't want to fight you."

The Kraang leader watched from above with an evil glint in his eye, "Oh, but you'll have to." he mused. With a simple snap of his robotical fingers, Raph picked up the pace and charged at Leo; the red-eared slider narrowly avoided the attack.

---

Donnie and Mikey ducked and dived to avoid the painful swots of the Kraang's tentacles. Although the nasty thing was small, with the power of the walls it was seemingly unstoppable.

The Kraang formed another tentacle via the gooey walls and readied its shot at the young box turtle. Mikey, naturally, reacted by escaping into his shell. This just so happened to be the perfect thing to knock the Kraang out long enough for the boys to take over and hijack the ship; especially once the Kraang hit itself in the face.

"Bravo Michael!" Donnie beamed, running over and hesitantly kicking the disgusting creature away from the console area. Mikey soon joined his tech brother's side, watching and waiting for him to press something, "What now?" he asked.

"Well now I should just be able to press a single buttoooo-" Donnie dragged out, eyes going wide and jaw slack once he finally got a look at the tech he was working with. There were no buttons, no levers, no switches or handles. There was only slime.

Holding down his vomit, Donnie rubbed his hands against his head; he once read somewhere it would help brain stimulation. He poked his head around the entire console, maybe he was missing something?

"There's no buttons, or computers or anything! Just a lot of dripping, ooey gooey disgustingness. I don't know how to hack it." he huffed out, further working his fingers into the skin of his forehead. By now, Donatello was glaring at the stuff, but then that familiar look of realisation crossed his features.

Screwing his face up, Donnie shivered, "Oh god...I know what I have to do."

Mikey looked between the console and his brother, not quite catching on until he could see the green from Donnie's face intensify, "What are you- Oh no...that's- it's so gross!"

Donnie faced away from the console, holding a fist to his mouth while he constructed happy thoughts, "I can't do it." he groaned out. Mikey looked equally as sick as his older brother, but ever the supportive one, he tried motivating Donnie, "I b-believe in you!"

"It's my worst nightmare!" Donnie cried out, brows furrowed. He was leaning against Mikey, looking like he would faint any minute. But Mikey persisted, "You c-can d-do it!"

Donnie started flapping his hands, jumping on his tiptoes, trying his hardest to hype himself up. Taking in deep breaths and quickly releasing them, Donnie tugged on his goggles with a sense of confidence, "I'm going to d-do- I'm going to do it." he finally stuttered out.

Just as quickly as he said it, Donnie thrust his hand into the gooey console; his whole body shivered at the texture. Trying not to gag, Donnie continued on, but something wasn't right, "It's not working, I need more of a connection." he growled. Looking towards his young brother, he nodded his head rapidly, "Mikey, I-I need you to take off my battle shell."

Mikey wanted to refuse, clamming his hands together out of nerves, "No, you're too vulnerable with just your soft shell." But Donnie wouldn't take 'No' for an answer, "There's no time, just do it!" he yelled. Michelangelo did as he was told, quickly unclipping the battle shell like Donnie had shown him many times before.

Removing his hands from the console, Donnie stood with his back against it. Taking in a deep breath, he sent a final smile to Mikey in hopes it would set his mind at ease. Once that was done, he slowly leaned back and allowed the ship to take him, shivering and shaking as the tentacles punctured his skin.

He held back the screams of pain, he didn't want to scare Mikey or make him think it was a bad idea. In all honesty, it hurt like hell and maybe it was a bad idea to absorb yourself into an alien spaceship; but it was too late now.

Donnie's body had sunken into the ship, barely visible to Mikey, "D-Donnie?" he stuttered out, clutching the battle shell to his front as some form of protection. From his side, Mikey could hear what sounded like clawing or an animal being maimed. But of course, it was just the Kraang waking up.

"Oh no biggie," Mikey soothed, not fully grasping what was going on; his mind was too focused on his brother potentially being Kraangified right in front of him. Yet when the sound persisted, Mikey back-tracked his words. With wide eyes and a yelp falling from his lips, Mikey stood rigid and slowly turned to see the beast panting, "Oh mi gosh a Kraang!"

It leapt at the young boy, but before it could cause any real damage, a large hand swatted it away. Mikey peeked over the battle shell, it really was acting as a shield for him. The room went from yellows to purples and blues, it felt alive in a way it didn't feel before. Looking up, large clumps of vines began forming a shape.

Protruding from the grossness came Donnie's face, "MIKEY, I AM...A SPACESHIP!"

---

"Raph, I know you're in there somewhere! Snap out of it!" Leo begged, blocking an angered fist with his katanas. He briefly made eye contact with Raph over the 'X' his blades made, but Raph's eyes were sharp and violent much like his punches. With another swing and a heavy grunt, Leo was sent back a few steps.

More and more punches were exchanged, with each swing Leo was clinging onto hope. Hope that his brother would be alright, hope that this would all work out in the end and they could return to being a happy family who had movie nights on a Friday and played charades on a Tuesday.

After one particular kick to the chest, Leo was panting. Out of breath and in pain, the demonic laugh from above distracted him briefly, "Do you feel it? The power of the Kraang! We- I'm trying to save this world, can't you see? I am the hero, I am the God, I am a gift!" the Kraang all but grinned, his hand high in the air as though he was awaiting his applause.

Another punch but this time Leo's forearm took most of the brunt, "I don't think so, Squidward. Me and my brothers are gonna kick your sorry butt back to your own dimension!"

"From the looks of it, you're all on your own." the Kraang leader snarled, clicking his fingers once more and watching in delight as Raph was overtaken with aggression. Leo's eyes widened when punch and punch were thrown his way, god forbid he'd ever get kicked by Raph; that seemed like a life-ending move with the strength he was packing.

Leo all but stumbled backwards, narrowly avoiding each fist. He knew he needed to fight back but he just couldn't, I mean, c'mon...this was his brother. Sure, sometimes they fought and sure, sometimes it lead to physical fights but it was nothing like this. There was never any real aggression that fueled them, it was just brothers being brothers, siblings being siblings.

"Raph, please...Don't make me beg!" that was a lie, he'd already begged. Leo would have begged his entire life over if it meant Raph would come back to him, to his family. The only response the red-eared slider got was a growl, almost like the dude had rabies. Another clang of claws against metal and the fight continued.

"Raph, this isn't you. C'mon, big guy, I know you're still in there...Pleas-" his pleas were cut short when Raph socked him right in the jaw, Leo's body went flying into the air. The event felt like it was happening in slow motion, when Leo fluttered his eyes open he found he was still in the air. But with a gust of wind beside him, he soon caught Raph's figure above his body with a jagged fist pointed towards Leo's chest.

That's when time resumed like it always does, Leo was pummeled to the ground; out of breath and out of lives. Blood began to trickle past his lips and down his chin until it dripped from the sharp edges of his jaw. With a weak chuckle, Leo wiped the crimson liquid away, "Cute, but now you're making me mad."

Standing up, Leo collected his Katanas from the ground. He gripped them tightly and stared at Raph with anger in his eyes, "This is your last warning, give me back my brother."

"He can't hear you, you know? He's nothing but a mindless ape, much better than before." The Kraang groaned, but his voice lightened when thinking of the gruesome transformation. Leo didn't take his eyes off of his brother, "I wasn't talking to him, I was talking to you." his words were cold and forceful, almost warlike.

The Kraang huffed, his tone dark, "Kill him."

Raph surged forward, his claws sharp and aiming straight for Leo's head. But Leo wasn't going to hold back this time, he was tired of waiting, this fight called for action. Blocking multiple punches with his katanas, Leo tried slicing the Kraang goo attached to Raph's arms like a plague. He flinched and cringed when he could hear Raph's groans of pain, but it had to be done.

Leo manoeuvred his way around Raph's body, always being one second ahead before Raph could slash him. The teen could practically feel the rage melting off of his older brother, "I guess the short temper is a universal thing, huh?" he mused, only aggravating Raph more. The more Leo riled up Raph's temper the sloppier the snapping turtle got.

Eventually, Raph was throwing punches left, right and centre in hopes to land one on the annoying little man chasing him down. But just because Leo was using this to his advantage doesn't mean the fight was getting easy, if anything an angry Raph was a dangerous Raph. Leo was finding it harder and harder to duck and dive out of the way, with every roll to safety Raph would be on his tail.

There were a few times when Leo was able to get up and personal with a few good licks of his own, but he'd have to pounce away before Raph could crush him into his alien-covered plastron.

"Raph, man, you are not making this easy. It's like you don't even want to be saved!"

"You think he can be saved? Ha, that is the funniest thing you've said since coming here. This Raph is nothing more than an empty shell now, it is just anger rolled into a muscular body. You. Cannot. Save. Him." the leader of the Kraang laughed, eyes pulled together while his teeth shone brightly in the light of the purple windows.

Leo stuttered in his steps, "No! I will save him! I have to- I have to have hope!"

"Hope?" The Kraang bellowed, almost exasperated. He drew back into his throne, "Hope is what the weak tell their young so they don't die so soon. When you are gone you can watch from above and see where your hope gets you."

Leo let out a powerful scream, charging for the platform on which the Kraang leader resided. Leaping into the air with his katanas held high, he was so close to ending it all. Yet fate played a cruel hand and Leo was bashed by a heavy object, that object being Raph. Leo smashed into the ground, bouncing along the floor until he rolled to a stop.

Raph was already charging at him, not giving Leo enough time to breathe and with the anger in his brother's eyes, Leo feared he might not make it. Raph's pace grew quicker and quicker, the ground beneath Leo's body was shaking with force. It all happened so fast. With one katana in reach, Leo grabbed the blade's handle and held it out in front of him. He looked away out of fear, waiting for the ruined hands of his brothers to snag him.

But it never came.

Leo winced his eyes open, nearly gagging at the sight. He didn't want to believe it, he couldn't believe it, but his eyes weren't deceiving him; not this time. Raph was indeed in front of Leo like he had initially thought, but his brother was panting deeply, eyes wide and jaw hanging open; gasping for breath. Leo couldn't tear his gaze away from Raph's, but soon his hand trembled and his eyes trailed down Raph's battered body to see his katana plunged deeply into his chest.

Tears were free falling from Leo's cheeks, sobs escaping his mouth as he dropped his grip. Raph crumbled to his knees, red escaping his open wound and surrounding his body as he fell. Leo was crawling over to him in an instant, cradling his head and crying loudly.

"R-Raph-" he could barely speak, he could only cry and regret immensely. The Kraang still had a hold over Raph, Leo could see it in his eyes, but now the anger was less clouded than before. Leo could feel his plastron shaking, his heart beating out of his chest. His legs and hands were covered in Raph's blood, it was warm and sticky but he didn't care.

"R-R-Raph, I'm s-so sorry."

All of a sudden, Leo felt a presence on top of his hand. Looking down he caught Raph's much bigger palm over his, slowly looking up Leo caught his gaze; it was broken and raw.

"Ra-Raph?" Leo whispered, watching as his brother's eyes shone brightly, "It's o-okay," he mumbled out, speaking was becoming hard. Leo shook his head, how dare the Kraang release his brother in their final few moments. Allowing him to feel all the pain, allowing him to feel the torture and suffering; they were truly evil.

"I-" Leo didn't know what to say, know what to do, "I- I can get D-Donnie, he'll fix you. A-and Splinter, he- he can do some magic thingy with Draxum-"

"Leo," Raph tried to sound commanding but it came off as a plea. Leo tried blinking back the tears, unable to truly see anything as they clouded his vision, "Please, please don't go."

Raph's hand squeezed Leo's, but the strength was diminishing by the second, "Y-you're the best b-brother anyone could e-ever ask f-for." he smiled. Leo shook his head, sniffling an ungodly amount of times, "I- I did this to you, brothers don't d-do that."

"You had no choice," Raph's breathing was becoming weaker, his chapter was almost coming to a close. With one final squeeze of Leo's hand, "I f-forgive you-" the light in Raph's eye blew out like a candle in the wind. Leo wept like he never had before, tugging Raph's body into his chest and hugging him so tightly. It didn't take long before Raph became cold to the touch, colder than usual that is.

The yellow light that cast their bodies in warmth felt fake, but just like Raph, that too slowly subsided into a dull grey. The only sound that surrounded the room was Leo's whines and pleas for his brother to wake up, his endless apologies and his quiet "I love you's". They echoed around the tunnels of the ship for anyone to hear.

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stonyisforever · 10 months

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Seasons of Life

Steve never appreciated the seasons until Tony entered his life.

Finding himself captivated by the enchanting sight of Tony's hair gracefully dancing in the gentle, spring breeze. The warm sunlight casting its golden beams upon Tony's eyes, illuminating the mesmerizing copper hues speckled within. His cheeks flushed rosy from the heat of the day and the trek from the rental cabin.

Tony’s hand firmly clasps his own before he’s led to a tranquil spot overlooking the pond, then is guided down to settle onto the damp grass beneath the shelter of an elm tree. The water rippling and shimmering brilliantly as a family of ducks casually swim by.

“Didn’t really have a chance to prepare a proper meal,” Tony admits, subconsciously rubbing the nape of his neck. “Only managed to pack some cold pizza and a couple beers.”

A faint smile tugs at the corners of Steve’s lips at Tony’s dismal attempt towards a romantic gesture. “Sounds perfectly good to me.”

The dazzling grin he receives is well worth the meager meal.

It’s worth anything.

~*~

With summer’s arrival, they’re afforded a trip to the beach. Allowing Steve to quietly admire the rivulets of water tracing along the contours of Tony’s body. His skin sun-kissed and shiny from poorly applied sunscreen. The undersized, gold and red speedo clearly chosen to scandalize Rhodey—who’s pointedly moved down shore with Pepper—rather than for the sake of fashion sense.

“I chased Jaws away,” Tony teases as he trudges out of the water. “It’s safe to come in now.”

