#-says a prayer over my own grave-

[tsurugixbuster]

//First it was the baby, then it was work

THEN it was the Diablo IV beta.

And now I'm just going back down the drain that is WoW Classic.

R.i.p Magnus.

[thebirdandhersong]

lads it is mostly my fault (was sick, didn't tell healthcare until it was Dire, was sentenced to bed rest for the rest of my time at camp) that I literally can't say goodbye to these 100+ people I've come to love properly before I leave. I'm not permitted to participate in any singing, dancing, communal joy, any event that's remotely fun (that's nearly word for word what they said) here at camp. and I'm leaving EARLY, am still miserably sick, and have a four hour commute back home on top of that, because there's no one available to drive. literally cried my eyes out over everything just now and am This Close to crying my eyes out againnnnn

[hederasgarden]

Eternal Devotion (1/3)

Summary: Months after your husband's untimely death, his presence lingers, haunting you in ways you never expected. Pairing: Vampire!Friedrich Harding x Wife!Reader  Word Count: 3.9K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Heavy angst and grief, period typical sexism, creepy things, mildly dubious consent, sexual content, vampirism and all the warnings that come with that (I’m diverging from canon a bit in regards to feeding). This is my attempt at Gothic Romance. A/N:  The reader has always been Friedrich's wife, Anna does not exist in this AU. Big thanks to @ryebecca, @otaku-girl-ao3, @whatblogisthis216 , @eremeldanin and @caught-reading for their help with this fic.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her. -Hozier

The room is dim with the curtains drawn tight, allowing only a sliver of daylight to creep through the gap. In the distance, the soft hum of morning activity rises from the rest of the house, the gentle chatter of your two daughters layered over the quiet rustling of the servants preparing for the day ahead. You should rise and follow the rhythm of the world outside this room, but you cannot. 

Friedrich has been gone nearly six months. It feels like a lifetime. The days stretch endlessly, and each one feels like an affront, a reminder that the world refuses to stop turning. How are you supposed to go on living? You know if you had died, Friedrich would have climbed into the casket beside you and his grief would have blotted out the sun.

But there was no casket for him. No body left to bury. He was swallowed by the sea, lost while fulfilling a promise you made, helping Ellen return to Thomas.

Your daughters do not yet grasp the finality of it. No matter how many times you tell them, they speak of their father like he is simply away at work, perhaps, or out on some important errand. And each morning they act as if he’s come to tuck them into bed, kiss their cheeks, and say their prayers like he did before. They look up at you with soft eyes, the very same as his and you must relive the pain of it again and again when you remind them their father is gone.

Sometimes, you wish you could believe your own dreams, the ones where Friedrich slips back into bed beside you. Yet even in those fleeting moments of illusion, something is wrong. The warmth you long for is absent. His touch is colder, harder, his presence not the way it used to be. When his lips meet your skin, it stings, sharp and unfamiliar, and the truth rises within you, pushing against the comfort of the dream. 

It’s not him. And it never will be. Now and forevermore, each morning you will wake to find the sheets beside you cold. Empty.

Everyone told you the grief would abate with time but these past few weeks have drained you more thoroughly than any that came before. Each morning, it feels as though your very blood has turned to sand, your bones to lead. Even the simple act of turning onto your back, to stare up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, takes more effort than you can summon. 

You remain in bed until the door creaks open, and the light sound of footsteps follows. Kerstin’s voice is no more than a whisper as she brushes your shoulder.

“Frau Harding. Your parents have arrived for breakfast. Your father wishes for you to join them.”

The sight of your maid’s pale, worried face is enough to rouse you. You let her dress and prepare you for the day. Although she’s done this a thousand times, there’s something about the way her hands hover over the buttons of your gown, the hesitation before each movement, that makes you feel like a stranger in your own skin. You see how she and the other servants watch you now. Even when they pretend to be absorbed in their tasks, their glances are sharp, laden with worry. They fear you’ll descend into the same madness as Ellen, but it is only your grief, so vast and deep, that’s reshaping you in ways you can’t even recognize. 

When you enter the dining room, your daughters rush to you. You hold them close, inhaling the familiar scent of their hair. Your mother greets you next, reaching out to cup your face in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they linger there. There is a deep sadness in her eyes and she glances over at your father with a look halfway between pleading and resignation.

“Come, you must eat,” she encourages, guiding you to sit beside her.

Your father, sitting at the head of the table, offers no such tenderness. His presence is a commanding weight in the room and the deep set of his brow lets you know this is not merely a social visit. You glance at your mother who stares at the hands in her lap and your fingers curl around the richly upholstered arm of the dining room chair. Whatever he has come to say will not be good, you realize. 

“The children are finished with their breakfast,” he announces sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a command. With a quick flick of his fingers, he gestures to the governess. “Take them to the parlor. Their mother and I have matters to discuss.”

Once they are gone, your father doesn’t wait long to speak again. “It has been six months,” he begins, his gaze unwavering. “Long enough. You must remarry, and soon.” 

You blink, momentarily stunned. Six months? Six months since Friedrich was swallowed by the sea, leaving nothing but an empty, aching space behind. Six months in which you have not even been able to make sense of the grief that clings to you like a second skin. How could he even think of you remarrying so soon?

“But… Father, I…” you begin, the words faltering in your throat.

He doesn’t let you finish, his voice growing sterner. “You must think of the future, not just of your own sorrow. The children need stability, and you need a husband. You cannot manage alone, not with the wealth you inherited from your late husband.”

You shake your head, even as you know there is a kernel of truth to his words. The vast estate, the shipyard, and the assets Friedrich once managed all fall on you now. It is a burden you are not prepared to shoulder and one you have steadily ignored these past months. But even beyond all that, the thought of remarrying, of taking another man into your life is something you can’t even entertain.

"I cannot… not yet," you whisper, barely above a breath. And in the pit of your chest, a deeper thought rises unbidden: Not ever.

“I understand your reluctance,” he says firmly. “But even now, men circle you like vultures. They want your husband’s wealth and his business. We must act swiftly and secure the right match — for you, for the children, for our family’s future.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat refusing to pass. Your hands move to straighten the cutlery in front of you, anything to occupy them, anything to hold off the flood of emotion threatening to spill over.

And then, almost without thinking, you speak. “You never say his name.”

Your father’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Friedrich,” you whisper. “It is always my husband or your son-in-law. You do not… you do not say his name.”

There is a long pause before your father clears his throat, dismissing the uncomfortable silence. “We cannot afford to linger on sentiment,” he says. “Sentiment will not feed the children or keep the business afloat. We need to think practically.”

You stare at him, hearing nothing more than the absence of your husband's name in his voice, the not-so-subtle command that you too must move on, move past this grief, and return to the world of the living. 

“You cannot make me do this.”

"Perhaps not," your father concedes, exhaling sharply. "But your husband has many cousins who would think nothing of reclaiming control over the business." He pauses, taking a deliberate sip of his water, his eyes never leaving yours. "Men who would see no value in a widow and her daughters when they have families of their own.”

His words have their desired effect, leaving you feeling small and powerless. Your shoulders slump, the strength in you draining away as your head hangs, heavy with the crushing knowledge of what awaits.

“Now, your mother has already arranged for you and the girls to have new clothes made for your return to society," he continues, his tone cool and businesslike. "We will host a small, intimate gathering. I will invite a few prospective suitors—men I consider promising options. You may, of course, choose which one you wish to pursue."

“How kind you are to offer me a say,” you murmur, the words bitter in your mouth.�� 

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I know grief has stolen your good sense but you will watch your tongue when you speak to me,” your father warns. 

A surge of emotion rises within you, sharp and unwelcome, forcing its way up your throat. The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and unrestrained. “You would not speak to me this way if Friedrich were here.”

Your father shakes his head, rising from his seat to tower over you. “He is not here, my girl. He will never be here again. You are alone in a world that is unkind to women such as yourself.”

The pity in his eyes is more than you can bear. The dam breaks, and the first wave of tears crashes down, unbidden and unstoppable. A  flood that drags you under. You sink back into the chair, helpless as wracking sobs tear through you, a deep, raw ache flooding every part of your being.

Distantly, you hear your mother’s voice chastising your father. Her arms slip around you, pulling you close. She whispers gentle reassurances, her shushing echoing the soothing words you’ve said a hundred times to your own girls, but it feels empty now, a hollow repetition that cannot shield you from the brutal reality.

Friedrich is gone. And with him, any hope you once held of finding happiness.

–

When you step into your father’s parlor, the weight of every gaze in the room settles on you like a tangible thing. The faces that turn toward you are mostly unfamiliar, offering you that sad, understanding smile you’ve grown so weary of. It is a smile that means nothing at all in light of their presence here. Each one of them is complicit in your father’s schemes.

“You look lovely,” your father says. He presses his lips to your cheek in an exaggerated gesture of affection, more a farce than any real expression of love. “The blue truly suits you,” he adds, his eyes dropping to take in your fine silk dress. 

It’s the latest fashion from Paris, or so you’re told. Once, a dress like this would have delighted you—Friedrich always took such joy in bringing you the finest, most exquisite silks and fabrics from his travels. But now, the dress feels all wrong, too tight and too revealing, exposing more of your shoulder and décolletage than you’re comfortable with. 