“Oh, really?” Steve automatically plays along, enjoying the banter they’ve mastered over the years. “Did Iron man show up when I wasn’t looking?”

Feigning offense, Tony theatrically presses his hand to his chest. “Why, Cap, are you insinuating I’m weak and helpless?”

“Of course not,” Steve deadpans. “After such an impressive display of strength, surely carrying a frightened, super soldier without the armor would be a piece of cake for you. Wouldn’t it, Shellhead?”

A spark of challenge fleets across Tony’s face, causing Steve to raise his brows expectantly. “Exactly right.” Tony puffs out his chest in show of his determination. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

Later that night, Tony insists to the team the terrible aches from pulled muscles in his arms are due to jellyfish stings. And by morning, Steve ensures the comical sketch of jellyfish lifting dumbbells is placed strategically on the pillow beside Tony’s head.

~*~

Autumn brings an array of color and cooler temperatures. Enticing them to take a walk through the park to admire the changing colors. Leaves crunching underfoot as they stroll along, observing other couples intertwined and lost in their own worlds.

Steve appreciates Tony’s decision to wear the turtleneck sweater he gifted him, but remains concerned by strange discolored veins crawling up Tony’s skin towards his ear.

“Have you ever wondered if this is the only life we get?” Tony asks, apropos nothing, and stops to intently observe the leaves fluttering down.

There’s something oddly melancholy about his demeanor, but Steve’s long since embraced Tony’s vacillating moods.

“Sometimes,” he admits, shifting uncomfortably. “But, who knows?”

Tony swallows, the muscles of his throat visibly straining to do so. “What if we never see each other again?”

Steve blinks, momentarily taken aback by the grim concept. “Then, I guess we’ll have to appreciate it while we have the chance.”

Reaching to cup Tony’s face in his hands, Steve gently rubs a thumb over his cheekbone. Giving Tony a minute to melt into his touch before he leans in, pressing his mouth against slightly chapped lips.

Memorizing the sound of Tony’s appreciative moan as leaves skitter across the ground.

~*~

Tony stands by the window, enthralled by the winter storm and seemingly lost in thought as he sips absently at his hot cocoa.

Steve sets his respective mug onto the side table and moves to join Tony, encircling his shoulders with his arms.

“Are you all right?” Steve wonders against the shell of his ear.

“Always,” Tony responds as if on autopilot, but sinks back against him, letting Steve support his weight.

“Then, what’s on your mind?” Steve rephrases.

“Just wondering if Santa received my letter.”

Steve hums in response. Not exactly liking the dismissive tone, but knowing better than to press.

“What make you think you’re on the nice list this year?” Steve strives to lighten the mood, and smirks at Tony’s scoff.

“I’m always on the nice list,” Tony retorts. Then, corrects himself, “Except for that one time.”

Steve chuckles fondly, ducking down to kiss along the curve of Tony’s neck. Feeling the raised veins against his lips.

“What did you ask for?”

He catches the sharp intake of breath before Tony stiffens.

“Tony?” he starts, quelling the rising panic.

“More time…,” Tony answered at length, voice scarcely audible, “with you.”

Without elaboration, Tony turns in Steve’s embrace, and kisses him with a force Steve hasn’t experienced. Just shy of painful as Tony’s tongue dominates his mouth.

They make love passionately—desperately. The feel of Tony beneath him, his legs wrapped around Steve’s hips, delicious and heavenly.

“I love you,” Tony says breathlessly into Steve’s ear for the first time.

Steve can’t shake the feeling it might also be the last.

~*~

Grey.

The world is encompassed by it.

No more sunshine.

No color.

No warmth.

The offerings at Tony’s grave are the only indication of passing time. Flowers withering and dying to be replaced by a fresh batch. The pictures in the frames fading, steadily erasing Tony’s smile.

Steve never hated the seasons until Tony exited his life.

------------------------ For @stevetonygames 2023 Team Past (screen name: ResilientSystem||Theyumenoinu) Square "Seasons"

#SteveTony Games 2023 #SteveTonygames #Steve Tony Games #Stony #Steve Rogers #Tony Stark #Ficlet #Warning: Major Character Death

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drarryficrecs · 2 years

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Hello! I was wondering if you could help me find one fic. If I'm not mistaken, once Harry turns sixteen, he discovers that he is going to die. He bonds with Draco on the lake while smoking? I read this fic years ago, if you can't tell, hahaha. It was a quite sad fanfic, Harry does die and there is this feeling of being betrayed by Dumbledore and being used for the cause. Thank you so much!

EDIT: Thank you @valokki, this is Beautiful World by Lissadiane. Rated M, word count 70k.

Harry finds out he's going to die on his 16th birthday. He embarks on a journey of self-destructive behaviour and drags Draco along for the ride.

#im really sorry #i am too emotional for this #drarry #drarryficrecs #warning: major character death #angst

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snamioneasks · 2 months

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I AM LOOKING FOR A FIC WHERE SNAPE AND HERMIONE ARE FORCED TO HAVE UNPROTECTED SEX WITH A POTION WHICH GIVES THE CHILDREN THE MEMORIES OF THE PARENTS .SHE BECOMES PREGNANT FOUR TIMES AND EACH TIME HER CHILD IS TAKEN OUT AND PUT NSIDE A SURROGATE . ONE OF THEM IS LUNA

Hermione Granger and the Intended Vessels by ShawnaCanon - Mature, 37 chapters - Sometimes all it takes to change the world is one small, simple choice. On the night the Death Eaters attack Hogwarts, Hermione Granger makes such a choice. Her life—and her world—will never be the same. By killing Draco, she saves Dumbledore and keeps Voldemort at bay for a little while. But evil never sleeps for long. When a Ministry decree forces her to marry Professor Snape—a cruel, cold man who’s apparently hated her since she was a child—in order to be used as a breeder of superior wizards, Hermione doesn’t think her life can get any worse. She’s wrong. Soon, Voldemort’s after her and her friends (again), her life is in grave peril, and all her hopes for a future at all, much less a happy one, rest on her own shoulders—and on Snape, her unwanted husband, whose heart still belongs to a woman long dead.

#length: multi chapter #relationship: forced #timeline: AU #warning: major character death #rating: mature #hermione granger: student #Plot Device: Pregnancy #relationship: slow burn #status: complete #Relationship: Forced Marriage #Relationship: Forced

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achenetype · 2 months

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Hihi can you please do a Luke x reader where it’s basically an unrequited love like reader is so in love with Luke and he has no idea so she moves on and years later she’s over him and confesses to him like a oh I thought you should know and the whole time Luke had been in love with her, kinda base it off that one TikTok audio where it’s like “I’m not in love with you anymore” “I never knew you were” 🩷🩷

OHH YOURE FEEDING MY ANGST BRAIN WITH THIS ONE. buckle up lets break some hearts

edit: this ended up being WAY sadder than i originally intended. i am so sorry anon oh my god

i gave you a rare gift (but you didn't want it) — luke castellan

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

word count: 2.8k

content: angst, major character/reader death, unrequited love, mutual pining, reader is part of kronos' army, luke and reader are doomed by the narrative, [Y/N] used (sparingly), alcohol mention, description of injury

listening to: bloodfest (from mizumono) by brian reitzell

You are twenty-two years old, sitting on the rocky beach of a lake somewhere in the forests of upstate New York. Light, gentle fog hangs in the air around you, and the only sound is the tap-tap-tap of Luke skipping rocks across the water.

Come dawn, the world will burn. The gods will be dethroned. Every demigod will either be free, or dead.

But now, at midnight, you are twenty-three and Luke turns to you. He's holding a small, squashed cupcake in one hand. "Happy birthday," he says, "to my right-hand man." He pauses. "Woman. Right-hand woman."

He holds the pastry out to you and smiles, but something behind his eyes is empty. Hollow. He hadn't been sleeping recently. As much as he tried to hide it, he couldn't stop you from seeing when he came to you every morning for a cup of coffee and to debrief for the day.

Perks of being the revolution leader's best friend, you think. His right-hand woman.

Luke's eyes flick from the cake to your face. "Do you like it?" He asks, and for a split second, you swear there's a note of hope in his voice. "I wanted to do something, y'know," he says. "Twenty-three is huge. It's a monumental age."

You nod, but stay quiet.

He pauses for a second. "You remember how you always said you wished you never had a birthday?"

When you were twelve, nearly thirteen, your mother drove you across the country to go to summer camp.

"It'll be like a road trip," she said, tossing your duffel bag into the back seat of her battered car. "And then, hey, you'll only stay at camp until the end of August, and then you can come back and go to school. See all your friends again." She squeezed your shoulder and pushed the car door closed. "How about that?"

"Sure," you said. "Super fun."

And it was; you were actually kind of excited. You'd never been to New York. It seemed a million universes away.

And it was your birthday tomorrow. Maybe this was a gift, something that your mother had put together to make up for the years of being too tired and too drunk to make a cake, or get presents, or anything.

Your mother put her hands on her hips and sighed. "You know how I feel about the attitude, yeah? Let's not do this today."

"I wasn't even trying to—" You cut off as your mother glared at you, her face tense. You knew that look: the biting-the-inside-of-her-cheek, trying-to-be-understanding, trying-to-be-a-good-mom-despite-it-all look.

You hated that look.

"Just..." She sighed. "Just get in the damn car, [Y/N]."

You did, fighting back the tears building in the corners of your eyes, and the slam of the car door closing was as loud as thunder.

Twenty silent minutes of city streets and highway merge ramps and cold, empty stretches of asphalt and concrete passed before either of you spoke.

"Mom," you said, thirty-three seconds into minute twenty-one, "I'm sorry for talking back earlier." Your voice was quiet, shaking, cupped in your throat like a scared animal.

She didn't answer, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

"I don't like being like this, Mom," you said, looking over at her. The silhouette of her through the driver's side window, backlit by the streetlights, was shapeless. Impassive. "I don't like doing this with you all the time."

She scoffed.

You pulled your legs to your chest, tucking your head between your knees, and tried to find sleep.

You weren't sure how long you slept, but you woke up to the sound of music playing softly over the speakers. Exit signs whizzed past you at what felt like breakneck speed. You wondered, briefly, if you would break your neck if you jumped out of the car right now.

Ultimately you decided against it. You didn't want your mother's last words to you to be, get in the damn car.

That would make her feel guilty, you thought, and that guilt would make her hate me even more.

"I don't wanna fight," you tried instead, picking at a loose thread in the cuff of your jacket sleeve. "Mom, I'm sorry, okay? I don't want us to be mad at each other anymore," you said. A sob caught in your throat, heavy and wet and choking.

Your mother sighed and reached one hand from the wheel to tuck your hair behind your ear. "I know you don't, sweetie," she said. "I don't want to be mad at you either."

"Then why do you do it," you asked.

When she turned to look at you, her eyes were wet. She smiled, or tried to. "Sometimes, certain people just…can't help but fight," she said. "It's just part of who we are, I think."

"Did you fight with Dad?"

Your mother inhaled, quick and sharp through her nose, as she flicked the turn signal to right and guided the car down the exit ramp from the highway, her eyes locked ahead. "Yes," she said. "Sometimes. Sometimes I think that's where we get it."

You swallowed. "Do you ever miss him?"

She doesn't peel her gaze away from the road. "Every day."

The two of you made your way through bustling streets and across too many bridges to count. You thought you fell asleep again, for a minute or maybe a year. Maybe it was all a dream.

"Mom," you asked as she turned onto a worn dirt road, the sunrise barely stretching over the horizon, "why are you bringing me here?"

She didn't answer for a moment. Two moments, then three. Through the leaves, you saw one tree standing impossibly tall. A pine tree.

Your mother parked the car and turned to you. "Because I don't know what to do with you, [Y/N]," she said. "I don't know how I can keep you," she paused, "safe. How I could do this, on my own, in any normal way."

She got out of the car and grabbed your bag, shoving it against your chest. "Camp is just up that hill there," she said, gesturing in the direction of the large tree you'd seen earlier. "They’ve got people up there waiting for you."

"Mom," you said. "Wait, I—I wanted to talk to you—"

She shook her head. "I can't come with you, sweetie." She smiled, the curve of her mouth falling just short of her eyes. "You just remember that I love you, okay?"

At that moment, you knew: she was going to leave you here.

“No,” you said, tears rolling down your face. “No, no—Mom. Mom, please.”

“Before you go,” she said, her voice tight and sharp, “I wanted to give you this.” She reached into the back seat and pulled out a jacket, worn leather with patched elbows. “It was mine in college,” she explained, not meeting your eyes. Like she was reading from a play or book, and you were the unfortunate audience. “I figure, it doesn’t fit me anymore.”

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Happy birthday, baby.”

It was the first time you had ever felt like your mother loved you. You knew she liked you, sometimes. But you were never quite sure if she loved you until that moment.

And then she got back into the car with one final, teary nod.

And you never saw her again.

“Yeah,” you tell Luke, shrugging. “I think I’ve got a pretty good reason, though.” Your lips curve into a smile.

He laughs and tilts his head. It’s a habit of his; he’ll say something and twist his neck just a fraction, narrow his eyes. A nervous tic that not even years of training and fighting and killing could stamp out.

You used to think about kissing his neck when he did it, but now you’re not sure whether you would know the difference between kissing and ripping his throat out.

“True,” Luke concedes. You laugh, too, unrestrained and loud. “Gods, your sense of humor is dark.”

“You laughed first,” you remind him. He grins.

The cupcake he offers you, despite its lumps and smears of frosting, is pretty good. You split it apart with careful fingers and hand half of it back to him.

“You’re celebrating with me,” you laugh, “so you get half. That’s the rule.”

Luke simply smiles at you and takes the crumbling cake from your hand. “Whatever you say.”

You roll your eyes, grinning back. “Damn right.”

Luke’s laugh rings out again, sharp and bright against the night sky. Firelight flickers across his face, painting him in brilliant streaks of orange and gold.

“After tomorrow,” Luke murmurs, pulling his knees up to his chest, “we can do this whenever we want.” The wind ruffles his hair almost fondly, floppy brown curls stirring and settling back against his skull.

You raise an eyebrow. “This?”

He gestures in a wide arc. “Be here, like this. Just be people, instead of demigods or heroes or revolutionaries.” Luke’s voice picks up, conviction surging into his words. “I mean, seriously—when was the last time you thought you would ever have a normal life?”

You’d never understood the demigods who joined Luke’s cause without knowing him. The plan itself seemed crazy—the only way anyone would follow it was if they knew their leader could pull it off.

You have to know Luke to know he was capable of that, you think.

Until now. Now, you see what you think everyone else sees—a real leader, a revolutionary. A force for change with a silver tongue.

He makes it all seem so possible. You almost think he might pull it off.

Luke looks over to you. “We’re going to change everything,” he says.

Almost.

“We’re going to change the rules,” Luke said, spreading the map over an empty cot in his cabin. “If we want to win, we need to be thinking six steps ahead of the enemy.”

A few of the campers huddled around the makeshift table shuffled and coughed awkwardly.

“Every strategy’s been done before,” a tall girl with bubblegum-pink hair and an eyebrow piercing shouted from the back of the group. “How are we going to out-war the god of war’s kids?”

Murmurs rushed around the table, soft and susurrant. There’s no way we’re going anywhere here. We’ve gotten our asses beat six weeks in a row. What are we even doing?

Luke smiled. “Ares is the god of war,” he said, “not strategy.” He slung his arm around one of the campers next to him and inclined his head in the direction of the map.

Quietly, almost too quiet for you to hear, he murmured into the girl’s ear. “Don’t doubt yourself, Bethy,” he whispered.

You learned three things in the ten minutes that she spent explaining your team’s new strategy—

—one, your team was going to kick some major ass—

—two, your strategist’s name was Annabeth Chase, and she was the smartest eight-year-old you have ever met—

—and three, Luke was right.

Annabeth’s plan took the rules of Capture the Flag and threw them out the window. She split the team into four subgroups, each with a delegated leader. Luke nodded along as she talked, marking the map with a stubby pencil.

When Annabeth’s eyes, dark and piercing, searched the crowd and landed on you, you felt your heart stop.

“You,” she said, “are you good with a sword?”

You raised your eyebrow, pointing to yourself—just to confirm this genius child was speaking to you—and Annabeth nodded.

“I guess?” You said, shrugging. “I know some basic stuff, and I’m good at disarming.”

Annabeth’s face broke into a smile. “Work with Luke on the first wave of offense.” She gestured to the map. “You two will take points B and B-one,” she explained. “My group will take the A-points. You wait for our signal to move in.”

You met Luke’s eyes across the table. Hey, you mouthed.

His eyes flicked up and down your form. Hey, he mouthed back. You ready to win?

You smiled and nodded.

Good, Luke said, all teeth. Let’s go.

He stood and grabbed his helmet. You did the same.

“I’m [Y/N],” you said as you followed Luke through the forest. “We, uh—we met when I first got here, like, a year ago.” I was sobbing my eyes out because my mother abandoned me, you didn’t add. It was kind of pathetic. I think I threw up from crying so hard.

You suddenly hoped Luke didn’t remember meeting you, actually. That would be less embarrassing.

He turned and caught your eye. “You live in the same cabin as me. ‘Course I know you.”

Of course he remembers.

You laughed, flushing red. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

The silence was so thick, you could have cut it with the sleek bronze of your sword.

In the end, it was Luke who broke the silence. “You wanna play a game while we wait out here?”

You shrugged. “Sure,” you said.

“Twenty questions,” Luke replied. “So we can learn enough about each other to actually work together.” He smiled. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Low-hanging fruit,” you said, your voice just barely taking on a teasing tone. “It’s green.”

Luke laughed, loud and full and bright. “Apologies,” he said; mirth crept into his words, staining everything with a tinge of that laughter. “I’ll go for the more gut-wrenching, intimate questions next time.”

You flushed red again. Intimate questions. What the hell does he mean by that?

“My turn,” you said instead. “What do you want to be when you get older?”

“We’ll be heroes,” Luke whispers. “Real heroes. Not figureheads propped up by the gods.”

You wish you could believe him. He’s lying on the beach next to you, his head resting in the junction between your shoulder and your neck. Over the treetops, the stars are beginning to fade from the sky.

It’s almost time.

Your throat feels like someone has sanded it down to expose your vocal cords. This is a bad idea, you want to say. We shouldn’t do this. Tell me we can still not do this.

“Wanna play twenty questions?” You say, crackling and hoarse.

Luke turns to look at you. “Yeah,” he murmurs.

“My turn first,” you whisper. Luke nods.

You take a deep breath, in and out. “Are we going to die doing this?”

Luke inhales sharply. “Maybe,” he says. Slowly. Deliberately. “But we’ll do everything we can to make sure we don’t.”

“I got another question,” you say. Luke raises an eyebrow. His knuckles brush yours as you sit up.

“Are you scared?”

It’s your birthday.

You think you’re going to die.

Luke is kneeling over you, the palm of his hand pressed against the wet opening in your stomach where someone had caught you with a spear. The shaft of it is still sticking out of you, you think. You’re afraid to look down, afraid to see it.

“No,” Luke gasps, “no, no, no.”

You watch as the gold fades from his eye, leaving behind the honey-dark brown you remember. His hands are slick with blood—most of it’s probably yours, it has to be yours. You’re bleeding out, after all.

You tug on Luke’s sleeve weakly. “Hey,” you breathe. “Luke. It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“No,” he says. “You’re—you’re hurt.”

“I know,” you rasp. “I know it hurts. I’m the one—”

You break off as a cough sticks in your throat. It feels wet. Oily. Desperate to get out. You taste the blood in the back of your throat before you can even take another breath.

“—I’m the one who’s feeling it,” you finish, your voice tilting up at the end. A joke. Gods, your sense of humor is dark.

Luke laughs weakly. “Don’t talk,” he says. “You’re gonna be just fine, [Y/N], just fine.”

He meets your eyes. You see him realize it in slow motion.

Tell him. Tell him now. He’s never going to know otherwise—he could die any minute—

“Luke,” you murmur. “Luke, did you know I loved you?”

He freezes. “What?”

You cough again. Blood spills over your lips. “I loved you,” you repeat. “Since we were campers. Had the…the biggest, stupidest crush on you.”

Luke shakes his head. “No, no,” he says. “You—”

“You’re my best friend,” you continue. “Whatever feelings were there, you’re my best friend.”

Luke’s palm against your stomach is warm. It feels safe. It feels like sleeping side-by-side in the cabin, like shared meals and shared secrets.

“Why are you telling me this?” Luke says, “why are you—why?”

You blink, just once, but it takes everything you have to open your eyes again after closing them. “Because I’m going to die,” you whisper. “And even if—even though I moved on, I wanted you to…to know.”

Luke bows over your body, pressing his forehead to yours. Tears slip from his cheeks and fall onto yours, driving little rivers through the blood smeared there.

He’s crying. Why is he—

“You idiot,” Luke says brokenly. “I loved you too. I loved you too.” He cradles your head in his lap, brushing your hair away from your face. “[Y/N], I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes slip shut.

I loved you too, Luke’s voice echoes. I loved you too.

#— ash's writing #pjo x reader #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan x you #reader insert #y/n #pjo imagine #ok now we get into the warning tags #graphic depictions of injury #major character death #major character injury #reader death #alcohol mention #doomed by the narrative #genuinely im so sorry i really ran wild with this one good god #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan fanfic #— ash’s answering!

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ao3feed-hawksdeavor · 2 years

Link

by mistercrowley

Izuku’s voice still nips at Shouto’s ear every now and then, fleetingly sweet.

He’d told Shouto once—

“You know? You don’t realize how much of a nice person you are.”

Shouto can still picture the conversation from that winter’s eve—swaddled in a deep blue turtleneck, coco warmed by his hands, and the smiling faces of his classmates all the warmer.

It was one of the few things he remembered from Izuku's lips.

Before you murdered him.

Words: 1214, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major Character Death

Categories: Multi

Characters: Todoroki Shouto, Bakugou Katsuki, Todoroki Enji | Endeavor, Takami Keigo | Hawks, Utsushimi Camie, Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Todoroki Rei, Todoroki Natsuo, Todoroki Fuyumi, Dabi | Todoroki Touya

Additional Tags: Idols, Falling In Love, Obsessive Behavior, Complicated Relationships, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Jealousy, Pining, Age Difference, it's awkward having 3 kids older than your crush, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, Character Study, frequent edits

#IFTTT #ao3feed #bnha #hawksdeavor #endhawks #rating: mature #warning: major character death

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ofmermaidstories · 6 months

Text

You are five when your Quirk manifests for the first time, with Rinchan.

‼️📍 content warnings: implied major character death, death in general, in a myriad of ways (falling, head trauma, old age, drowning, suicide), im a little graphic for emphasis, grief and mourning. there’s also some light smut and implied underage sex.

Rinchan. Rinchan who watches you while your mother goes to work. Rinchan with her big, soft, crepe-paper arms; who holds you in them for as long as you want, singing you songs as she shells peas into a metal bowl—you clinging to her, placid as a koala, your legs dangling over her lap. Rinchan who is probably your most favourite person in the entire world—the entire world being your neighbourhood and your school and the nearby park, overgrown, and the overwhelming shopping centre a car ride away.

Rinchan. Rinchan. Rinchan who, when you are five, starts appearing before you naked and wet, her face covered in blood.

The first time it happens she’s still alive; the sizzle of her cooking coming from the kitchen just behind you as you sit on the floor with a pile of milk-chews in front of you, staring in frozen horror at this other her—shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O, everything about her soft and sagging.

You make a tiny noise—fear, caught in your throat, a baby mouse curled up—and then Rinchan, your Rinchan, Rinchan alive and warm and dry, calls out, “Are you okay, Baby?”

The Other Rinchan’s mouth stretches open further, like it recognises her—like it’s trying to say something back and you—

You wail in answer, scrabbling at Rinchan (living, alive) when she flys in, concerned, asking, “What? What? What is it? What’s wrong?” her soft crepe-paper arms around you tight as you sob into her neck.

She’s bewildered and a little frightened herself; but she hums as she rocks you, a warm hand stroking your back, soothing you both until your sobs are little more than wet snuffling, your hand curling into the fabric of her dress.

You loved her. You love her, still, after all this time. But that love doesn’t save either of you, and you are haunted by the other Rinchan for the rest of that awful summer: in the park, with your friends, Rinchan watching, mouth agape, from the bushes. Walking home, hand-in-hand with your mother, Rinchan behind you. Alone in your bedroom, at night, Rinchan standing over you as you watch the water drip down her skin. You start wetting yourself with the fear, whenever it happens—a response that quickly loses you those parkside friends and worries your mother and living Rinchan sick, the pair of them whispering about you when they think you can’t hear, their fear—your fear—condemning you to pull-ups, like a giant baby.

It doesn’t stop the end from coming.

Rin dies just before Halloween, when the shops are filled with green-faced witches and plastic skeletons that rattle and can’t frighten you, anymore. She dies alone, at night. A fall in the shower, your mother tells you in a whisper a couple of days later, red-eyed. You knew enough by then to be able to picture it: Rin, shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O—her face covered in blood.

Your mother holds your hand at her funeral, too tight, and you cling back and say nothing.

The other Rinchan never comes back. Rin never comes back—cannot come back, no matter how much you love her.

Others do, though.

It’s a parade of the dead, shuffling forward to a dirge only you can hear. You learn, over time, that it’s specific to people you either know or will come to know—people you have some kind of tie to, some bond, good or bad. When you are fifteen it’s your homeroom teacher Miss Aoki: her head and shoulder caved in, her right eye bulging out at you, unseeing. You’d been drinking a bottle of milk-tea when she arrived, the blood stark and jewel-like in the daylight. You do not touch milk-tea for ages, afterwards.

You no longer wet yourself in fear, but you cannot look your teacher in the eye for weeks—it ruins everything. You stop pausing after homeroom to talk to her, stop sharing the music that brought you together, unable to face her, unable to face the bemusement and then the tiny flashes of hurt.

You cannot warn her. What would you warn her about? The trauma to her head could’ve been a fall, or some kind of rock—an accident or murder. And even if you knew, even if you could pinpoint it, she would not believe you. You know that because you had tried, with the ghost after Rinchan—with Yochan. Yochan, a boy from your neighbourhood and once, once before your Quirk had come, a boy you had followed around like a guiding star. You and all the other kids, faithful to him above all. But when your Quirk came and you got weird, he got mean.

“You’re a stupid piss-baby!” He’d shout at you, cackling. The other kids hung back, unsure of how to treat you—and this was how you saw him, the other him, standing behind the others with a swollen, awful face, his Endeavour shirt stained with a creamsicle, his eyes disappeared under the red, weeping slits of an allergic reaction.

You tried. You tried.

“Yochan,” you’d whisper, “please—”

His face would twist in disgust though, any time you came near him. “Freak!” he’d hiss. “Piss-baby! Get lost!”

He’d run away, then, laughing to himself and telling everyone that you had threatened him (“Piss Baby wants me dead!”)—and you had shut into yourself more, haunted by the agonised version of him that only you could see, that would stand there in your bedroom and twitch, the last throes of death.

It came for him, eventually. More than half a year later, during a game of softball where he’d knocked over a wasp nest and stomped over to it, the others too scared.

(The teacher explains it in class the following week and you sit there, in your seat by the window, untouched by the light. Empty.

Miss Aoki dies during the war, caught in the shadow of a collapsing building. You go to her service without your mother to hold your hand, and pray for forgiveness.)