You smile at your father. Even though it barely touches your lips it doesn’t seem to bother him. He simply sweeps you further into the room, his hand on your arm guiding you forward as he begins the task of making introductions. It’s a performance, and you are trapped at the center of it. But you do as your father and society demand, falling into the practiced motions of politeness. 

You engage in small talk, offering the kind of perfunctory responses that are expected of you, feigning interest in whatever these men have to say. Some ask after your children, while others offer their condolences for your loss. But behind their kindness lies a predatory sort of interest. It is all you can do to nod, offering your own strained smile as you stand there wondering how much longer you can keep up this charade.

When your father finally leaves you for a moment you close your eyes, exhaling. 

“Oh, dearest girl.” 

The unexpected voice makes you flinch. You turn, meeting a familiar pair of brown eyes of Herr Gothrim. Of all your father’s friends, he is the one you think might understand your plight the best. He lost his wife to the plague that swept the city nearly a year ago.

“It is shameful what your father is doing. Forcing you from your mourning period so soon.” He shakes his head. “Though, I confess, had I daughter like you I might be convinced to do the same.” He steps closer, his voice quieting. “You are the talk of the city and beyond.”

“They desire Friedrich’s wealth,” you reply. “Nothing more.”

Herr Gothrim stares at you for a moment before he speaks again, his words laden with something that makes your skin crawl.

“Do not sell yourself short. You are young. Beautiful. You might still bear your future husband a son or two.”

Friedrich had wanted a son. You knew that long before you ever married him. He had spoken of it often, longing to see his name carried on but he never once made you feel like an instrument to secure his legacy. More than that he loved your daughter fiercely, completely. And though it might have been a sin, he loved you even more.  

“I fear you will not have the luxury of time, my dear,” Herr Gothrim warns. “Your father will push forward with his plans, and if you do not make a choice, one will be made for you. Perhaps a familiar one would be best.”

His eyes briefly flick over his shoulder, and you follow his gaze. It rests on his son, Pieter. The sight of him makes a sharp, uncomfortable feeling bubbling up from within. Once, he had petitioned your father for your hand and before Friedrich had made his offer, Pieter had been the one your father had entertained as a potential suitor. 

To your dismay, Pieter seems to take your attention as an invitation, crossing the room to join the two of you. He greets you with an overly familiar kiss to your cheek that lingers, brushing against the corner of your lips. When he pulls away his hand remains on your elbow, tethering you to him. 

“Frau Harding, you look well,” he says brightly. “Or should it be Fräulein now?”

His boldness stuns you but before you can gather your thoughts, he continues, oblivious to the discomfort in your silence. “I must confess, I was both surprised and pleased to receive your father’s invitation. And to see you again after so long. I am eager for a second chance to win your hand.”

It is only the thought of your daughters and the need to ensure their future is safe that keeps grief from sharpening your tongue. You force your eyes downward, focusing on a speck of dust on his lapels to avoid looking at his face. “My father was pleased you accepted his invitation. He has always been fond of you,” you reply hollowly.

Pieter smiles, seemingly unaware of how your voice thins and your words fall flat and meaningless. 

“You look cold,” he observes. “Come, you should warm yourself by the fire as we reacquaint ourselves. My import business has grown greatly since we last spoke.”

His touch feels possessive, demanding even yet you are helpless to do anything more than follow him. You catch your father’s eyes when you pass him. He looks pleased and it turns your stomach. 

Pieter keeps you by his side for the rest of the evening, his words a constant hum around you. Whether he’s wholly unaware of your discomfort or willfully blind to it, you can’t decide. His conversation is a relentless stream of boasts about his business, his wealth, and his success, as though he expects you to be impressed, to be eager for his attention. Each time you try to excuse yourself, your attempts are dismissed with a smile and an insistent push to stay.

It isn’t until your mother comes to collect you at the end of the night that you are finally freed from his hold. You follow her away from the gathering and into the waiting carriage, Pieter’s gaze lingering on you. 

You’re so exhausted on the ride home that the muffled sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone streets and the rocking of the carriage nearly lulls you into sleep. You find your daughters are already in bed when you arrive at the house. Though you loathe to disturb their peaceful slumber, you find yourself drawn to them, compelled to check on them before you can rest. You make your way down the dark hallway, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet the only sound betraying your presence.

When you crack open the door to their room, a cool rush of air greets you, sending a shiver through you. You find their window unlatched, the curtains fluttering in the autumn breeze that has slipped in. Startled, you step further into the room, a wave of panic rising in your chest. You move quickly to reach the window and quietly shut it again. 

Once it is secured, you turn to your girls. The sight of them, peaceful and safe in their beds, eases some of the tension in your chest. Your youngest clutches a slip of fabric in her hands, her tiny face relaxed in sleep. There is something about the cloth she holds that gives you pause. You kneel beside her, gently prying it from her grasp. At the sight of the familiar handkerchief and your own needlework, worn and fraying with time, your breath stutters in your throat. 

It was one of the first gifts you ever gave Friedrich, back when he was still courting you. You had made him dozens more over the years, but still, he carried it with him, even as it began to unravel at the edges. You always assumed it was lost with him and to find it here, tucked in your daughter’s hands, feels like both a balm and a wound.

Fingers trembling, you press the fabric to your face and close your eyes. For a brief moment, you swear you can still smell Friedrich’s cologne, faint but unmistakable. You linger in that moment until your daughter shifts in her sleep and you're brought back to reality. Carefully, you tuck the handkerchief into her tiny hands and kiss her forehead before retreating from the room.

–

Your dreams are restless, an amalgam of fractured images and disjointed sensations. Pieter’s dark, unblinking eyes merge with the black fabric of your mourning gown, and then, without warning, the scene shifts, plunging you into the vast, endless depths of the sea that claimed Friedrich. 

The cold water envelops you, and you gasp for air, but the water rushes in, drowning your cries. In your panic, you thrash wildly, desperate for escape. Just as you feel yourself slipping into the abyss, strong hands seize you, pulling you upward. Your eyes snap open, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The water recedes, and in its place, Friedrich’s face fills your vision.

“I am here, I am here, my love,” he murmurs softly, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand rests lightly on your chest, guiding your breath to match his steady rhythm, coaxing the frantic pace of your heart to slow.  

You stare at him as the world crystallizes around you. Then, you surge forward, your lips crashing into his with a desperation that consumes you. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, clutching him tightly like he might vanish if you let go. The kiss is a lifeline and you cling to it with a need so raw it aches.

“Friedrich,” you gasp, reveling in the familiar tickle of his mustache and his strong hands on your body.  

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if this is real, if he’s truly here, or if your grief has finally unraveled, conjuring him from the depths of the ocean to haunt you. But then, as his lips press urgently against yours and the solid weight of him fills your arms, you decide you don’t care. It doesn’t matter if he is a ghost, risen from the sea’s cold embrace. Nor does it matter that death has leached the color from his cheeks and the warmth from his hands. All that matters is that he’s here.

“My love,” you cry. 

“I am here,” he promises, trailing his lips down the side of your throat until his mouth seals over the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. 

He lingers there, the sting of his kiss euphoric. You bury your fingers in his thick curls, tugging gently and he all but growls against your skin. With his mouth still on you, his fingers tug at your nightgown, baring your body to his eager hands. They slip between your parted thighs, finding your wet heat, and stealing it away as they work you to the peak of pleasure. Friedrich groans and the pain in your neck flares, sharp and sudden.

When he pulls away, a wave of exhaustion crashes over you, leaving you breathless and spent. You stare up at him as your vision shifts, the world taking on a hazy hue. In the dim light, his blue eyes are dark, almost silvery, and something deep within you recoils, an instinctive fear that you can’t quite name. But then, he blinks, and just as quickly the shadow fades. The warmth of his gaze returns, and those same familiar blue eyes, the ones you’ve loved for so long, look down at you with tenderness.

Your fingers hover over his face, longing to touch him again. But a painful realization stops you. 

"You are not real.” The words leave you in a rush. 

“Does it matter if I am?" he asks. "Does this not bring you peace, my love?"

You shake your head, the pain of his absence still raw in your chest. You can’t resist the pull of him, the need to feel close again, even if only in this fleeting moment. Without thinking, you draw him down to kiss you, and the taste of him is sharp, unexpectedly coppery.

"It is a horrible thought," you murmur, breaking the kiss, "but I wish I would not wake when morning comes. I want to stay here with you. In this dream."

A deep frown forms between his brows, and his hand finds your cheek, his touch colder than it should be. His mouth parts slightly, and his teeth, white and sharp, glimmer faintly against his pale lips. 

“You do not wish to find a new husband? To live?” he questions. 

"I wish only for you," you say, voice trembling but sure. "And for our girls."

“My dearest wife,” he whispers, kissing you sweetly. “I will never leave you. I cannot.”

A soft moan slips from you, unbidden, the sound encouraging him to kiss you deeper. His lips move with a possessive tenderness that fills the hollow spaces inside you. “Nor would I ever let you go," he promises. “We are bound even in death.”

Part 2

[pedge-page]

Joel Dealing with Sarah: Food War

you can refer to Not Hungry and Prayers for some context on this one

Sarah is just at the point where she can start taking solid foods. And ya man Joel was determined to get his little traitor back on track to enjoy the most coveted nutrients of all.