You can map your life by the bodies that follow you. A year after after Miss Aoki it’s Hiroe: the tiny, fierce old woman down the street who grumbles at you every morning. When her doppleganger appears across the street from the pair of you, thin and wan and gasping as the hospital gown slips off her shoulders, the living her angrily talking about her carnations, the only thing you feel is relief. She’ll be in hospital—someone will be with her. It won’t be alone in a shower, or sprawled out on her kitchen floor, blood pooling under her. It’ll be death, still, leeching the life out of a woman who pertly tells you that the colour of your coat doesn’t suit you, but it’ll better than some of the lonely things you’ve seen, you live with.

(But it’s not better at all. Hiroe’s son works too hard, his hours too long in the aftermath of the war, helping the restoration. You visit her after school, bright flowers in hand and some of the colour returns to her face as she complains that you’re already dressing her altar, but her son is never there—and she dies alone, during the night, gasping for breath.)

You’re cursed, you think; cursed to see death everywhere you go, in everyone you know. And then you meet Kouki and realise that your curse smears over your future, too.

Kouki. Kouki with his brilliant red hair, like autumn leaves in the sunlight. Kouki who laughed easily, who would evenutally come to keep his pocket full of those old-fashioned milk-chews, just for you. Kouki, who, before you meet him alive, you meet dead—floating mid-air before you during your walk home one night, his hair dancing around his face, his eyes unseeing as his mouth opens and closes, gulping for air that isn’t there.

You are seventeen by this stage. It had been a hard couple of years with Miss Aoki, with the war, with Hiroe. Kouki appears before you under a streetlamp and you drop your schoolbag, your throat siezing.

“Don’t,” you say to this corpse of a boy you haven’t met, yet. “Don’t—don’t you dare do this to me.”

He opens his mouth; a tiny silver fish darts out and you burst into tears, overwhelmed, your new ghost lingering with you as you sob on the street, alone in the night. You don’t even know him. You don’t even know him.

He transfers to your senior class at the end of the month.

By then you had gotten used to the vision of him, numbly, the drowned boy following you around like a harmless stray—keeping you company on your walks home from your part-time job. You had sat with him as he floated, you solidly on the ledge of a park, unwrapping milk-chews and staring out at the dark before you, undaunted and unafraid, the most haunted thing there as his tiny fish flittered about him, again and again, on loop.

And then he walks into class that first day, and you are—you are frozen, even as he grins at you, bright and undaunted and alive.

“Hey,” he says after class, too interested and too friendly. “You look a little frightened—you good?”

Considering you had woken up that morning to his vestige floating at the foot of your bed, you most certainly were not good. What you say instead though is a curt, “I’m fine,” which proves to be mistake.

His eyes—big and blue—brighten at the challenge, and he grins.

“Fujita Kouki,” he introduces himself. “What’s your name?”

In the daylight, the light of the living where he can soak in the sun and return it, Kouki’s—Fujita’s—eyes are warm, not the milky colour you’ve been haunted with. You should walk away, you think desperately, wavering; you should retreat immediately. But the daylight is seductive. You are seventeen and it has a been a hard year and you are tired of being afraid.

Your lips part, even as you hesitate. But when you give him your name, his smile widens, and it almost—almost—chases the ghosts away.

Kouki quickly becomes your best friend.

Best friend is not the right term; it’s not fair to him and what you know about him. It doesn’t capture the horror of seeing him walk into your classroom that first day, nor the fear that follows you when he’s late to meeting up, or stays home from school because of a cold, because he’s bored. But—

He’s easy going. Refreshing, like cold, sparkling lemonade in the hot sun. He’s friendly and quickly becomes popular with so many of the others in your class and he wants to—he wants to hang out with you, walk you home. With Kouki you’re not the Silent Weirdo that never interacts with anyone. With Kouki you laugh—all the time, like all he wants to do is make you happy. He fills his pockets with those milk-chews and walks with you in the evenings, pushing his bike alongside you, telling you about the way his little brother terrorises his parents and how his father has been wanting to go on a vacation for years, now—and you let him. You let him become apart of your life, you let him walk you home. You let him sink into everything you know, into your pores, the fabric of who you are. He’s the good morning lets gooo texts before you meet up for school. He’s the warmth against you as you sit side-by-side on your park ledge, no longer the most haunted thing in the dark but what you should have always been: just a kid, sitting with a friend. Being with Kouki is easy, too easy. You no longer see the ghost of him—suspended in midair, his silver fish. You just see him, have him—Kouki, alive, chuckling to himself as he hands you another milk-chew.

“My dad’s finally free,” he tells you one night. You’re sitting on your ledge, mouth full of the creamy chews—Kouki (living) before you, lingering close.

“Mmph?” You question, unable to quite pry your jaw open enough for real words.

Kouki laughs like you had said something funny, and despite yourself your stomach flips, pleased to hear it. He’d been subdued; unusually quiet, had been since lunch that day, when Keichan had confessed her feelings to him in front of everyone. Keichan was pretty, effervescent—she laughed like he did, easily and among others who sparkled with her attention. On paper they were a perfect match and you almost wanted it—you wanted Kouki to be happy, however it happened. For as long as he could be.

But he had said no. You, sitting on the edges of the yard and picking at the grass, had been unable to help but watch in the same horrified, fascinated fear as everyone else, all of you silent. Keichan’s pretty face—shocked. Kouki’s red hair shinning brilliantly like fire, as he shook his head.

“Sorry,” he’d said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “I just—I don’t want that.”

In the evening gloom, he nudges your knee.

“The old man’s finally got that time off he wanted,” Kouki explains. You nod, swallowing your chews and trying to ignore how he moves forward—bracketing you, where you sit. “He wants to go fishing.”

“Oh,” you say, a little uselessly. Kouki’s hands are either side of you, distracting—the space between you warm, as he dips his head in closer.

You still. He’s always crowded your space but tonight in the silver light his face—normally so open, light—is afraid.

“You never tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, low, and you shake your head, emptied of words. It wasn’t true—you told him about the books you read, the songs you heard. The way you liked cupping sunlight in your hands because it made them glow, made you feel like you had a different Quirk entirely. You had never told anyone else that.

Kouki’s eyebrows tighten; pull. Frustrated, maybe, even as his hand balls itself into your skirt.

It pulls you closer to him, just a little. Your hand comes up between you—your fingers tracing the fold of his jacket pocket.

“You smell like those milkchews,” he whispers, and your heart is in your throat even as your lips part, his parting in echo as he watches them—

—and you don’t know who pulls who in first but then you are kissing, a hand cupping your face, anchoring you to the moment, to him as your fist tightens into his jacket. You sigh into the cool of his mouth and can almost taste the way he smiles before he presses in harder, hungry.

He pulls away after a moment; only to press more kisses, soft and careful, against your mouth, your nose, your cheek, laughing when you make a tiny, annoyed noise.

“You’re dumb,” he tells you, low, pressing another kiss against your hair, and then another. “And I’m gonna take you out and watch you eat those dumb sweets and make you tell me everything you’re thinking, forever. Until you’re sick of me.”

Your heart lurches. Forever.

“I could never be sick of you,” you tell him, the ache reopening inside of you.

Kouki grins, pleased and so, so alive; his brilliance softening to a glow as he dips his face close again, tracing your nose with his.

“I mean it,” he says, quiet. Promising. “You’re gonna have to chase me off.”

You try to stay in the warmth of him, the light and life, clutching at him, letting him kiss you again, soft.

But there’s a sob in your throat. And when you open your eyes, breathing in as Kouki kisses your jaw, your neck, his spectre is there—mouth gaping open, as a tiny, silver fish darts out.

(You beg him not to go, when his father announces the boat he’s rented, for his fishing trip. The man’s never been out on one before. Kouki has never seen your desperation, your fear, not like this and he almost stays, brows furrowed—but his little brother is excited. His father too. He buys all three of them matching fishing hats.

“It’s okay,” he whispers against the back of your neck, when you’re curled up together in your tiny, childhood bed. The house is quiet; you have it to yourselves, the sunlight dappling in your room, filtered through the tree outside. “I’m a good swimmer. Don’t worry.”

He presses a kiss against your shoulder, his fingers slow, tracing figures in the wet touch of your underwear. You breathe him in and to reassure yourself he’s right, that he will be okay, that you will always have this.

He’s gone by the following week. A storm. Kouki was right—he was a good swimmer. But his little brother wasn’t, and the love that made him go in the first place was the same love that made him search for him, endlessly, after their boat was capsized.

You go to the joint service. Kouki, his father, his little brother. His mother is held together by an older woman, desolate. In a row in front Keichan cries silent tears but you—

You stand there and you stare at Kouki’s portrait, his smiling face. He will never again soak in the sunlight and reflect it He will never again wait for you, his pockets filled with your favourite sweets. He will never again kiss you, with the cool press of his lips, the taste of his laugh behind them.

Fujita Kouki is gone. He is gone, slipping away—taking the you who believed in hope and a future where you could be happy with him.)

The years slip away. One, then two, then three and then four and then five. You move to a bigger city; and then you move again. You work in offices, department stores, a warehouse once, washing carrots—anything that will pay you, pay the bills. You keep to yourself and your coworkers lose interest in trying to keep up small talk with you and you don’t form any kind of tie, good or bad, that could manifest before you, rattling in death.

Kouki would never forgive you for this bleak existence, you think, if he could see it. But wherever he is it’s not with you, not on this plane, and so you keep your head down and when one of your ghosts does come to you, you grit your teeth and ignore it.

Even in isolation, they find a way to haunt you. You start seeing the clerk from the 7/11 you stop in to and from work, his neck snapped, and you avoid the store for three weeks before telling yourself it was stupid of you, that maybe you could say something—only to find someone else there, when you walk in, the guy already replaced.

The new hire at the office you work at starts appearing before you, swinging, his throat and face mottled as hands claw at a rope that’s not there and you—you thank him when he brings you a coffee, and try to be a little kinder, try to watch as he blends in with the others, laughs among them, the crack underneath his smile not showing.

He bungles a client, six months into working there. Your boss chews him out in front of everyone, the guy taking it with a silent, shame-faced nod, and when you try to say, “You worked hard, mistakes can happen to anyone—” he only bows hurriedly, already backing away.

(he doesn’t come back, and two weeks later his desk is cleared.)

Head down, keep to yourself. Another year passes. And then another. And then your curse rears its ugly head one final, terrible time.

You are waiting for the lights to change in the middle of a busy street, on a cold, bright afternoon, when you first see him.

You’re not paying attention; staring into the crowd on the other side of the street, thinking about what you had in the fridge at home and then he’s there, in your line of sight, his face twisting in fury, in grief, as he reaches out, shouting something—

And then there’s a flash of light, blinding and sharp and he is gone, startling you even as the crosswalk starts to sing, people moving around you like water around a stone as your heart races.

No, you think weakly. No. Not again.

He doesn’t return and you stand there, in the same spot, even as the crosswalk blinks back to red.

All your life, your Quirk has worked one way: showing you the death of someone you already knew, for better or for worse. Not someone famous, not a stranger. Kouki had been an—anomaly, you thought, desperate. Some freak tie. Japan had gone through so much in those years during and after the war: reports of abnormal adolescent Quirk growth had spiked, at its worse. You had always thought that maybe yours had been apart of that, that that’s what Kouki’s ghost had been. A result of stress, or your loneliness. Something, anything. And you’d only grown more sure of it when it didn’t repeat—

Until now.

You get home that night and in a fit of anger tear through everything, up end it all. Your clothes, out from the wardrobe or the basket, strewn along the floor. Your pots, clattering thunderously throughout your kitchen. You scream, pitching book after book across the room at your couch, the covers bending, pages tearing. You wouldn’t go through it again, you wouldn’t—

You curl up against your kitchen island, sobbing. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do this. Not again. Not ever again.

(But your heart’s already sinking. Already tender with the hurt, remembered and preemptive. His hair had been golden in the light—like winter sun.

When your hiccups calm, you look up—and he is standing over you, his face twisting again. You shut your eyes but the flash is bright, even then. Nuclear.

When you open them, he’s gone.

“Please,” you whisper to your empty apartment. “Please don’t do this to me.”

But it’s only the silence that answers you, the absence of mercy or comfort and you shudder, your tears nothing but salt in your mouth.)

Your plan, eventually, is simple: just ignore your newest ghost, when you finally meet him.

It should be easy. Even though he was a Pro-Hero he was also a famous one—and how often did you run into famous Pro-Heroes? They always had something to defend, always had someone to save. You just had to keep living your life, squarely and safe and you would be fine. You would skirt past each other and he would live or die just however a Pro Hero should.

A month passes. And then another. You begin to think maybe you’re safe; and then you’re not.

“If everyone can line up, then that’ll make everything go smoother,” your boss calls out, echoed throughout the office. Below on the street is the firetruck—overseeing the drill. You peer over the ledge of the window in worry, trying to count the firefighters out: seven that you could see. If you saw anymore than that while out on the street you were just going to close your eyes and wait it out.

Your boss calls your name—and when you glance to him, startled, he gestures with his megaphone, sheepish.

“Can you run and grab my laptop case for me?” he asks, already half out the door. “You’re closer, and I have a feeling we’ll be down there for a while.”

“Yeah,” you say, already standing. You leave your own things at your desk—as you’re meant to—and dart to his office, partitioned by glass. When you turn around, the case in hand, the office is empty—your boss’s megaphone calling out down the hall, down the stairway, leaving you alone in the wake of it.

You go to the window again, to count the firefighters. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—

You freeze. There’s an eighth figure there, standing solidly with them, talking, his arms crossed. A Pro Hero—dressed in black, with bright orange details.

Your ghost, you think in alarm.

He looks up at the window and you jerk away, startled. He shouldn’t be able to see—the glass was tinted—but his face is suspicious and you clutch your boss’s case to you tighter, heart thumping.

Don’t give him a reason to single you out, you think desperately—you hurry to join the others but they have left you on an empty floor, already making their way down the three flights quickly, leaving you and your noisy footfall as you race down the emergency stairs—only to have the door to the lobby thrown open roughly before you could even reach it.

It bangs against the wall; leaving you to stare in silence as he fills the doorway fully, glowering, stopping you in your tracks.

“The hell?” He asks you, roughly. Under his mask his eyes flicker over you, over the case in your hands, unimpressed. “Why didn’t you evacuate with the others?”

You can only shake your head, tucking your hands around the case tighter. Even having his spectre repeat and repeat in front of you—it doesn’t compare to the space and heat of him in the flesh, taking up a doorway. He’s more solid now, more real and when he shifts, just a fraction, you step back in fright.

Something his eyes—ink red under his mask—don’t miss, narrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and mercifully your voice is calm. “I had to grab something.”

“You ain’t meant to take anything,” he points out, barely civil, and you duck your head into a nod—his jaw tightening in response.

You’d rather this, you think, wincing. The brittle patience, barely hiding his rippling irritation. Anything was better than the despair that’d been playing over and over in front of you.

Pro Hero Dynamight—Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight—scowls at you, jerking behind him. “The extra with the megaphone is doin’ roll call.”

He means your boss. You look at him, curious, and his mouth tightens. It doesn’t thin the curve of his lips, though, and when you realise you’ve noticed that—

You hold your boss’s laptop closer. “Okay,” you say, meaninglessly.

Dynamight only moves out of the way when you go to squeeze past him, your jacket catching against his suit as he grunts.

“Wait,” he commands, annoyed. You stare ahead and will everything within your mind to empty as he pulls you free from the catch of one of his grenades—you mutter a thank-you and don’t look back as you hurry to the glass doors, the light, the open outside away from him and the heat of his space.

(You hide behind your coworkers as your boss commends everyone for their examplumery speed and when one of the firefighters steps forward to walk everyone through the basic dangers of an office building fire it’s Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight who stands behind him, solid and real and flinty eyed, as he stares everyone down. Someone in front of you giggles; he glares at her until she stops, bowing her head in shame and letting him look directly at—

You. Standing at the back.

His mask moves; his eyebrow raised. You lift yours in a helpless, silent, question. He frowns, like you’re speaking two different languages and morosely you think to yourself, so much for not giving him a reason to single you out.)

It’s just one off-chance meeting, you tell yourself. Just a weird little moment to establish something there, and make you feel a little guilty when you hear about his death on the news.

Only—

Only it keeps happening.

Perhaps it’s your karma, for never saying anything to the ghosts that had followed you. Or maybe it’s one last laugh from Kouki, his evil delight in teasing you manifested. Maybe it’s just plain old bad luck—but whatever it was, it meant you kept running into Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight over and over again, humiliation on repeat.

He’s—there, in his Pro-Hero gear, at the konbini you get your morning coffee, scowling as the cashier stammers through the burglary you’d only just missed. He’s—crouching amid a group of excitable kids, his grin for them sudden and sharp and bright, distracting even in the middle of a busy street. He’s—walking past you as you startle, safely tucked away into a coffee shop as he patrols past, barely sparing the café window a glance.

He is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. And in turn his ghost is too: the blinding flash in your mirror, as you try to brush your teeth, squinting. The nuclear eruption that startles you awake, in the darkness of your room. The silent twist of his face as he reaches out to you, over your counter as you eat your cereal.

It’s worse than it was with Kouki, you think bitterly. When Kouki the living appeared in your life, Kouki the ghost receded. Now you were just being haunted on both ends, both versions just as fleeting as the other.

Your only consolation is that you are, truly, a nobody to him. Just another face amid a city full of them. For all the tiny run-ins, the awful timing, you manage to wriggle away quickly, without attention—or so you’d thought.

You’re walking home under the city dusk: a universe of lights below you as you trek up the winding path that leads home. Work had been awful. You’d seen your vision of Dynamight no less than three seperate times that day, the furious twist of his face, his silent shouting—his disappearing. He was taking you with him, you thought in despair. No other ghost of yours had been so persistent. Distracted, you’d bought a supermarket bento for dinner—some nectarines, for dessert. As you walked the bag swung low and slow, too flimsy; when it splits everything in it splatters, and tumbles.

You swear, skidding as you try to chase the fruit, rolling away as they gain speed—

Stopped by a black boot, it’s orange detailing almost glowing as it scuffs along the ground, blocking them.

Everything within you settles; flattens as you straighten.

Under his mask, Dynamight arches in an eyebrow.

“You good?” He asks.

You shrug, and hold up the remnants of your plastic bag—drifting like a bride’s veil, between you.

The Pro-Hero tsks, crouching, picking up your nectarines. “Weak crap.”

In the twilight the black of his uniform makes him a dark void—until he stands again, holding out your fruit to you. You frown, and watch him mirror it, his wide mouth turning down, unhappily.

“You afraid of me, or somethin’?” He asks, rough. His face is pinched—it makes him look like a little kid, trying to tough out a pout and your stomach squeezes with the guilt. The last anyone would see of him would be a flash of light—and then Japan’s dynamite, Japan’s explosive anger, would be gone forever.

And here you were—making him feel bad in what could, quite possibly, be his last days.

“No,” you admit, opening your handbag to take back the nectarines. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He squints at you, disbelieving.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Then why do you keep runnin’ away like you’ve shit yourself?”

Oh, you think, he’s disgusting.

“I do not,” you say instead, crossly, dropping to the ground grab the remains of your bento.

Dynamight grunts in dismissal. “Yeah you do. Every time I’m walkin’ down a street, or I have to drop into some shitty little place—you’re there, turning tail. If you ain’t on laxatives and you ain’t afraid, then what is it?”

“I’m prejudiced against all Pro-Heroes,” you tell him, stoutly. “And you keep foiling my plans for world domination. Why do you notice, anyway? Why are you here?”

His boots scrape against the path, suddenly loud between you, as he moves in closer.

“‘M on patrol,” he tells you. “It’s my job on patrol to notice weirdoes—and you’ve been the weirdest.”

“Congratulations!” you tell him sourly, skittering around the solid wall of his presence to a nearby trash can. It’s already overflowing, but you squeeze your own rubbish in and turn back to the Pro, as much apart of the world around you as the dark undergrowth of the pathway, or the city lights behind him.

He’s so real, you think angrily. And in days, weeks—maybe months, if he was lucky—he’d be gone, just like that.

“Now what?” You ask him, ask yourself. “What happens now?”

Below, a train screeches past. Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight shrugs, indifferent.

“Depends,” he says. “You gonna keep being weird?”

You almost laugh. You don’t, though, holding your handbag with your nectarines closer. You are standing in the last, dark moments of a twilight world with a man who will die, God knew when—weird was probably the least you could be.

“Maybe,” you say instead. “I haven’t decided yet.”

The Pro-Hero shrugs again. “Then I do my job, and keep an eye on ya.”

He’s not looking at you when he says it, shifting awkwardly like a school boy and you—

You let your shoulders sag. You are an adult, no longer seventeen—but has been a hard life, and you are tired. Tired of being afraid. Of always being at the edges of your own life.

“Okay,” you tell him, tell yourself. Tell your ghosts, wherever they’re gathered. “I surrender.”

Dynamight snorts, kicking out a loose gravel and when he glances back to you his face has softened from its suspicion—waiting, instead.

A new pattern starts.

He walks past the coffee shop when you’re there and squints at you—acknowledgement you return with the ugliest face you can manage, the woman at the table across from you snorting into her mug.

You walk past him one weekend, surrounded by fans, and he looks up and sees you—bright eyes flickering over the fizzing orange juice in your hand, your wide sunhat, not hiding the startled surprise on your face—and grunts at the kids around him, holding up his hand as he tries to squeeze out, to you.

“Your hat makes you look like a frilly grandma,” he complains, loudly, as the fans follow him, encircling you both.

“I like your hat!” One girl says, brightly. She’s wearing a GEMG:D shirt with his scowling face under his title scrawl; you touch the brim of your hat, self-consciously.

“Thanks,” you say, self-conscious. She beams at you, even as Dynamight starts jabbing at you, trying to get you to move.

“I gotta get grandma home,” he tells everyone, as the group groans. “S’gotta have that nanna nap.”

You let him bully you. You let him pick you out, every time you cross paths. You don’t fight it—and when you start seeing him out of his Pro-Hero gear, his weaponry, your heart tightens in on itself in warning.

“You hungry?” He asks you, one evening. You’d been walking together, the pair of you having finished work at the same time; you in your neat, office wear, your leather handbag. Dynamight in sweats, a loose shirt, a dufflebag over his shoulder.

The sky above you is pink, the moon a silver crescent. A manga moon, you think to yourself; overlooking a love story.

“Yeah,” you answer him, eventually. “I’m starving.”

He nods, resolutely not looking at you—though when you glance at him his jaw tightens, head turning away.

“Denimhead introduced me to a place near here,” he says, gruffly. “They’re decent, ain’t wankers. And they’re cheap. Private.”

He should be doing this with anyone else, you thought to yourself, desperately, watching your shoes. Anyone. Someone who wouldn’t be counting down the days, the weeks, the months.

“I’d like that,” you say instead, softer. “I’d like to go.”

He doesn’t risk looking at you but his smooth face reddens, even as he passes a large hand over the back of his neck, like he could rub the colour out.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s go then.”

It’s a bistro; a tiny pocket of a place only marked by a single, hanging sign of a smiling cow, the sizzle of steak permeating the alleyway. Inside the lights are low—Dynamight stands back to let you sit at the bar first, watching hawkishly, before he follows, the bartender smiling at you both.

“They gotta menu,” he says, nodding to the mirror behind the bar, where a sparse few dishes are written. “Otherwise if ya trust me I can—I can suggest shit.”

His gaze flickers over your face as you watch him in turn. He was so—here. Alive. With every tiny movement—the draw back of his elbow, the flex of his hand—you feel it, too aware.

“I trust you,” you tell him.

He grins—sudden and pointed and startling a smile out of you too, even as you try to bite it back.

(He orders blistered tomatoes, the size of doll heads, dressed in olive oil and a sweet fig vinegar, a soft cheese that bursts over them. There’s toasted baguette—slathered with bone marrow, garlic butter. There’s steak cut like it’s been shared among cavemen, several inches thick and still on the bone, bleeding even as it sizzles. The bartender puts down a little plate of fine, perfectly ruffled pasta in front of you; dressed in pesto, charred greens, tiny flowers and you have to share it with your Pro-Hero, who’s nose wrinkles when you try to offer him a speared garnish.

He is warm and he is close and he smells like the char of a grill and soap and a sweet wood layered over warm skin and neither of you move to touch each other—

But his leg presses against yours, and stays. Your hand slips over his by accident as you move to help yourself to dessert, a soft creamy dish with fruit—and he turns his palm up, catching it. Squeezing your fingers for a brief moment before letting them go, unmooring you only to anchor you again when you walk side-by-side, back to the train station, the warmth of him reassuring, and inescapable.)

Days. Weeks. Months.

You walk together, have dinner sometimes, lunch others. He complains about the other Heroes he works with; you listen, side-eyeing him when he then mentions feeding them, making meals at the agency because everyone was useless—

He doesn’t poke at you to talk, but you start sharing anyway. The book in your handbag; the gossip the others at the office always had.

“Tell ‘em to either deal with it or shut up,” he suggests, and you laugh despite yourself.

Days. Weeks. Months.

He goes away on a mission across the country—after a villain the news was calling Hazard. He’d been responsible for the complete destruction, the levelling, of a factory, a shopping centre, slipping away before anyone could scramble through the rumble and detain him. It rains the entire time Dynamight is gone, leaving you to walk home alone, an umbrella over you, as the news loops over about flood warnings.

(When he comes back it’s an overcast day; finally dry. He’s waiting for you at your usual crossroad, now, and when you see him you smile, his eyes following the curve of it before flickering over you.

“You good?” He asks.

“Better now that you’re back,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

You were. You had stayed up every night he was gone, on your phone—watching the news, the tags, waiting for his name to appear, footage of the flash that would take him. There’d been nothing; no arrests, no collision.

But your Pro-Hero’s face softens, just slight, and you realise that he’d read something else in it when he says, low, “Yeah. I get it.”

Days, weeks, months. Your heart thumps to it, reminding you and nervously, you shift away.

“Are you hungry?” You ask, wanting to fill the space between you with anything else.

He watches you skitter away, trying to encourage him to move; his eyes ruby.

“Yeah,” he repeats and in relief you turn away, all too aware of his stare, at the back of your head.)

Days. Weeks. When you finally kiss it’s at his table, in his home; empty plates in front of you.

“I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” you tell him honestly, quietly, the smears of your tiramisu the only remains as you stand, to take your plate to the kitchen.

“You’re always tryna—dart away,” he says suddenly, still sitting.

You startle at the look on his face—serious, soft mouth trying not to pout.

“I just—I just want to help with the dishes,” you say, but his brow furrows, pinched, and when he stands it’s carefully, slow, the coiled draw of a bow that shivers, waiting.

“I can’t get a read on you,” he admits to the quiet, his knuckles against the table. “Can’t—guess at whatever’s goin’ on in that squirrelly head of yours.”

You swallow, and run your hand across your forearm, too aware of the soft edges of your sleeves, of your Pro-Hero following your fingers.

“There’s nothing,” you whisper, and he snorts; boyish, disbelieving. It makes him less of a threat and more of a man—real, living, breathing, with his own thoughts and his own feelings.

“Like hell there is,” he swears, stepping closer. It brings his warmth in; the smell of coffee, of his cologne, aniseed sweet. “Whatever you’ve got spinnin’ around in there keeps you worlds away from this one. And I ain’t—”

He stops himself, his mouth parted around the rest of his words as his eyes flicker over your face, your lips; the way you can’t breathe for his nearness, hesitating in the space between you.