Sarah whines, swaying her head side to side to avoid her Daddy’s incessant hand trying to shove a mini empanada into her mouth.

“C’mon, it’s good! I know you want it—“

Her uncoordinated chubby hands push the undesirable food away as she shakes her head vigorously. 

“Yes. You WILL eat this!” He says sternly, brushing her hands down to push the now cold pocket to her lips again.

Sarah shakes again and yelps as if to say no, her voice wavering on the brink of tears. She vibrates with frustration and a touch of anxiety. Neither father nor daughter are refusing to give up on their determinations.

"Ya ain't had a problem biting my hands all this time, now you won't open your trap and bite something good..."

She pats her tabletop anxiously, bending backwards on her high chair with lips sealed to avoid him at all costs.

He growls, tossing his delectable creation down and picking her up with a scowl.

You walk in to see Joel positioning her feet above the trash can and starting to lower her in.

“Don’t throw my baby away!”

“It’s fine, we can make a new one. This one’s broken.”

She kicks and wiggles, spreading to stand on the rim of the trash can despite his efforts to swivel her into the bin.

You glance at the many pieces of uneaten empanadas and giggle. “Alright Daddy, let’s give this baby one more chance. Let me try.”

He grumpily transfers your swirly wormy baby to your grasp, mumbling something about “only take 9 months to get one that works”.

You set her down in her high chair again and offer one of the pieces.

Sarah defiantly shakes her head, looking away.

“See?” Joel says, his arms folded across one another. 

You grab the bottle of ketchup from the table and squirt some on her plate.

“Hey wait wait wait wait wait waitwaitwait--“ he begins, not ready to witness a blasphemous act.

You hold your pointer up to silence him. “Do you want her to start eating them or not?”

You both look over just as Sarah curiously swirls some of the empanadas in the ketchup, coating it and putting it, voluntarily and willing and entirely of her own conscious, in her mouth. She doesn’t make any sounds or expressions, but given she goes to eat another one without protest, you both can conclude she has found a taste it.

His jaw aches from how hard its grinding. Joel settles at the table with a thud, eyes not leaving his behemoth of a child sucking her fingers of ketchup of onions and cheese and tortilla happily as he takes his authentic and not ruined empanada angrily into his mouth.

He can feel his abuela rolling over in her grave.

- - - -

Taglist;

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[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

SOMETIMES, you'd like to know who your mother was before she became your mother.

You want to know where the acidic and corrosive elements that precede each of her statements come from. Perhaps she acquired it from your father—someone even more poisonous than she was. However, from how it blended with her expression every time she said: “a man’s heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing!” you can't be convinced otherwise that before she met your father, she wasn't like that—that she was once a loving girl before he wrecked her and made her your vengeful mother.

Time heals all wounds, they say. And yet, as far as you know, your mother's is still dripping with blood. Rotten. Maggot infested.

You believed it was exactly what she wanted—so that it wouldn't heal, so that she wouldn't forget how much it burned and constricted her. Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, and she will undoubtedly carry it with her until death. “A man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing,” she says, as if she's sure you'll forget what happened to her—to both of you. As if losing the love of her life was hereditary. “Don't you see, sweetheart? We are a paradox of contrasts and twins.”

You're still wondering whether it was a warning or a prayer. Good mothers ensure with all their body and soul that the past does not repeat itself, that their daughters do not embody everything they might become – their mothers. God forbid they dragged themselves across the floor, trembling fingers stretched stiffly clawing at doors that had been long since being slammed shut. However, your mother wasn’t always a good mother, and she often swore over her mother's grave that you would feel the same way she did.

And yet, despite her curses and how much you hate her as much as you hate your deadbeat father, apparently a sense of familiarity is what you're searching for.

Perhaps, that’s what made him catch your eye.

Soft footsteps were created when several pairs of ballerina pointe shoes came down the hallway after the performance ended. Smiles and laughter were among them—a familiar sight; the audience was satisfied with their performance, and they were sure that the ballet director had no more notes for them because, firstly, Marie, the main ballerina in the role of Giselle, had become the center of conversation thanks to her gifted movements, leaving no room for talking about little "building" errors for the other dancers. Second, this season has reached its end, which means they won't be showing "Giselle" again for at least the next few months.

“I saw you sneak chocolates before the show, El.” One ballerina teased.

“They're for energy!” Eloise insisted with a grin.

The ornaments on their heads moved as they both laughed. You flashed a smile but didn't dare enter into the conversation. Satin-clad feet kept moving in the direction of the corps de ballet dressing room door. More laughter and gossip ensued as you passed through the door to the small vanity you shared with another dancer.

"So where are you going after this?" someone at the next table asked, not at you.

You turned around, periodically glancing in the mirror to wipe away the last traces of makeup. "I don't know! Somewhere that can help me relieve stress, obviously. Soph?” Claudine directed her question at another, still not you.

“Sorry, girls, but I have to sit this one out. My mamma has been protesting about me coming home late lately ever since she saw some protests on TV. You two have fun without me.” Sophia declines—that leaves Jules and Claudine alone then. You were ready to return to your own thoughts when Sophia's hazel eyes fixed on you and called your name. "What about you?"

Claudine turned to you, her lips forming a teasing smirk. “Gonna go home and practice some more, no doubt,” she teased. “Live a little for once! Come out with us.”

You focused on untying your pointe shoes while the other two laughed. “No thanks, I'm tired. Think I'll just relax tonight.”

Rather than a teasing smirk, now Claudine's lips resembled a declaration that she was correct once more: "Look, I'm right, aren't I? She's still the same boring girl. No surprise that the best role she can get is dancing as a leaf in the background." It's no longer a myth. It is no longer a myth that other dancers—old and new—only see a robot prodigy, soulless in her single-minded pursuit of perfection. Your movements were full of precision, tempered by years of being under the training of a Russian coach your mother sought out for you. And yet your body is sharpened for nothing more than the purpose of being a vessel. Hushed jokes about you selling your soul to the devil for your skills.

“Aww, not even for one night? Loosen up that tight bun of yours?”

You shoved the last of your things hastily into your bag, not paying attention as someone else's hairbrush and chapstick were forced to sit on top of your toiletry bag—you can always return them tomorrow. The other girls are still laughing while you swing the overstuffed duffel over your shoulder.

“Goodnight,” you say tensely, clutching the strap of your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white. Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your shoes and hurried out of the dressing room, their taunts echoing in your ears.

London streets glistened wetly as you made your way down the sidewalk. The recent rain left dark spots on the pavement. You pull your coat tighter around you, shivering in the damp night air. As you passed a rowdy pub, loud voices and laughter spilled out onto the street. Warm light and the smell of beer beckoned from within, but you hurried on without glancing in, not wanting to face anyone's eyes.

The entrance to the subway glimmers under the streetlamps. You descend the stairs slowly, your shoes clicking on the concrete steps. The underground platform was nearly empty at this late hour. A lone figure dozed on one of the wooden benches, and a teenage couple whispered together further down the tiles. Your eyes roam over the tiled walls and ads for shows you'd never see—anything to avoid looking at other people and risking a confrontation.

The screech of brakes announces the arrival of your train, followed by beams of lights illuminating the dark tunnel. You boarded the mostly empty carriage and sat down, watching the dark tunnel walls pass by. On the opposite side, your weary reflection in the glass glances back at you.

Soulless.

Soulless ballerina.

TWENTY-THREE YEARS HAVE GONE BY: Thirteen times, you were part of the corps de ballet in Swan Lake. And now, the new director—whom they “imported” directly from somewhere in France to replace the old one—announces that the next season will be Swan Lake. You don't have anything against it—why should you? Thirteen times. Thirteen times in the corps de ballet, and this time will make no difference to you; just another faceless dancer in the flock, never the Swan Queen—they wouldn't risk a soulless ballerina in the spotlight. But wouldn't audiences grow bored of the same classic retold so often?

"Now now, I know you are all tired of this ballet," he said calmly. "But we will be doing something different - a new interpretation, with a fresh artistic vision. This will be Swan Lake as you have never seen it before. Rehearsals will focus on bringing new emotional depth and dimensionality to these iconic roles. Who knows – maybe some new faces will emerge for leading roles. I’m looking forward to seeing what you all can do. Now let us begin."

The familiar piano notes of our warm-up piece drifted through the studio as you took your place at the barre, fingers curling around the worn wood. You close your eyes and focus on steadying your breathing. Even when your muscles hurt from fatigue, you persist through well-known stretching exercises with a focused effort. Your eyelids flutter open, and out of the corner of your eye, you see the new director watching silently at the edge, his sharp eyes taking in each dancer.

“One.. and.. two.. and..”

As you move on to tendus and plies, you let the rhythm of the count wash over you – “.. three.. and.. four.. and..” Your burning thighs, your stretching calves, your flexing toes. "First position...and plié. Second position...and tendu. Third position...and rond de jambe." and the coach's familiar count. Your mind wanders as the dancers continue, thinking about the director's words about seeking new depths. Stealing a glance through the mirror, your eyes returned to the man—his ringed fingers in front of his lips as he pondered.

The music continues to play, swelling with a crescendo. You concentrate on your movements again, lifting your legs high according to standard and extending your lines through fingertips.

You found your eyes drifting to the director's reflection in the mirror more and more. The coach's voice faded into a blur as you studied his intense expression, watching for any sign of interest or approval. But time and again, his gaze passed over you without pause, lingering instead on Claire or Amelia as they executed perfect pirouettes or graceful penche poses. A familiar ache of longing and envy twisted in your stomach. No matter how hard you focused or how flawlessly you hit each position, you remained invisible to him.

Your breaths are shallow, and your head is whirling. Your eyes couldn't stop following him; he was walking around watching dancers who weren't you. He spoke to the coach, then stepped back with his hands linked behind his back. Still not you. As the music nears the end and the dancers have transitioned into combination movements, he still doesn't look at you.

You know the truth: this will be your fourteenth Swan Lake, and you will once again blend into the anonymous corps de ballet. The reflection of a woman in the mirror—your reflection, somber with lifeless eyes and dull hair pulled back in tight bun. The director stated that he wanted to bring forth new depths and emotional aspects to distinguish his Swan Lake from those of other opera houses, therefore it's fitting that he didn't choose you. As an empty ache expands in your chest, you accept the truth: this is your fourteenth Swan Lake, being another swan for the fourteenth time.

The director won’t choose you.

He won't choose you.

He won't choose...

You.

He chose you. You don't know why or how.

An hour later, you find yourself standing in Studio A, facing uncertainly across the hardwood floor. Five of the girls sat at the end of the room while the director watched Claire give her interpretation of Odette in her white swan act. You watch her movements critically, noting the slight wobble in her lower back and how her port de bras could be straighter. Her pirouettes needed more control and spotting—you counted two extra turns that threw off her balance. Then she launched into the black swan's sinister variations. Gone was the white swan, replaced by a vixenish temptress oozing sensuality from her pores. The director made a few thoughtful comments you didn't quite catch before dismissing her.

The director breathed out your name and you were quick on your feet. He crossed his arms over his chest as you took your place in the center. You looked at the girls behind you through the mirror reflection, then at the director, then signaled the pianist to begin.

The famous White Swan melody plays, and you start. Plie, tendu, glissade—your limbs moved through the steps as they had a thousand times, polished, technically perfect. Your movements rely on muscle memory, analyzing your every move through a critical lens. First pose: left arm extended, back straight, neck long. Check. The second one: right leg stretched to the sky, toes pointed to the max. But was your ankle tilted just now? You furrowed your brows while making a mental note to adjust. Entering another glissade, you land on the ball of my foot, keeping your plie low. One.. and.. two. You count the seconds, nitpicking any imperfections.

“Slow down, dear, find your breath.” The director's voice cuts through your thoughts. Find your breath? You were in complete control of your breathing, hitting every mark precisely as the music demanded. What more should you find?

You barreled ahead through the choreography, unwilling to let up on your own rigid standards even as he continued offering feedback. "Loosen your shoulders...savor each moment rather than rushing to the next...let us see you feel the music, not just hear it."

But you are feeling it. You feel every crescendo and decrescendo—you stay in rhythm with the music as the score enters the ritardando section. How could he say you didn't feel the music when you lived and breathed each score? You knew this piece inside and out. From the opening notes, you have remembered not just the choreography but every key change and tempo variation. By the time you sank into your final pose, you were a bundle of nerves.

“Your technique is superb, but so tightly wound,” the director said. “Try to loosen up your lines and embrace the artistry, not just the steps. Now, show me your Black Swan.”

As the dark notes of the Black Swan coda swirl, you pour all your focus into hitting each precise movement with flawless technique. You arch into an arabesque, extending your working leg to the maximum while maintaining perfect turnout. Your spot was fixed, and your balance was unwavering. You continue through the practiced motions, and you fly into your final fouetté combo. As the last note faded, you struck your ending pose.

Slowly, you straightened your body and lifted your gaze to meet his, pressing your sweaty palms together tightly. The director remained silent, hand in front of his mouth, and looked you up and down in a way that made you want to flee. But, you restrained yourself, waiting patiently for his consideration. The pressure in the room was so intense that it made you suffocate.

After what felt like eternity, he gave a small nod – neither acceptance nor rejection. “Thank you, Mademoiselle, that was… illuminating. Please check the cast list tomorrow morning – we will announce our decisions then.”

The compliment is ambiguous, with two implications that you know tend toward the negative. Your anxiety failed to calm down, and all you could muster was a hushed thank you before you left the studio in a daze, questions still swirling around unanswered like always.

Now here you are, unfortunate enough to be under the wailing sky of London with minimal cover from a shuttered cafe. The dense fog and wind impede your eyesight, making it difficult to see the towering structures. On the left side, several cafes and pubs radiate their orange lights from within, beckoning anyone in need of somewhere to go for a quick drink or two. Anyone but you, apparently.

The city streets felt hauntingly deserted through the deluge of falling water. Shivering even in your coat and tights, you knelt down and tightened your scarf. Puddles of water begin to form in the potholes, and you desperately hope that the rain will stop soon; you still have a long ride home on the subway to prepare for tomorrow.

Just then, a splash of heavy footsteps caught your attention.

Through the sheets of rainfall, you glimpsed a tall figure hurrying down the sidewalk, taking in what little details you could discern. His leather jacket and boots, yet the way he hunched his broad shoulders against the storm conveyed a certain roughness. You squinted to make out his face, only to find it covered by a mask and a hood pulled too low. It's unsettling, but disturbingly, it makes you enthusiastically guess what lies beneath it—was he handsome or scarred? Young or weathered by experience? It intrigued you so much that you didn't realize he was only three steps away from you.

As the stranger approaches, you take more details that should have set off alarms. His all-black leather jacket may have been fine material, but it was worn and faded. And although broad-shouldered, his build spoke more of hardened muscle than gentility. Everything about him screams danger. When he drew up beside you, you intended to duck past and continue on your way.

But something held you rooted to the spot.

Now, two strangers stood side by side, between them were raindrops dragged cruelly by the cold wind. His towering figure was as still as a statue; for a man his size, he was skilled enough to be almost invisible, almost. The scent of him washed over you then—alcohol, but not the refined wines and spirits of high society. This was something rougher, meant to burn away thought rather than enhance it. Beneath that, cigarette smoke and a musky men’s cologne, attempting to cover something.

The man is still silent, and you should've taken this as your second chance to leave. There are only two possibilities for a man like him: a perverted stalker or a serial killer—most likely the latter, because for what reason would he decide to take shelter under the awning of a dark bankrupt cafe with a woman when the surrounding pubs are still serving happy hour?

While the stranger settles against the wall, you notice his large hand drift casually into his pants pocket. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding in panic wondering what weapon he might pull out – a knife, or worse. All instincts screamed to run away, but your feet remained rooted to the ground, frozen.

“Nasty night.”

Your body comes to a complete stop. The air is forgotten, and you wonder if you really heard him speak just now or if you were just hallucinating. He has a roughness to his voice, gravels, and a low range with a hint of timbre muffled by his dark mask. Unknowingly turning toward him, you stared at his side profile until he met your gaze, and you swiftly looked straight forward again.

“Uh, y-yes, quite a storm,” You stuttered in reply, cursing your trembling voice. Gripping your duffel bag tighter, you tried not to say anything that might offend him.

Minutes pass, the rain as the only noise. Finally, he spoke again, "Subway, yeah?" Between the sound of the rain and his muffled ones, you tried hard to make out what he was saying. After fully understanding it, you give it a nod.

“Yes, the subway. Though it may be closed by now with the weather.”

The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes. From the corner of your eye, you knew he was taking off his mask. Your heart beats fast as you resist the urge to turn your head, settling to look at the dark street in front of you instead. Smoke wafts between you both, creating faint, short-lived tendrils in the air.

The two of you were in silence. You wanted to talk to him again but didn't know what there was to say; it could be that he just wants to smoke with a company, a quiet company. He let out a puff of fresh cigarette smoke, and you inhaled it all. Toxins are bad for the skin and lungs, and yet you're better off suffocating than giving the impression that you're disturbed.

“Subway's closed, like you said. No sense waiting in the wet.” He took the last drag and threw the cigarette butt into the gutter. “Come on then. Pub's the best place for now.” His voice muffled again – he had put his mask back on.

You hesitated at his offer, biting your lip as you weighed the options rapidly in your mind. On one hand, the rain shows no signs of letting up, and this awning provides only a little protection at best. But to follow a strange man through the streets, alone, allowing him to take you to a spot where inebriation may be present—where his worst pals might be waiting. Girls your age being spiked is something you hear about a lot.

Shaking your head, you manage a small smile. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I'll be right here. Best not to trouble you further on such a night.”

He tilts his head, his eyes peering from the mask's shadows as if reading your unspoken fears. Does he see the consideration behind your polite refusal—how now you are a vulnerable woman, and this relative anonymity without further conversation is a safe option, despite the discomfort? Within his dark eyes, there was a stirring that you didn't understand. Pity? Or mockery? Under his towering height and massive body, you were nothing but a frightened rabbit.

Gusts of wind drive cold droplets under the awning. You suppressed a shiver, hugging yourself tighter. “Really, I'll be fine. The rain can't last forever." A forced laugh follows your words.