“—I ain’t gonna let you disappear,” he finishes, low. For a moment he traces your nose with his, and when your lashes flutter he sucks his breath in, tight; his mouth on yours, warm and sudden. A press. And then another. And then another and then the kiss is deepening and you tilt your head as hands fist themselves in your hair, keeping you close even as he pulls away, tiny, to pant against your lips. “Hah—”

You kiss him back. You take him back. Your hands are tight in his shirt, too flimsy to hold him and you whine and you can feel him snarl—or smile?—against you, his teeth hard against the corner of your mouth, scraping your jaw as he nips at your neck.

The plates on the table rattle as you both slide to the floor. You gasp as his mouth meets the bare skin of your thigh, then again as his thumbs hook under your underwear, the cool of his floor a shock. He moans, muffled; free of your ass your underwear drapes, wet and warm against you and he mouths at it, a heavy kiss as you gasp again at his tongue through cotton. He kisses deeper—you gasp again, and again, until you’re panting, tiny ah, ah, ahs that have him squeezing your hip, nosing the wet slop of your underwear out of the way so that his mouth meets your skin and you both moan.

(You are unravelled, on the floor—your clothes pooling, your breasts freed, your legs splayed. His hold is firm and warm and you are heavy-eyed, even as you gasp again, under him. You want to drift away—you want to stay, hissing as his blunt nails claw along the meat of your ass.

He lifts himself to meet you for a kiss—his mouth and chin shiny, his eyes glimmering as his shoulders ripple, panther-lithe as he leans over you.

His mouth is warm. You hum into it as he curses, tasting him—coffee, sex, you—as hot hands smooth the small of your back, the slip of him inside of you so, so easy and wet.

Even in the rut, the thrust, you are safe. You arch off of the floor like you’re trying to escape it, escape into the solid wall of him, waiting with another kiss, long and hard as he thrusts in deeper, deeper still.

You curl your legs against him, your heel in his ass. He grunts, then bites at your chin and your laugh is broken off into a moan as he ruts in hard.

Days. Weeks. When you come it’s sudden, starflash hot; you gasp for a final time and your hero is there to nose against your wet skin, to kiss you, his own undoing a groan, a sigh into your mouth.

There are no ghosts, lingering afterwards. Only him, panting; only you, your legs slipping together, your lips parting. Only him, only you.

He presses a kiss against the side of your head, almost forcefully.

“Wasn’t too shit,” he says, gruff, and you laugh around your breathlessness, anchored and alive.)

Days, weeks. Days.

Your Hero asks you stay over; you do, waking up in sheets that smell like him, that smell like sex, like you. You give yourself the moments—let yourself kiss his shoulder in hello, when he’s brushing his teeth. Lean into his touch, when his hand smooths up and down your waist.

“The others wanna meet ya,” he says one night, grumpily. “Said something about a lunch—I told ‘em s’up to you.”

At the counter, you hesitate. Who knew what you’d see, around them, the country’s frontliners. And it would only make this death, the one you were waiting on, worse—

But your Hero is determinedly not looking at you, his face pink, and you realise—he wants it. He wants you to meet them. Them to meet you.

Oh, you think, stricken. This was going to hurt.

“Okay,” you say. “I’d—I’d like that. Let’s do that.”

When he grins it twists his whole face into childlike brightness. You smile back with a wobble, looking at him and only him—ignoring his ghost behind him, shouting at you before the flash.

Days. Day. It’s a bright Saturday and you were meant to be meeting his friends, at last, the city busy as you hurry to the department store. There was a store in the food hall that sold small, perfectly round cream cakes, with glossy coatings and made to look like fruit—you wanted a tray of them, to take.

The sales clerk is handing you the bag, sealed with a ribbon when the shouting starts.

“RUN!” Someone screams, a flash from the back of the store blinding you. It’s the call, the break through the spell. Everyone panics, shouting as people start to bolt for the stairs to the street outside.

You’re almost torn away from the store—the girl serving you yelping as people barrel past, the force of them moving you, too, until the girl shrieks—trapped behind the counter.

“Wait!” You say, but a man almost shoves you aside and you drop your bag, your cakes, pushing against the others that follow him until there’s a gap. The sales clark is wincing, behind her case, but there’s a ominous rattling above you and you scream, “Come on!” at her, your hand held out as everyone on the floor screams.

She sobs as someone smashes into her counter, shoved up by a crowd and you wedge yourself out of the way and scream again, “We have to go! Now!”

You’re almost blind in your panic, wheezing as your elbowed in someone else’s desperation—but then she’s scrambling with the hatch, reaching out to you too and when her hand is in yours you run, following the crowd.

You’re separated in the push—there’s more screams, as more and more flashes fill the room and someone, an older man, almost claws at your face to get in front of you.

Outside there’s a wail of sirens; someone on a megaphone, shouting for surrender.

The explosion is small. It doesn’t feel like it—everyone tumbles to the ground with the shock wave, the smoke quickly filling the space and trying to tunnel out the same way and someone grabs your elbow and tugs, begging you to move—

You follow them. Her, the girl from the cake stand, her face puffy and bruised. The pair of you crawl over people, stand, and when you break out of the glass doors and into the daylight it’s almost a relief—until you see the ring of Pro-Heroes, police officers, all tense.

Your stomach swoops. The Pros, the cops closest to you are ashen-faced—looking beyond you, to whoever is now holding you in place with a calm, heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Just put your hands up,” one of the cops calls out, over the megaphone. “And surrender. There’s no need for hostages.”

Behind you, broken glass shifts. The hand on your shoulder squeezes tighter, a warning, and you stare out at the crowd, trying to empty your mind even as the clerk, still next you, sobs.

Day. Moments.

Beyond the crowd you can hear his sharp voice, his shouting and you squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to know, not wanting to see—

But everything within you is attuned to him. The world falls away into white noise and all you can hear is your name, being screamed furiously, and you have to look.

You blink away your tears, and he’s there, two other Pros trying to hold him back as he swears, elbowing out at them; his face twisting in fury, in grief. Your eyes meet—and he surges forward again, shouting something to you as he reaches out, an officer barrelling into him as nails dig into your shoulder—

And then there is a flash of light. Blinding and sharp.

And you are gone.

#‼️📍 content warnings at the beginning of the post 📍‼️#tw: major character death #tw: death #tw: bludgeoning #tw: wasp stings #tw: drowning #tw: suicide #tw: grief/mourning #tw: smut #bakugou x reader #prompts and drabbles and other things #merms apology tour

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hom3landr · 12 days

Note

"just lie to me, okay? just this once."

Necessary Lies

CW - Major Character Death, descriptions of gore and sickness, ANGST ANGST ANGST

Homelander’s intentions had been pure when he arranged to dose you with Compound V. He’s reminded by a friend that’s how the road to hell is paved

You aren’t getting better.

Homelander’s stomach turns.

You aren’t getting better.

He’d done everything right. The whole process was done under the supervision of all of Vought’s best doctors and scientists. Even as you screamed and begged, he’d been confident that any complications could be swiftly dealt with. Sure, you’d been an adult when the V had been introduced into your system but you are strong. You have to be. You have to.

He watches you in your room. It doesn’t seem right for you to be surrounded by so much blank white. You are color and light but even you can’t withstand the way the awful room dims your soul. Maybe if you could see the sun you’d get better. But the doctors insist you are too fragile to handle any environment except the sterile one you are contained in.

He bites his lip anxiously as you continue to hack up blood, the bright crimson automatically drawing the eye. His instincts tell him to scan you, to watch as the V twists your DNA and transforms you into something greater.

I told you not to get your hopes up. You tend to have a less than stellar track record when it comes to mud people.

He shakes his head and tries to ignore the little voice in his ear. He’s wrong this time. It’s a hiccup that’s all. You’re strong. You are.

The voice is blocked out but not by his own efforts. A horrible cry leaves your lips as your bones crack and shift under your skin. More red spews on the floor. He winces at the wet splat as a chunk of something hits the floor.

That was juicy. Wanna bet that was a lung?

Homelander tastes iron as he splits his own lip. It feels like it’s your blood he’s tasting. It’s your blood he’s spilt.

That one was a little mean, I admit. But buck up Bucko, this is what you signed up for. Maybe you’ll listen to me next time.

He’s done this before. Why the fuck were you the one with complications?

“There’s a good reason Vought doesn’t do it.”

That’s what he told Madelyn that fateful night.

He’d killed her too

He steps to the side as a squad of sour smelling scientists rush in to stabilize you. But what can they do? What can they do now that the only outcome is for the poison to run its course? He vividly fantasizes about popping each one’s head like a ripe melon as punishment for not fixing this. It doesn’t make him feel better.

Please

He begs the voice in his head.

Just lie to me, okay? Just this once.

The once dependable steady rhythm of your heartbeat is dangerously erratic.

You smell like death.

Please!

He worries the cut on his lip with his tongue. It feels strange to have a wound. The scientists flutter around you nervously. They know you’re a lost cause but Homelander’s icy gaze compels them to at least pretend to be helpful. Their terror burns his nose. He decides to make their demise slow.

No can do Buddy, you know that’s not what I’m here for. I’m the only one who’ll never lie to you.

Your heartbeat grows fainter. Your breaths rattle.

One of the scientists pisses himself.

Please…

You turn your head and despite your eyes meeting his, he knows you can’t see him. You wouldn’t be able to even without the wall in the way. He doesn’t think you can see much of anything anymore.

I told you so. Better go in and say your goodbyes.

I hate you

Aw buddy, I’m the only thing you have left.

Your heart stops and a noise all too terribly familiar leaves your throat. The last noise you’ll ever make. A wail just as wretched leaves his lips.

He didn’t even say goodbye. He let you die in that awful room alone. He wasn’t even holding your hand. You were alone like he was alone all those many years ago. Being poked at like he was.

He vomits bile onto the floor.

You’re gonna need me more than ever now. Better get used to it.

#homelander #homelander x reader #x reader #major character death #Please read the warnings this is sad as fuck #the angstiest thing I’ve ever written #I’m so sorry anon #i went nuclear #angst #mirrorlander #I’m finally in a place where I can start working through prompts

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earring-stede · 6 months

Text

OFMD finale character death prediction: you’re not gonna like it

In the behind the scenes footage we can see a funeral scene complete with grave and a makeshift crucifix. I’ve been thinking all week about what the crucifix is made as it might reveal the identity of the deceased. Now the the base of the crucifix has a similar shape to Izzy’s wooden leg, but the image quality wasn’t good enough for me to feel confident about identifying it as his leg. So I kept looking. I could see something that looked like horn or bone, but again, I couldn’t be sure, and I don’t remember any horns or bones from previous episodes. Then I looked at the tip of the crucifix, which is very clearly a sword handle.

Now the picture is fuzzy, but I could make out the general shape and gold colour of the swords handle. So I started to look at every characters sword for a match. Each character has a signature weapon specific to their character. You will see throughout season that characters will use the same sword over and over.

Now there’s only two characters I could find who have swords with gold handles and fit the general shape of the graves sword. There’s Stede’s sword, which has a delicate, ornate style handle.

And then there’s Izzy’s sword….

his sword is the closest match I could find to the sword from the grave, which leads me to theorise, that the grave must belong to Izzy

#ofmd #ofmd predictions #ofmd spoilers #ofmd speculation #ofmd season 2 #ofmd speculations #character death #major spoilers #you’ve been warned

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seiya-starsniper · 1 year

Note

(angst prompts) ❛ i’m sorry, have we met? ❜

TJ I HOPE YOU'RE READY FOR THIS. I decided to continue the prompt from @valeriianz [Part 1 Here] to make it more angsty. But also kind of hopeful? Maybe???????

cw: major character death, memory loss

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“Will you give me a sweet dream before I go, old friend?” Hob asks.

Dream’s eyes widen, and he is sure the shock in them must be clear, because Hob startles a laugh.

“Yeah,” Hob coughs, and new blood spurts forth from his lips. “Been here long enough to figure out who you were. Why they wanted,” he hacks again, “you or your sister. I was never going to give you up.”

“I know,” Dream says. “But you must not - “

“I’ve lived a good life,” Hob interrupts him. “But I think it’s time. I’m just happy it was you who came for me, Dream of the Endless.”

“No,” Dream replies, voice trembling. “For you, you may simply call me Dream.”

“Dream,” Hob sighs, awash with a new wave of contentment. “I like that. Lovely name.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Dream says, before he steels himself for what he must do.

“I will give you the sweetest of dreams,” Dream says, trying and failing miserably to keep his voice steady. “Once you are there, you may call upon my sister, and…she will give you her gift.”

“Sounds,” Hob stutters, “sounds good to me.”

It is little effort for Dream to call forth his sand and place Hob into a deep sleep. In the Dream, he recreates what might have been, in 1989, were Hob not captured, and Dream were a better friend.

It is not long before he feels the presence of his sister.

“Dream,” Death says, her tone soft and kind. “You must let him go now.”

Dream clutches Hob’s body even tighter.

“Please sister,” Dream pleads. “Do not take him from me yet.”

“You know that is not my choice to make,” Death replies. “It is his time, and he has made his choice.”

“Will you tell me what his choice it is?”

Death smiles sadly. “You know I cannot.”

—

Hob is running through a field of poppies, his beloved dog at his side. He has been running for some time, he thinks, and yet he is neither tired nor hungry.

He stops when he feels himself being watched, and when he looks over his shoulder, his dog has padded over to a pale man dressed all in back.

“Hello,” the man says, first to the dog, and then to Hob himself.

“Hello!” Hob greets the stranger enthusiastically. “I - I’m sorry, have we met before? You look awfully familiar.”

“No,” the man answers, and Hob thinks he sounds a bit sad about that. Something lurches in Hob’s chest, and he thinks he should rectify the man’s sadness immediately.

“Well, you seem like a kind person, so I’d like to get to know you, if that’s all right,” Hob says, offering his hand out.