You seize the chance to stare back at him. It was impossible for you to know what calculations were going through his mind, or what emotion lay beneath that mask. It's pretty unfair, you think, that he can hide under a hood that nearly makes him invisible in the dark of night while he can see all of you—a greasy-haired woman hoping the man in front of her will respect her dumb decision. It's the least he can do.

Just when you think this staring game would go on for another minute, he turns his gaze. “Suit yourself, love.” His voice comes out gruff, and your heart drops thinking you've let him down (but, for what?). "But you'll catch your death waiting in the rain."

A pang of guilt crashes into you as he turns his shoe the other way. For safety's sake, you rejected him, thinking you're being sensible; but there's an authoritative voice in the back of your mind telling you, "He's the first nice guy in a long time, and look what you gave in exchange for his kind offer." Self-doubt is playing in your heart. His back was already turning, boots squelching away into the rain.

“Wait!” You called after him, hating how small and frightened you sounded. He paused and searched back, eyes questioning through the mask. Steeling your nerves, you step into the downpour. “I'm coming with you.”

If this guy thinks you're an indecisive woman who can't even commit to a decision for more than five seconds, thank goodness he didn't say anything other than give you another stare. He led the way as he went, holding the door of one of the busy London pubs. More liquor and tobacco smells. You both entered, bringing a burst of damp wind with you. The warmth and noise within are a shock after the storm outside.

He steers you towards the fireplace, shrugging out of his soaked jacket. “Get yourself by the hearth,” he said, nodding to an empty chair. “Dry off.”

You did as he said gratefully, holding your hands out to the flames. The colors returned to your cheeks; fear slowly evaporated away.

“What'll you have, love?” He asked, and you frowned before understanding. Oh, drinks.

“Something light,” is all you say, eyes lowered again. The man gave a nod and went to give the bartender the order.

He returned not long after, setting the drinks down and taking the chair opposite to yours, stretching out his long legs toward the fire. You took the gin with a murmured “thank you.” He settled with his own—whiskey in a glass, neat. You glanced at the remains of rainwater dripping heavily from his clothes in a growing puddle at his boots. The drinks were enjoyed in companionable silence, still trying to find calm after the storm's fury.

The fire crackles merrily as you sit. Finding your voice, you clear your throat gently.

“Thank you, for…” Your fingers tapped nervously on the glass. “Well, for everything, I suppose.”

His eyes lifted from the flames to meet yours, and you offered a small smile. “I’m (Y/N).”

As the name slips out, you berate yourself. How stupid, giving up something as personal as your name! This man was still a stranger, no matter his kindness so far. For all you know, bad intentions could be lurking behind that calm gaze even now. But in the cozy glow of the fire, your sense of awareness wavered, lulled to sleep in a false sense of security.

He merely nodded, moving his hand to the mask hook over his ear without expressing much emotion. Your eyes widened, and your heart was pounding. The breath in your lungs stilled in anticipation as the fabric peeled slowly back, inch by inch. Is he about to...?

The man removed his mask, appearing at ease and lacking in secrecy. He looks at you, and you quickly look aside, pretending to offer him a little privacy. You wait for him to finish, to put it on again, but he never does. Is it okay to look-

Deciding to no longer be the uneasy one (since the guy looks completely unconcerned as he takes a long sip of his drink), you follow suit and allow the liquid to cascade down your throat. There's a slight thump as your glass hits the aged wood. Your curiosity is piqued even more by the fact that he hasn't made any moves to wear it again. Slowly, you raised your gaze, meeting that unveiled gaze – a secret not meant for your eyes.

Blonde eyelashes – pretty. Faint shadows hung under the eyes. Light stubble. Scars dotted his jaw, thin white slashes earned from unknown origins. His nose sat slightly off-center, clearly broken more than once in past altercations—bar fights, perhaps? Though something about the precise thinness of the lines didn't seem right for brawling. Regardless of which one, he is clearly no stranger to violence, and being near him is enough for someone to sense the danger he was capable of.

But, there is something about that powerful jawline, the intensity found only in his hooded eyes, spokes of steel and intricate details that defy explanation. Fire in his eyes. Even after taking off the mask and grasping it between his lengthy fingers—just when you think all the curtains have been exposed—he still remains a mystery.

(And you're just another gullible woman who believes she knows how to solve the puzzle.)

You wait; surely he will offer his own name in return now that you've bared yours. But seconds ticked by in the silence, and still he said nothing.

A flush crept up your neck at the realization that he had no intention of reciprocating. Did you misread this entire meeting? Why did he bring you here if not to talk? You observe his stony profile, wishing you could see past him. Did he intend to remain a mystery—an enigma full of intrigue? Or is it actually a test to see how long your curiosity can last?

Your fingers fidget with the condensation on your glass. Under this new tension, the easy silence fell away. Seeking an escape from the awkwardness, you looked for something, anything. Your gaze landed on a group of regulars in the corner, laughing boisterously.

“Do you, um, come here often?” You ask lamely, cursing your inability to make small talk. But there was an amused glint in his eyes that put you back at ease.

“Aye, I'm 'ere often enough,” he replied, taking another sip. You assume he finds humor in your discomfort, rather than mocking it. The knot in your shoulders loosened, and you relaxed into a smile again.

For good or ill, this man stirred something deep inside you—and you're desperate to scavenge for light, safe conversation topics to continue the conversation.

“So, um, what kind of work do you—” You catch yourself, cheeks warming. Too personal to ask a stranger met by chance. You let out a dry laugh. “Sorry, I don't mean to pry. It’s just… making conversation.”

At the small thud of his glass meeting the scarred wood of the table, your eyes darted up in surprise. Already empty—have you been so lost in thought that you missed him finishing? A swell of questions rose inside you as you watched his movements for a clue. Would he signal the bartender for a refill, extending your time together? Or was this the end—the strange encounter came to a close because you somehow offended him for prying too much?

“Military.”

Unexpectedly, he gave a single-word reply. Military—that explains a lot, from his physique and bearing to the scars and the lingering scents that cling to his coat.

"Oh!" was all you could think of as a response. More questions swim to the surface, demanding to be asked, but you quash them, not wanting to risk being presumptuous a second time.

Feeling indebted, you then offer, "I do ballet, with the Metropolitan Opera." The words slip out before you can check them, and inwardly you curse yourself once again. 

Great. Name, job, and workplace. Why don't you give him your address next?

You bit your lip. Risking a glance up, you hope he won't take your openness as foolishness. His quiet acceptance has so far calmed your nerves, and now you find yourself craving that ease again.

“Must be rewarding,” is all he offers—you grow accustomed to his terse responses. Plain, perhaps even half-hearted, but you smile as though he had read you a lovely poetry full of flattery.

“Yeah, it's really rewarding to dance and like, share that joy with others.”

Liar. What can a soulless ballerina have to share? So far, frustration is what you inflict on your director, and criticism is secretly a “reward” for your fellow dancers. You understand perfectly well, from the top of your head to the balls of your toes, that there is no joy that you can share. However, this man didn't know. He doesn't know who or how you are. Since the very beginning, you have spoken truth to him; allow this one deception to pass.

Your fingertips made a gentle squeak as they rubbed across the condensation on your glass. “If I may ask… what inspired you to serve?”

For a moment, he was quiet, considering with eyes turned to the flames.

"It was a calling, I suppose," came the gruff reply. “The world had its darkness even then. Felt a duty to stand against it.”

After providing an answer, the two of you returned to silence. You gazed thoughtfully into the flames, thinking of how you might spark another conversation that didn't rely solely on question and answer. The last thing you want is for him to view you as overbearing or pushy.

“What drew you to ballet, then?”

It was unexpected for him to pose a question, and you were taken aback when he did. Your lips curved into a smile as you thought about the answer, and your mother's role in starting it all.

"Well, I think it started because Mom thought ballet was 'cute'." A tone of amusement permeates your voice. “She had no idea about the art or discipline—she just wanted to see her little girl swirl and spin in frilly costumes. But I had fun dancing, dressing up, and listening to the music...”

Somewhere in your head, your mother's voice echoes again. Bitter and resentful, encased in an everlasting nightmare. Your mother stood in the audience, and you ran towards her, tutu skirt fluttering gently. She wiped her eyes and knelt down in front of you, whispering, "You were marvelous, sweetheart," as she drew you in. She smiles, but it stops short of her eyes. Then a string of apologies, saying that he’s gone—that she knew he had promised you to be here, but he's gone. Dad is gone. And he'll never see what you can do.

“My first real performance, in elementary school… I was so proud when the curtain fell.” You continue, remembering another face that has long been a ghost in the past.

("Why did you let that man walk away?")

You clear your throat softly. “After that, it just felt right, you know? Like I'd found where I belong.”

Liar.

Steering away from the bitter past, you change the direction of the conversation again. “Are you from around here?” It's a simple question, maybe even stupid. His accent alone makes it plain he grew up in this land, but, no matter how long you've lived in England, you have a small grasp of regional dialects within the country.

“I mean, I know you're obviously from here—your accent kind of gives it away.” You waved. “I just meant—is this area home for you? Or are you from elsewhere originally?”