The man nods, and grasps Hob’s outstretched hand firmly.

“I am Dream,” the stranger says. “I am lord of all that inhabits the Dreaming. You…you passed in your sleep, Hob Gadling.”

“You were offered a place to stay here, which you,” the man pauses, “which you accepted.”

Hobs’ eyes widen, and he lets go of Dream’s hand then falls to his knees. “My lord, forgive my impudence, my memories from when I was alive have fled me it seems.” He hopes he has not offended Dream. He does not want to be banished. He wants to stay, he wants-

“Rise, Hob," Dream says. "You may be subject to my realm but I - I was hoping that we…we may become friends.”

Hob scrambles up off his knees immediately, and before he can think any better of it, he tugs Dream into a bone crushing hug. He feels the dreamlord stiffen for just a moment, before his arms rise slowly to return the hug.

“I would like that very much, my lord,” Hob says when he withdraws from Dream.

“Please,” Dream replies. “You may just address me as Dream.”

“Dream,” Hob says. “That’s a lovely name.” Something complicated flashes across Dream’s expression, but it’s gone before Hob can examine it further.

“Thank you,” Dream answers, just the barest hint of a smile crossing his face. “Would you like a drink?”

A table with wine and cheese materializes itself next to where they’re standing, and Hob sits down eagerly. Dream follows shortly after, pouring out a glass for each of them.

They sit, and then begin to talk.

Send me an Angst Prompt!

#dreamling #dream x hob #hob x morpheus #sandman fanfic #seiya writes #seiya drabbles #big warning for major character death #and memory loss #it's...kind of a happy ending? if you squint?#thanks for the ask <3 #and letting me subject you to absolute heartbreak

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hp-fanfic-archive · 3 months

Text

For Lack of a Bezoar by Bolshevikmuppet99 Pairing: Harry/Hermione Rating: M Word Count: 33k Podfic available here Read by: TheLastVoice Length: 4-5 hours Canon Divergence from HBP. When Harry fails to save Ron's life in Slughorn's office, he and Hermione are thrust into a search for answers. But the path is thornier than either of them could have possibly imagined.

find the full podfic library here

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milkytheholy1 · 2 years

Text

Everything Ends: Part 12

Tmnt masterlist. Ultimate masterlist. Everything Ends masterlist.

----------------------------------------------------------

The final Battle

"C'mon, the keys over here!" Casey yelled out, voice slightly muffled by his mask. You skidded around a pile of debris, sometimes you wished you trained more like April in times like these. Speaking of which, the teen beside you huffed out a breath of air, her mind going a mile a minute. April's eyes scanned over the land before them, looking for any enemies that may pop up over the horizon.

Splinter stood in front of you all, ever the responsible adult, he vowed he would not be losing any more of his children today. You were on a construction site, you think? It was hard to tell when the whole city was near enough in ruin, jeez, the Kraang hadn't even been here for that long and the place already looked like a dump.

Casey pointed a finger towards a pile in the distance, "There's the key! Let's go!" he cheered, sounding a lot more hopeful than he did earlier. The boy ran straight forward, ignoring his sense of survival as he made a mad dash towards the thing that would end it all. Unfortunately for him, something had beaten him to it.

Casey was sent flying back towards you, Splinter narrowly avoided the oncoming body strewn his way. Your eyes widened as you took in the creature, it clearly wasn't human or even a Yoki for that matter. Its eyes were a glaring red, its teeth sharp and covered in saliva. It made a beeline for the key, you turned to look at April, she had a stoic expression on her face, "Like Casey said, let's go!" she then charged forward, a scream blaring from her lips.

While your small fight raged on, you couldn't help but wonder what the boys were facing on the ship, there was no doubt it was worse than this. But you couldn't think about it for long as more and more creatures began piling up. With Casey now back in the fight you had somewhat more of a chance than before, "Dude, you've fought these things before, right? How do we stop them?" you yelled out over the sounds of violence.

Casey was sent back a few paces but landed on his feet, pulling out his souped-up hockey stick, he began decapitating the creatures that were within reach. He was panting behind his mask, taking a moment to breathe and answer you, "That's the thing, I don't know. These things were always a pain in the future."

"Stabbing seems to work!" April beamed, using some broken piping to embrace one of the creature's hearts. Splinter was stood on top of the partially built structure, swinging from beam to beam via his tail as he avoided multiple punches. He easily kicked the beast to the ground, watching as its arms flailed wildly, "We must stay strong and keep fighting, my boys are counting on us."

You all nodded your heads, getting back into the swing of things; no matter how much your body ached. A lightning bolt shot from the sky, you only just avoided it but the electricity in the air remained, you could feel the hair on your arms stand to attention.

"So not only do we have to deal with crazy aliens but also extreme weather, nice." you moaned bitterly, racing away from one of the creatures as it leapt at your feet. You ran towards the structure similar to Splinters but larger in height. Dodging the monster's swings as you confused it by running between each beam.

The poor thing was so directionless it stood with its head spinning for more than a minute, though this was the perfect time for you to attack. Swinging a small beam in your hands, the ends of which were jagged and sharp, you sliced through the creature's head. Green blood and purple guts spluttered out of the seams, coating your hands in the alien substance.

"Ugh, grossss." you whined, dropping the metal to the ground. A loud cackling sound brought you back to reality, dragging you away from the rotting body in front of you. You soon joined the others, following their gaze to reveal the Sister Kraang perched where Splinter once stood.

"What a surprise to find you pathetic creatures here of all places." she mused, a snarl leaving her lips. April gave the alien a look up and down, smirking to herself with her hand braced against her hip, "I see you got yourself an upgrade."

The Kraang growled, placing a robotic hand over her missing eye before it formed a fist by her side, "You will pay dearly for what you have done to me!" she screamed, parts of her armour lifting up to reveal a multitude of weapons. Splinter rolled his eyes, his face clearly unamused, "The psycho routine is getting a little thin, where's the character development?"

The Sister Kraang sneered, her eyes full of hatred as she fired the weapons without hesitation. You evaded them as best as you could, but the ground beneath your feet shook with each blow, making you unsteady. Splinter charged against her once the smoke had cleared, he flew kicks and punches towards her, easily dodging her own swings of retaliation.

Yet it wouldn't take long for her to whack him against the beams of the work-in-progress construction job that had been plaguing the city after the defeat of the Shredder. Splinter struggled to stand, holding a hand to his chest as he quite literally had the wind knocked out of him.

"Leo's counting on us to get that key," Casey huffed, his gaze fixed on the artefact that sat snuggly behind the Kraang's form. April huffed, rubbing her chin in thought, eyes far off in the distance, she then clicked her fingers "I think I have an idea, cover me!"

You and Casey stood in a defensive stance, future boy cast a glance at you and offered you a weapon of your own. You had no clue where he even pulled it from, perhaps a secret future pocket that was bigger on the inside. You held it in your hands, it wasn't much, just a small stick with a blade attached to the end; it was awfully light. Casey smirked at you and pressed a button on the bottom of the hilt, watching you with excited eyes as the entire weapon grew in size.

It looked a lot like one of Donnie's bo-staffs, except this version was sharp and sleek. It clearly went through years of refined touches and tests to get it this perfect, future Donnie must have been pleased with his work. You gripped the device a little more tightly now, sharing a confident nod with Casey.

"Fight me you vile Utrom-loving skin sacks!" the Sister Kraang demanded. You frowned at the insult, who is she to call you vile, you happen to know many people who would say otherwise. Roaring a battle cry of your own, you and Casey leapt at the villain with your weapons raised high.

You both put up a good fight, you were surprised you were able to bypass the Kraang's swings for as long as you did. You jabbed the pointed sphere into the Kraang's metallic casings, hoping to pry the gooey insides out into the light. Casey on the other hand held a vengeance in his eyes, this was his chance to fight back and get revenge for everything that had ever happened in his life.

With huge swings, he sent the Kraang skidding back bit by bit, "This is for my mother," swing, "This is for the fallen souls," whack, "This is for my master," hit, "THIS IS FOR THE FUTURE!" With one final swing, Casey sent the Kraang towards the ground with a gruff groan. By this point, Casey was panting, his shoulders huffing up and down in rapid succession.

You carefully placed a hand on his arm, unsure how he'd react, but the most he did was jump; you suppose he was too lost in his own world.

"You feel better for that?" you asked him with a warm smile, he turned to you with a grin of his own, tears budding in his eyes, "Yeah...Yeah, I do."

"How touching, but your fears will be the end of you!" The Sister Kraang hollered, standing to her full height and sweeping the ground from under you. She grabbed you both in her hands while you mindlessly scaled the air, dragging you closer to her face, so close you could smell her wretched breath.

"It's so very amusing that you, you of all things came back to stop us. I was expecting someone bigger, stronger even." she sent a shiver down Casey's spine. Her gaze then turned to you, "And you, you have been nothing but a pain in my side since I got to this planet. You and your little group. But once I rip your insides out, I'll go for your friends down there, then I'll kill those turtles you admire so much. Perhaps I'll make the blue one watch as I shred you to pieces."

You tried to wriggle out of her grasp, anger fueling you as you struggled. The Sister Kraang only laughed, whipping her robotic head back almost human-like.

"Let them go, Kraang." Splinter's voice called out, he looked a little weakened, that one swing must have taken more out of him than you thought. The Kraang beamed, her smile meeting her eyes, "As you wish," she mused, she launched herself into the air, and with a wicked gleam, she dropped you and Casey.

"NOO!" Splinter screamed, jumping from beam to beam to catch you in time. He managed to swipe you, but Casey hit the ground quicker than Splinter would have liked. Dust surrounded the poor boy, but once it settled a blue orb shone around him. As Splinter approached, with you out cold in his arms, he could hear rather than see Casey coughing. The boy rolled onto his back with his eyes closed, a gruff "I'm okay," rasping out of his lips.

Splinter let out a sigh of relief, carefully placing you beside him, "Protect them, Casey." he whispered. He then left the duo, walking calmly up to the Kraang, rolling the robes of his sleeves up and tightening the small ponytail on his head. The Kraang tilted her head to the side out of curiosity, it was rather amusing to her to see such a small creature hold itself so highly.

But Splinter was someone who you shouldn't underestimate too easily. His form began to flicker, and before the Kraang knew it, he was by her side in less than a second. Splinter delivered a series of fast-paced kicks and jabs to her build. Her body dipping and diving in different directions as he continued his efforts. The Sister Kraang was growing irritated, unable to land a single hit on him due to his quick movements.

But that came to an end when she pounded the ground beneath her, the force sending Splinter back, but not out for the count. He skidded to a halt, flicking one of his ears before rushing back to the fight. This time though, the third sister kept up with him, delving into some of her own moves against his withering, old form.

"You cannot stop what is destined to happen, old man."

"I may not be able to stop you, but my sons will." he spat out some blood after the Kraang supplied a swift jab to his jaw. The Kraang simply shook her head, "They won't even live to see us rule their world, much like how you won't live long enough to see them fail." the Kraang then rapidly produced punch after punch against Splinter's chest, watching with a smirk as his body hovered in the air as her punches kept going.

With one final blow, Splinter's bruised and battered body was hurled across the construction sight and slammed into one of the small in-progress buildings. The clash was so powerful he not only dented the surface where he made an impact, but the poorly constructed skeleton of a building began to shake. Piece by piece the building came down on top of him, bits of metal beams and concrete slabs covered his body and soon hid him from view.

Casey watched on with wide eyes, a hand stretching out in the same direction, "SPLINTER!" he cried. You were still next to him, your breathing steady and unaware what was happening, but your mind was racing, he could see the way your eyes were darting around under your eyelids.

Casey looked back over to the pile of debris, just waiting, praying Splinter would crawl out any second now. He'd make a silly little joke about his bad back and all would be fine. But that didn't happen, Casey couldn't see him at all, couldn't hear him.

"Aprilllll O'Neillllllll!" came a bellowing voice, followed by a loud sound of machinery. A huge wrecking ball crushed into the Sister Kraang's robotical side sending her along with the wrecking ball into a partially built building. However, she still got up. Slowly but surely, the beast wobbled on two legs, glaring at you all, "You'll pay for that." she seethed.

"I don't think so," April hummed, aiming another swing with the wrecking ball, this time hitting the structure. The small building began to shake and shudder, quickly coming apart and collapsing on top of the Kraang. The third sister bellowed out screams of help and the odd "No!" but her voice was quickly muted.

Casey watched from the sidelines with you still out in his arms, a tear trickled down his cheeks, "Payback." he spat out. Future Boy looked back down into his arms, watching you with worried eyes. He began shaking you, but you were in your own world.

The view would have been so pretty on the rooftop if it weren't for the harrowing screams that echoed through the streets or the giant space orb intent on demolishing anything it saw. You were looking out over the horizon, wondering if this was the life you were meant to live, perhaps the future was always meant to be destroyed and the city left in ruin.

A presence joined your side, Leo of all turtles. He remained silent, joining in your private viewing of the world falling apart. The quiet remained for a few more minutes, until his deep sigh broke the air, "Stay safe out there." he whispered. You then felt a tingling sensation from the tips of your fingers to the deep groves of the palm of your hand.

Looking down, you caught Leo's hand intermingling with your own. You smiled at the imagery.

"You too, leader in blue." you mused, but your tone was polite and full of love. He finally turned to look at you, he was radiant; but when wasn't he? His free hand travelled up the depths of your face, rubbing his thumb against the plushness of your cheek, "I love you." he hummed. You cherished moments like these, they didn't happen very often, only in moments of uncertainty.

The last time you remember having such a conversation was moments before the final battle against Shred-head and the dark armour. You nuzzled into his open palm, pressing a brief kiss against his scarred skin, "I love you more." He smiled at that, quickly leaning in to press chaste kisses against your cheeks, he leaves to join his brothers and carry out the daunting mission ahead of them.