The barest upturn of his lips catches your eye. Was that a smile? On this gruff, grumpy stranger who has only revealed so little so far? Your heart beats at the sight, rare as a summer snowflake. He reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette, and held it between his dry lips. The lighter ignited, and white smoke was blown out.

“Manchester, originally,” he said, intonation hanging. He took another drag of his cigarette before exhaling slowly and adding, “A different world now. You?”

“I've been in the city for years now, but I'm from San Francisco.” You said. “When the chance came up to transfer here from my old opera house back home, I leapt at it. Felt it was time for a fresh start, to spread my wings and live on my own. And maybe get out from under my mom's feet—love her to bits, but she can be a bit much sometimes.”

From your own remarks, you can't help but question if mothers are as harsh on their sons or if this is solely reserved for daughters. Girls are taught to keep close to home and their hearts, while boys are free to roam and explore. Is it any wonder, then, that spreading your wings felt like escaping? You wanted to ask him but ended up lacing your tongue tightly.

The fire's burned low, just embers burning gently in the fireplace. Time passed unnoticed as the two of you sat chatting quietly. But outside, the rain began to subside until it was a fine patter on the roof.

“Storm’s passed, seems.”

As he speaks, you glance up to find his guarded mask has fallen once more into place. The easy openness that had soothed tired nerves now closed again – strangely making you bereft. A feeling of melancholy welled up in your chest at the thought of parting, of kissing away the intimate bubble the two of you had crafted and going back out there into the cold reality where you would be strangers again. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you searched for words.

“I suppose you're right… it has eased off some.” Your voice came out small and awkward to your own ears. Licking your dry lips, you added, “thank you, for your company. It was…nice, not to feel alone.”

 He stood up, stretching his tall frame. After this, the spell of the evening will evaporate, and everything will return to the reality of loneliness once again.

“C'mon then, let's get you home,” he said gruffly, offering a hand to help you up. His strong hand envelops your smaller one—rough yet tender, sending warmth through your limbs that have little to do with the fire now dying.

Pushing through the heavy doors, the night air is a contrast to the warmth of the pub. Thick fog covered the streets, rain-slick stones glistening under the street lights. He waved at the first cab that passed—and you prayed it wouldn't stop so you could buy a little more time with him.

It stopped. The night was set to end.

He holds it while you slip inside. Through the open window, your eyes met his; he crouched beside the window, broad shoulders hunched. He's talking to the cab driver, but you can't hear it—not when your heart flutters madly in your breast over a single question. The ache of still not knowing his name. It seems wrong, unfair, that he knows you so well, yet you know nothing of him in return.

The cab lurches into motion, snapping the spell. Panic rises in your throat; you can't let him disappear into the night—to the back of your head like another passerby.

“Wait—please! I don't know your name."

Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out in a desperate rush.

The second ticks by as you wait. He finds you foolish, for sure—just another desperate, nosy girl who wants to play detective the second she sees a puzzle. The clinginess in your request must have given the impression that you were a fool in love—gullible and name-obsessed.

Something shifts in his dark eyes, and you hope it's a wall crumbling away. Then, in his low rumble – “Simon.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, almost parting your lips in question before—

“Name's Simon,” he repeats.

(And the sun breaks through storm clouds.)

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

[justpoliteconversations]

Fool's Bet [Hyrule + Reader]

You made a bet you shouldn't have. And almost lost.

Just something to share while my brain fizzes for while on the rediscovered trash heap. This is pretty rough, but I'll take some time later to edit it.

Masterlist

TW: Choosing not to disclose. Read at your own discretion.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise. Linked Universe is the fan creation of jojo56830.

---

It was those eyes. That damned honey sweet gaze shimmering under thick, dark lashes and lighting up the delicate constellation of freckles dusting tanned cheeks beneath. It was the glossy tears (fat and shiny and fake as hell, but so damned pretty against the wide round of his dark eyes) rimming those lashes like a string of pearls.

It was the way earthy brown rings melted into golden specks of starlight peeking through the warm swirl of honey and chocolate. How light and shadows intermixed and brought forth an innocent (deceitful) glimmer of pleading. Like fairy chimes in the night. Soft as a whisper, sweet as peach flesh.

Dangerous. Tempting. (Chime.)

Trusted.

"Please." Hyrule pleaded (whispered? chimed?), those bewitching (enchanting) eyes locked on yours. Brows softened and pulled just so into an expression so beguiling, so ingenuous, it pulled a sweat to your own (manipulative, pointy-eared little bastard. damn fairy-borne liar and trickster). "I made it for you!" (Chime.)

You hesitated (a mistake. a death sentence).

Behind you War's quiet curse felt like tiny fairies' feet dancing upon your grave. Sky's mumbled prayer the solemn temple bell tolling over the final, sacred grounds at dusk.

Time gazed upon you with pity. And glee. The light of mischief shining in his hooded eye like moonlight on still water.

(Fairy boy, indeed. May cuccos sully your boots next you rest, farmer boy.)

Hyrule smiled softly then. Lower lip wobbling, the tip of his nose and curved sharp of his cheekbones flushed pink. Ears pinned tight against his thick, dark curls. Beautiful little waves that fluttered in the wind and curled softly against his face and delicate neck.

(The very picture of harmless vulnerability.)

(The perfect little mask. Hiding a gleeful little smile caged around a fae giggle.)

(Chime.)

Your heart thundered at the sight of it, and you swallowed thickly around the knot pulsing in the tender flesh of your throat. Your wide, searching eyes scanning, pleading, begging.

Eyes glanced away from yours in shame (Twilight having to step away entirely, lest he be drawn into a battle he has no chance of escaping unscaved. so moved to compassion as he is by your plight). Though some meet yours with amusement (may your pantless legs be besieged by ticks, bunny boy. And your beloved winds blow seagull shit into your hair, sailor).

(Chime.)

Warm (uncomfortably so. like sitting too close to an open flame), callous-roughened fingers touch the sensitive skin on the back of your hand, drawing you out of your internal cursing (and panic). And from one breath to the next, your lock eyes with the man (fae-borne. liar. trickster. trusted. enchanting) once more and your fall back down into the depths of an emotional whirlwind.

The gleam of honey and gold and enchanting (bewitching) (chime) light swirl in the melting warmth of brown. Dazzling and beloved.

Something is put in your hands. Warm (too warm) fingers wrap around yours.

(What is that?) (Chime.)

"It's good." Hyrule says (whispers? echoes? chimes?) reassuringly, brows still so pleading and eyes so sad. So sad. So sad.

White, straight bones caged by slips of pink, curled flesh. Gold and honey and-

Your hands are moving. Your eyes have not (cannot) break away.

"You can do it." Hyrule encourages (whispers? echoes? chimes?), his hands on yours. Moving. Guiding. (Chiming. Chiming. Commanding.)

A gasp. Someone has to support Sky as he goes feint. Legend's eyes are wide and intently focused. Bright, bright blue and fixated on the atrocity (and curiosity) being committed in front of him.

It's lost to you.

Your mouth opens. The gold is so strong now. Stronger than the honey. The brown. The light.

Stronger than you.

(You're salivating like a dog.)

"What in the Goddess' name are you doing?" Four was suddenly there (where did he come from?), his hand snatching your closed(?) fist away from your face (when had it gotten there?). His expression twisted in some unreadable combination of amusement and frustration. "Hylia give me the strength to deal with these fools."

The gold vanished. Hyrule's eyes dimmed to dark, honey brown. Expression relaxing into a small, embarrassed and natural grin (bright and warm as sunshine. nothing like the intoxicating honey sweet of before). "Don't be mad, Four! They bet me 50 rupees I couldn't charm them into eating my rations!" Four made a face that clearly expressed how much he didn't approve of such an idiotic wager.

None of that mattered to you though. Because you were free once more. Of body and of mind.

And you were holding to most putrid slab of meat you (and probably any of the chain besides Hyrule) had ever come across. The congealed grease of the half dried meat ribbons oozing between your fingers and weaving cold, shinning paths of pinkish-orange gelatin down your wrists and one unfortunate elbow.

On your bottom lip. Something cool dripped down your chin. Down your neck. Pooled at you collarbones.

Twilight, keeping his distance (from the horrendous stretch more than anything) but with eyes full of concern, cast you a pitying glance. "You okay there?"

Eight pairs of eyes found you. Just in time to watch you empty your stomach contents all over your grease streaked hands and boots.

Unsurprisingly, Hyrule was the only one who was surprised by this sudden turn of events. "The Meat!"

And somewhere in the forest, leaning over a freshly hunted buck, Wild's hand twitched with the unexplainable impulse to pinch Hyrule right on the ear. Hard.

---

Time to rest now.

[lucysgraybird]

Billy x female reader where she gets the same sickness as her mother and brother but she manages to survive and he takes her to their graves (yep long hours traveling) just to share that part of his past with her because he loves her and is glad she survived because he wouldn’t have bared another lose

hiiii this is so brutally late. im sorry. ive also adjusted a little because i wanted to write it but im so bad at writing travel and couldn't figure out a way to do it that didn't feel drawn out but i can do a part 2 if u want!!

warnings: dscs of death and illness

Billy feels like he's been living in a haze. First a haze of ignorance, pretending that he didn't recognize the wet, hacking sound of the coughs you muffled into your elbow, that the way your brow bloomed with dry heat didn't throw him back into the pit of being seventeen and curled around his mother's febrile form. Then a moment of clarity, like a bucket of ice dumped over his head, when the doctor touched his elbow and confirmed consumption. Finally, and he can't decide which stage he's hated most, a thick fog of despair and desperation, rimy water dripping from washcloths down his arm in twin trails to the sweat he's wiping from your forehead, trying to convince himself of minute drops in your dogged temperature. He nurses broth down your raw throat and prayers up his own, pleas to a God he might not believe in to just leave him with something good in this world and pleas to himself to believe that this time will be different.

And he might just make a return to church, because his calls are answered. Slowly, like a slug creeping to salt, you recover. Color fades from the pyretic spots high on your cheeks and returns to the rest of your face, you sleep through the night without a coughing fit tearing you awake. The brightness in your eyes starts to look more lively and less dazed, and eventually you're strong enough to stand and bathe. Billy helps you into the tub and then opts to sit outside the door -- close enough that his anxiety isn't spiking, that if something happens he can help, but far enough that you can regain some of the autonomy that is ripped away in illness.

He'll never quite figure out why he says this. Maybe it’s the dim candlelight, coaxing the world out of reality and into a dream, a place where anything that happens will stay forever locked somewhere out of time. Maybe it’s that he wants to pretend you have the kind of relationship that demands this honesty, because you've said “‘Til death do us part” and meant it and so he owes you his greatest love and his deepest fears. He'd give you the former without question, of course, but he's still practicing that the latter is an unavoidable sidecar to that kind of devotion.

"I thought you were going to die," he says, and his stomach immediately twists in shame. You're recovering still, and here he is making it about himself. When you don't say anything, surely listening in that tranquil, soft-eyed way that you somehow always managed, he continues.

"I wish you could've met my ma. She was...good, like you. At her core, that's all there was, this sturdy kindness that I never understood how she maintained. Sometimes she'd say that when good people died young, it meant that God thought that spirit belonged more in Heaven than on Earth, and I was so scared that he got...impatient again, with you, and I was so scared that..."

Silence for a moment, then your voice, still hoarse:

"I would've liked to meet her too. She must have been quite the woman, to have raised someone like you."

Billy snorts out a laugh. "Something like that."

There's the sound of sloshing, and Billy can see the way your spine curves in his mind's eye, chest pressed to your thighs and chin rested on your knee. He can hear the way the position stretches your neck in your voice when you speak.

"I'm not letting anyone take me away from you. I don't care how much I'm needed somewhere else, I need to be here with you. You make it easy to be this good, Billy. It isn't in spite of yourself that you always manage to find warmth; there isn't a fire I've found that...exists without stoking."

Tears prickle his eyes and his throat tightens so that the next deep breath he takes squeaks like his voice is dropping again. He can't bring himself to use the crackly tone he knows is the only one he can access now.

"We should visit your ma," you suggest. "Someone's gotta tell her what a wonderful young man she raised."

"Her grave is far," he manages, though the end of the sentence cracks and so does the dam, silent tears streaking his face. In all truth, it's not outrageously far, but he's been scared to visit. Scared to tell his ma who he's had to (chosen to?) become, scared she'll smell the gunsmoke that seems to cling to his hands and clothes and memories, scared she'll meet the ghosts that have become more like his shadow.

There's the patter of wet feet on the bathroom floor and he stands with the intention of making himself scarce by the time you emerge, leaving nothing but the pale ghost of his vulnerability on the floor outside the bathroom as proof of the wall that just crumbled there. He'll calm in bed until you're done bathing, and hope for your mercy in disregarding his momentary fragility. But the door clicks open and there you are in your nightgown. There you are with your skin scrubbed clean, you with your hair in the braid you wear to sleep. There you are with tears on your face, with your arms open to him like the Virgin Mary, offering a forgiveness that he doesn't deserve. The guilt of this will carve stigmata into his hands later, nailing him to the cross of his history, but for now he takes the pity and collapses into you.

"We'll start out tomorrow," you say, overcoming the awkward angle your height difference creates to pet his hair. "I'd like to meet her. We should bring her flowers."

[tojisun]

hi sun! I sent another ask but it never really got to you because of my shitty internet and if it did I’m sorry for repeating it,,, 😿🙏

but in that other ask I said that the nun!reader x Simon story has so much angst potential!!! my brain dumb so i didn’t really understand if it was one sided? But I couldn’t stop thinking about reader slowly getting feelings for Simon and feeling incredibly bad for that, distancing herself and stuff, yeah…

anyways I love you tysm for what you write

hi!! im so sorry if it happened to be sent and i havent replied, ive been bouncing around sm ideas that i havent had time to answer reqs/qs! thank you so much for your patience and thank you so much for the luv 🥹🫶🏼

ur absolutely right!! nun!reader x simon has a lot of angst potential <33 it’s one of the many reasons why i love it so much

and it is one-sided, yes.

all of the story is told in simon’s pov so we see the way he sees her and the way he longs for her. i do apologize for the confusion because i’ve written about two fics of simon actively hallucinating the reader liking him back which might’ve led to the assumption that the reader actually does, but no she doesn’t!

one of the things that makes the series so special to me is that it is a tragedy; it will never have a happy ending nor any semblance of a hopeful ending (i.e. ambiguous ending but one that hints that the reader likes simon back). it will all end with simon chasing pieces of her through prayers and gospels and sunday masses.

i have toyed with the idea though, and it is so similar to your own—

cw: religious themes of course, f!reader

the idea of the reader whose devotion for the lord runs deep; before loving herself, before loving her family, it’s always him. but then simon comes.

simon who’s broken and hurt and angry; whose eyes are always clouded with fear, so vast she feels it rattling her own bones. simon who seeks for her voice and her touch and her prayers on his times of need, and who is she not to help this lost lamb find his way back to the lord?

well, she stumbles along the way. she finds herself trapped, her mind pushing past the walls of her fortitude. she finds her eyes straying, glossing over the wooden cross to flit to simon’s… body.

he is big. he is scarred and battle-worn. he is beautiful.

he is almost…divine.

she is shaken awake by the warping guilt that engulfed her and she throws out excuses before leaving him there, in the chapel, before locking herself in her room to pray.

her hands are trembling as she goes over her rosary once, twice, three times—

(hail mary, full of grace…

she thinks of his thick arms crossing over his sturdy chest. she thinks of the way he tipped his head down, his eyes meeting hers.

the lord is with thee…

she thinks of how his scarred jaw trembled. how his crooked nose flared.

blessed art thou amongst women…

she thinks of his plea, “i need your help.”

and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, jesus…

she thinks of his desperation, “help me repent.”)

—but it is all futile. not even her prayers can banish simon from her thoughts. from her desires.

she cries that night, begging for forgiveness. begging that the lord grant mercy to her, for she have made the grave error of falling in love. she muddled her duties with her desires, so how could she help simon find the lord? how could she help simon find peace?

she asks for a relocation, and not even the head priest could deter her decision. it is granted to her ten days later. she couldn’t even say goodbye to simon because he away for a mission in latvia.

so instead, she leaves this chapel with one last prayer for him; with one last glance at the altar where her beloved had asked her for a dance, under the watchful eye of the lord. she tries her best not to weep for what is lost.

because she knows she has ruined it all.

.

simon finds her. he will always find her.

[ceo-of-sloppy-women]

No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her

chapter 8

ao3 link

Chapter 9

Content Warning: gore, horror, zombies, blood

Tacked up and astride your new horse, you head out with Sevika. Grayson watches as the two of you leave after having double-checked that the two of you have all the necessary supplies (and then some). You can’t help but feel a bit giddy at all the little ways these people care for you. They barely know you, yet everyone watches out for you as if you were always their own, never a stranger. You missed feeling like part of a community.

The wastes swallow you whole – trees curling inward to bundle you into the green haze of the surrounding mountains. Sevika leads you down a well-worn trail, explaining the flare system and other basics of patrol routes: green for the all-clear, purple for shimmer growth, yellow for an obstructed trail, and red for requesting backup. You scribble them down in your journal, whispering a prayer under your breath that you won’t need to use any today. There’s a flare gun in your horse’s saddle bag, along with a first aid kid, extra bullets and spare rations. Enough emergency supplies to help you last a few days in the wilderness, if need be.

Apart from Sevika’s unnervingly serious explanation of the flare system, the trail is peaceful. Vi’s warning feels a little over the top now, which puts you entirely on edge. Vi knows these trails far better than you do, and if she says there’s a chance of danger, no amount of tranquillity will put your mind at ease until you’re safely back at Zaun. Sevika seems to share your sentiments, watching the treeline with an intense glare and a tight grip on Duchess reigns. You pat your horse, murmuring reassurances to her – she is being a very good girl by trusting you to lead her down this trail, even though she can definitely sense your nerves.

 The wind howls as it whips around you, cutting through your coat despite it being mid-summer. Tree coverage is blocking the sun, making the forested trail cool and damp. The underbrush is lit in an eery glow that furthers your anxiety, as every little shape makes you jump.