"(Y/N)! (Y/N), c'mon not you too!" Casey's voice rang out in your head, squinting your eyes your mind seemed to snap and suddenly you were pulled away from your tranquil thoughts and thrust into the real world.

You awoke to Casey shaking you violently in his arms, hands braced tightly against your shoulders. You batted his hands away once you regained enough consciousness, "Ok, ok, I get it." you mumbled, rubbing your head. April had finally managed to depart the wrecking-ball machine, who knew it would have so many seatbelts and safety precautions?

"(Y/N)! Are you okay, are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Should I call Donnie? I trained as a lifeguard for six months, but I don't know if I can fix alien punches." she rambled, eyes scrambling over every inch of your form. You shut her up with a hug, grabbing on tightly to her jacket, "I'm okay," you whispered repeatedly.

"Um, guys?" Casey's wavering voice broke you apart, his head was downcast and his eyes were wet with tears. You and April gave him a questioning stare before April looked around noticing a member of your team was missing, "Where's Splinter?" Casey flinched at the question.

"Casey, where's Master Splinter?" you asked again, but from the guilt-ridden face and uncomfortable silence, you could grasp where this was going. Seemingly so could April with the small gasp released from her lips. Casey pointed over to the pile of rubble on the far side of the construction site, you all rushed over to it in an instant.

April fell to her knees, tears flowing freely from her eyes. You tried digging through the dirt, clawing at the rocks with your nails, but it was too damn heavy. Nothing would move. Casey stood behind you both, though he had not known this Splinter or any for that matter, he felt the loss and pain you were both experiencing.

Minutes passed until you tried to do anything again, offering a hand to April, you looked at her with grief in your eyes. Like an unspoken bond, she nodded her head and you both turned to the pile of dirt and concrete, bowing as a sign of respect. Once you stood to your full height, you tried to speak "W-we need to f-finish the plan." your voice cracking as you spoke.

April shook her head in agreement, "The boys are counting on us, the whole world is counting on us."

"No pressure then," you tried to smile, but it hurt too much right now. Casey looked between the two of you, unsure if he wanted to leave you alone, "We'll be fine, Jones. Go get that key." April hummed. Casey was reluctant but left anyway, he had his own mission to complete.

You turned back to the grave behind you, the only thought you could muster rattled around inside your head: What will the guys think?

#tmnt #tmnt movie #tmnt leonardo #tmnt leo #rottmnt #rottmnt movie #rottmnt leo #rottmnt leonardo #rottmnt leonardo x reader #rottmnt leo x reader #tmnt leonardo x reader #tmnt leo x reader #angst #fanfiction #tmnt fanfiction #Everything Ends #warning: major character death

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spidori · 2 months

Text

Doctor Danny Fenton: On The Run

Danny knew he was on borrowed time.

Sure, he was harder for Clockwork to find than most- something about it being harder to look for an acausal nexus than a causal one, and the medallion fused into his core severing him from standard causal flow, Dan had explained it to him once, before he... no! Focus Danny! You don't know how long you have until he finds you!

Dragging himself out of his dissociation, Danny took stock. He still had the Infinimap in one hand; it was still green and dripping from something he couldn't afford to think about right now. Where and when had the Infinimap interpreted his shout of "a way to run away" as asking to travel to?

"Dann'O! You're just in time to see our newest upgrades to the speeder!"

"Uhhh... You made it look like a Volkswagen beetle?”

"Oh, Sweetie, no. See!" his mom said, opening up a control panel and poking around, then stepping away from what was now a cargo van.

"Your father and I finally figured out how to fuse ectoplasm with metals to make ecto-alloy! We rebuilt the speeder from it and added a camouflage circuit. Now it can change shape into whatever will blend into the surrounding environment for any ghost hunting scenario."

"And the best part is, it even gives off an ecto-signature! Those spooks won't know what hit 'em when you ambush 'em from this one Mads!"

A transforming vehicle with its own ecto-signature to hide inside? Yeah, that might work, even though Danny remembered the camouflage feature had been a short-lived modification because of how often it would get stuck and have to be put through a hard-reset to get it changing again. And judging by the way the Infinimap was subtly tugging towards the improved speeder that's exactly what it brought him here for.

"Mom, Dad, whatever happens next, I love you, and I'm sorry."

"Danny, sweetie, is something wrong?"

"More than I have time to explain, mom. Look, if you see Jazz... If this timeline... Just, tell Jazz I love her too, ok?"

"Dann'o, you're scaring us."

"I know. I'm sorry. Hopefully you'll have the chance to be able to forgive me for this. Going Ghost!"

Ok. He had made it into the speeder. The new metal wasn't phase-proof, there were pros and cons to that, ones he would consider later if he made it that far. At least the interior was pretty much unchanged, so he'd been able to get the speeder started before he'd heard the sound of a clock tolling and his parents' banging on the door had suddenly stopped.

He'd gunned it into the portal quickly enough to get into the relative safety of the zone before its stop sign frame and hazard pattern doors dissolved into obliterated nothingness along with everything else he had been able to see, or sense, of his home dimension...

Something else to be stuffed in the trauma box to be unpacked never if he was ever able to stop running 'later,' something to unpack 'later.'

The tugging in his hand was getting stronger, so at least he was probably heading in roughly the right direction.

He tried veering a little to the right to see if he could get a better sense for the direction the map was tugging, only for its pull to remain unchanged.

Confused, Danny glanced down to see it was actually tugging towards the dashboard.

Or rather, the ectoplasm- all that remained of Dani... 'LATER!'- which coated it was tugging towards the dashboard.

Desperately hoping this meant there might be something of his favorite halfa left to save, Danny pressed the coated map to the dashboard, and prayed.

Within seconds, the map was gone, absorbed into the speeder. Then things got even weirder.

Weirder than the group of ancients putting aside their many feuds to team up on him had been.

Stranger than those ancients somehow getting the Observants on their side.

More out of the blue than the Observants using their binding vow with Clockwork to force him to try to eliminate any timelines with Danny in them, as well as anyone who was even part Danny.

It had been a hell of a day.

And now the speeder had apparently grown absolutely gigantic after absorbing the Infinimap if the anachrofuturistic room Danny suddenly found himself in was anything to go by.

And according to the view screens it was generating a relativistic time, space, and dimensional tunnel?

Oh Lord. Danny was going to have quite the time explaining this one to his parents if he managed to undo enough of this to have a timeline to return to.

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

The tunnel let out in a universe with low-to-minimal ambient ectoplasm according to the external sensor arrays.

That phrasing! That was Exactly how Clockwork had phrased it the last time Danny had talked with him as 'Clockwork'; after the Observants took control of him with their vow he had called himself Chrona, which was the first thing which clued Danny in that something was wrong.

What was it Clockwork had told him?

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

"Local ambient ectoplasm levels are an important consideration for stronger ghosts, Danny. Your perception is skewed by the limits of your experiences, as well as your unique biology, but Amity park and the Infinite Realms as a whole are essentially the top of the scale for ambient ectoplasm levels.

Normally, ectoplasm is a renewable, but much more finite resource. A sufficiently powerful ghost can easily consume all that is available in an area with a normal level before they are able to accomplish anything worth the effort if they aren't extremely frugal with their use of power. Normally, it makes any plans which would involve other realms simply not worth the effort and energy expenditure involved, especially with the additional up-front cost of breaching the veil.

There are even locations with low-to-minimal ambient ectoplasm, which makes them practically immune to ghostly influence. Only the very weakest of shades, ones who require next to no ectoplasm to maintain their current state of existence, can naturally persist in such places. Well, them, and extremely rare exceptions such as Halfa's, whose unique state of existence allows them to generate nearly all of the ectoplasm required to sustain their ghostly half. Any other ghosts would have to gather all of the ectoplasm they would need before going to any such spot, like how the astronauts you love so much need to bring everything for survival with them into deep space.

Actually, the deep space metaphor is particularly apt, as there are whole dimensions with far lower levels of ectoplasm than the one you call home.

Should you ever find yourself able to indulge that space obsession of yours, that would be a good place to do it. Most ghosts would be unable to follow you there, and even those who technically could would have great difficulty sustaining themselves once they arived."

"Geez, Gramps, you're feeling talkative today. Usually I can't get anything nearly this direct out of you."

"It will be important for you to understand your options, my young halfa. Speaking of which, keep in mind that your specific nature is vital to your ability to so easily sustain yourself in such environments. Even other halfas will have much more difficulty surviving in the lowest ecto-level locations as a result of their less balanced compositions. I know your young mirror's obsession also involves exploration, but she would require near constant fulfillment of her obsessions to have a hope of generating enough to get by without supplementation for you or another living being with a similar drive to seek new experiences. Mr. Masters would be better off due to his greater degree of human biology, but would also be hindered by the less complete connection to his ghost side. He would likely find transformation essentially impossible outside of survival scenarios- though you yourself probably would as well- and even his human form would experience side-effects like pounding headaches, or the constant sound of his heart pounding in his ears like a drum as it was pushed to maintain his starving ghostly side."

"I'm sure Dani and I could manage. And if we couldn't, we could always call you to pick us up."

"Untrue, actually. Any location with low enough levels to cause young Danielle to suffer would also be extremely difficult for me to reach. Such low levels could require anywhere from days to centuries in order to push enough ectoplasm through the veil to form a link, possibly more if an entity- such as an injured halfa- or anomaly- such as a rift of any kind- on the other side is draining whatever bleeds through. Your own presence may act to shorten that time somewhat if you can generate enough ectoplasm on site, but even then I would have to find you first. My abilities as an ectoplasmic entity rely wholly on manipulation of ectoplasm, and that includes my near omniscience. Should you ever find yourself in a location with sufficiently low ectoplasm, I would have a great deal of difficulty locating you; the link between our cores would mean that I would always be able to locate you eventually, but you would need to stay in one place for quite a while, which would rather defeat the purpose of emergency rescue."

"So if I ever need to hide from you because I actually manage to pull a prank on you which you don't see coming, all I have to do is find and then literally flee to one of a very select subset of alternate dimensions?"

"Pretty much. Although if you're hiding from me you would want to actively muddy the waters as well."

"Setting aside that I don't think I'd ever want to hide from you, Gramps, muddy the waters?"

"I'm a conceptual entity, Danny. I anchor to that concept in every single reality in which it exists. If the concept of time is sufficiently redirected to something or someone else to any degree, whatever portion has been redirected is therefore unavailable for me to latch onto. The same idea applies to Nocturn not being able to enter the DC Dimension because of their Dream of the Endless. Meanwhile, Pandora could enter almost at a whim if not for her guard duties, because that universe associates hope with her almost directly. In my case, anything strongly associated with the flow and concept of time could hinder me, while spreading my own name would allow me a greater share of any ectoplasm generated by the dimension.

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

Ok.

Danny could work with this.

He would have to keep traveling so that Clockwork- no, it was Chrona now- couldn't lock onto him or Dani-fused-to-the-dimensionally-traveling-speeder (He would have to workshop that).

If possible, he would also have to find a way to make a myth associated with time in an abnormal manner; the question was how to do that?

And he would need to do all of this while expending as little of his ectoplasm as possible, and probably supplementing Dani's whenever he could if she was ever going to have any chance of reconstituting.

He could definitely work with this; he refused to accept otherwise.

Maybe his parents had left some things he could use in the speeder before they were- 'Later!'

Hmm... No tools lying around... There was the weapons locker, but he should probably use whatever was in those ecto-batteries immediately so they wouldn't act as some kind of concentrated-ecto-homing-beacon. Maybe they could help Dani heal?

As he brought the disconnected batteries to the console in the center of the room, he saw it. There, sticking out of one of the panels which would probably have originally been the cup-holder in the center console before everything was transformed, was his dad's favorite 'screwdriver.' Not that it was even remotely recognizable as a screwdriver anymore; his dad had modified it so many times that it looked more like a futuristic laser pointer now. It had become his favorite hobby project before he was- 'LATER!'

He recognized this one as the version which required next to no ectoplasm to work, but as a trade-off had been completely unable to interact with wood for some reason. Something about still partially living matter and destructive interference with foreign emotional resonance as a naturally evolving survival mechanism in- Ramble 'later', focus on surviving now.

And Danny was actually starting to feel like he could find a way to survive with what he had. It was like his dad had always said about the screwdriver.

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

"See how many things it can do now, Dann'O! If I had tried to turn it into this version from the start it never would have worked; I would have gotten frustrated and had to move onto some other project for the sake of my sanity, and our house's walls. But since I took it one small change at a time, look at what I've been able to turn it into.

Incremental change, son! It's how any real change happens. If you want to accomplish something big, you try to choose the things which you think will lead towards wherever you want to end up, especially when they won't get you all the way there, big easy changes like that almost never stick for one reason or another. Over time those small steps add up, and you end up somewhere a lot better than where you started. So, what do you think you can do to apply that to working on your grades?"

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

Yeah, Danny could start to do something with what he had. He was still half alive, and could keep himself that way as long as he never stopped running long enough for Chrona to find and catch up to him. He had a Time and Dimensional and Relativistic Space ship (still not quite right, but better) with Dani fused into it to help him do just that. And he had his dad's screwdriver and advice.

So where should he start?

Well, if he wanted to build a myth, and to fulfill his obsessions wherever possible, protecting people while exploring all of time and space was probably as good a way as any. A time-traveling madman with an ever-changing camouflaged space-ship and a 'screwdriver', just passing through, helping out, was sure to get some attention.

It just needed a name to really give people something to latch onto.

He had just gotten his doctorate in engineering before everything went to hell, but as much as he'd like to use Dr. Fenton, that was just laying down a trail and begging Chrona to follow. His real name would probably have to be a closely guarded secret; the title was good though, so instead, he would just call himself

The Doctor.

Now, where should he run to next?

#danny phantom #tw major character death #tw light gore #TW light body horror #All the death is off screen #but theyre still dead so be warned #dp x doctor who #doctor who

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