When the treeline finally breaks into open fields again, Sevika slows Duchess to a stop and signals for you to do the same. You oblige her, stopping by her side and staring out across the field. There are small patches of trees scattered throughout the valley, though you are much further up the mountain than you realized. Clouded by your worry, you hadn’t realized that the trail was slowly winding up! Zaun has shrunk ever so slightly beneath you – not by a whole lot, just enough to disguise its inhabitants from the naked eye. The roofs shield the streets from view, aided by blankets stretched between buildings. A smart move – if a band of unsavoury individuals came through the valley, they wouldn’t immediately see a group of potential victims. Only the perimeter guards, who are armed to the teeth (or, as best as they can be during the apocalypse).

Additionally, the farmland stretches farther than you had thought, reaching toward the edge of the valley where the mountains converged to swallow the path into a narrow road. Cows, crops and sheep appear as if they are part of a miniature model of the valley rather than reality… that could just be a side effect of living through the uncivilized apocalypse for so long, though. Your eyes follow a pair out on patrol as you stare into the valley, watching them examine the cattle for any discrepancies.  

“Look up – see that building further up the trail?” Sevika asks, drawing your attention back to her.  

You glance up, and sure enough, there sits an old weather station! It’s a little further down the mountain, near the foot that blends into the valley. You’re guessing Silco wants the windmill in the valley itself, but the weather station poses a problem. For all you know, it could be hiding a shimmer growth… you shudder at the thought. The last thing you need to encounter is those purple tendrils and whatever they’re hiding. You’ve never dared investigate the depths they lead into, far too afraid of what you might find. Considering that infected swarm around growths like they are nests, conquering your fear was never worth the risk.

The weather station itself is old – the arms are falling apart, and part of the disc has collapsed onto the ground. You’re unsure if it was abandoned before or after Shimmer. Given the state of it, it might have been long abandoned and left out here to rot.

“That’s where we’re heading?” you ask tentatively, trying to bite down your trepidation.

“Yup. Be ready; I’m not sure what we’re going to find in there. These mountains hold secrets, especially the old buildings. Though, it’s usually just a lot of stumblers and goners – the mountains may be full of small towns, but they’re so spread out that shimmer usually starves before it can progress to something nasty.” Sevika checks that her shotgun is loaded, and you do the same, not wanting to be caught unawares with an unloaded gun.

“So… no risk of shimmer growth. Right?” you tentatively ask, fingers itching at the thought of the mini-blow torch and fuel cell in your saddle bag.

Sevika fixes you with a hard stare that runs over you like an ice bath, sobering you from your daydream. “No. There is always a chance of shimmer growth. You never know where people fled to out here. In cities, it’s more obvious: look for hospitals, schools, shopping malls, that sort of thing. Out here, every building you stumble upon could be a nest.”

You hastily attach the blowtorch to your holster, fear straightening your spine. “Fuck, don’t scare me like that, Sev’,” you try to chuckle, only to sound as meek as you feel.

“Should be scared,” she grunts, nudging Duchess to start trotting again.

“You can be a real asshole sometimes. You know that? I feel like you’re doing this just because of what I said earlier,” you grumble, nudging your horse after her.

“First rule of the apocalypse: self-sufficiency. I may be good with a gun, but I ain’t good enough that I can watch both of our asses.”

“Hey! I can watch my own ass – I’ve been doing it for nine years, after all!”

“Good. Silco would kill me if I got you killed on your first patrol,” Sevika says, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. She offers it to you, barely turning her head in order to keep her eyes on the trail. “You want some?”

“No, thanks, I don’t smoke. Dad was a smoker; I’m not risking nicotine addiction, even if it is the apocalypse,” you decline, content to watch the smoke pool from her lips instead.

“Suit yourself,” Sevika grunts, shrugging lightly before taking another drag.

Silence falls over you like a warm blanket as Sevika slows Duchess to ride alongside you. Saving you from having a cloud of second-hand smoke blowing in your face for the second leg of your journey. It’s a small gesture, and one that doesn’t go unnoticed.

The journey continues to be peaceful as you follow the trail. There are a few tricky spots where you have to trust your horse, as the trails are steep and narrow, but Duchess manages them fine, taking the lead and showing your horse how it’s done. In fact, your horse seems to know more about the trails than you do! She crosses small creaks and avoids certain rotten logs before you can think to guide her, prancing about the place as if she owns it.

“You’re just the King of the trails, huh?” you giggle, patting her neck. She nickers in agreement, delighted at herself.

“There’s a good name for her,” Sevika grunts, letting you know she’s been listening to you praise your horse for the last half hour.

“What? King? Isn’t that a little weird, considering that she’s a girl?” Not that Sevika doesn’t have a point. King would make for an excellent name, but you could always call her Queen… it would mean the same thing.

“So? You think anyone really cares about that shit anymore? Tying a title to gender is kind of fuckin’ sexist. That’s old-world shit. If you like the name King, just punch whoever doesn’t,” Sevika argues, putting out her cigarette on her boot and flicking it into the brush.

“Well, why not let her decide? I mean, it will be her name. What do you say, girl, do you like the name King?” You pause, listening as she makes an almost positive sound. “Okay, would you prefer Queen?” Almost immediately, she huffs at you. “Huh… King… You better live up to your name, lady,” you chuckle, scratching King behind the ears. She makes a noise that sounds as if she’s protesting your doubt. “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point!”

“The King and the Duchess… Got a nice ring to it,” Sevika hums, giving Duchess a treat.

“Why is she called Duchess and not Duch if that’s how you feel, though?” you probe, giving Sevika a cheeky grin as if you’ve found her out.

Sevika snorts a little and shakes her head. Duchess makes a noise akin to a scoff, as if she’s trying to call your question foolish. “I didn’t name her. She was one of the first few horses we got – found her at an old ranch after we had to… dispose of the owners: Belchers. Must’ve been feeding on their horses or any poor soul who stumbled into the ranch in hopes of safety. Duchess’ name was right there on the stall next to her, and she wouldn’t take another. Stubborn old girl, she is.”

“Oh. Huh. Sorry, I just –“

“Don’t worry about it. We’re almost there, anyway. Time to keep quiet in case we run into trouble: don’t want them to know we’re coming.”

You nod your head and shut your mouth, fingers curling around the handle of your pistol. The last thing you want is to be caught unawares by an infected (or worse).  

The rest of the trail is eery – as you grow closer to the weather station, it feels like the world around you stands still, holding its breath. You swallow thickly, then take a swig of your water to quell your nerves. It doesn’t help – not really, but it keeps you occupied for a few moments as Sevika guides her horse over to the side of the trail. You copy her, pulling your weapons and any necessary supplies out from King’s saddlebags. Once you’re geared up, Sevika motions for you to follow quietly with a finger to her lips. Giving King one last reassuring pat, you pad through the bush after Sevika.

The closer you draw to the weather station, the more you begin to understand why your instincts are on edge. Purple veins sprawl across the Earth like roots, having burst through the door of the weather station like it is an infected’s mouth. You shudder at the sight, staring into the deep, dark hole that leads further into the ground where the actual station once was.

“It wasn’t like this before. This shit has progressed too far,” Sevika whispers as quietly as possible. You watch as she fiddles with her flare gun and pops a flare into it. “Get out your rifle and be ready.”

“Aye,” you whisper, watching your six as Sevika raises the flare gun and fires.

Purple smoke illuminates the sky as Sevika pockets the gun and turns back to you. You had expected it to make a noise that would startle any infected in the area, but the sound it produced could barely be considered the wind. Sevika repositions her shotgun and turns toward the weather station.

“Come on, let’s go –“

“Wait, are we seriously going inside?!” you hiss in alarm, still trying to keep your voice down.

“Have to; it needs to be cleared out. Fire patrol will come give us a hand soon. Until then, it’s our job to sort out whatever’s down there,” Sevika shrugs, checking her shotgun is loaded for the fiftieth time.

“Have you… ever been down one of those?” you ask nervously as the two of you grow closer to the door.

“Once or twice. They’re harmless – a few infected, sure, but as I said, we’re up in the mountains. Not enough food out here for ‘em to grow properly. Surprised we even have a growth at all. This place must’ve been a shelter for the town we took over… probably just a few goners, maybe a belcher if we’re really unlucky. Never found a burster this far out.”

You shudder at the mention of Bursters – nasty things. The fourth stage of shimmer infection, when consciousness returns to the body just enough to let you know what’s happening as your dissolved insides are repurposed. You had only ever heard rumours of them since you steered clear of cities, as there was never enough easy food sources outside of cities for an infected to grow to the burster stage. They kind of just stagnated at belcher or goner without enough food. Though the rumours you heard were nasty – bursters are almost on some kind of timer or biological clock, and once that clock struck out, something slender and inhumane bursts free from the husk of the host. You’re not quite sure what, as no one has ever seen one and lived long enough to tell the tale (frankly, you’re not sure you believe it exists). More likely, bursters just explode on those around them and corrode them with the leftover stomach acid from their belcher phase.

You’re not sure you want to find out the truth.

Sevika steps over the purple veins, carefully making her way into the weather station. Her flashlight clicks on, illuminating the network of veins and organic growth covering the inside of the weather station. There is plenty of space to walk… that doesn’t stop your skin from crawling. The anticipation of infected keeps you on edge as you follow her down, white-knuckling your rifle. Sevika may be a damn good shot against infected (in your experience), but that doesn’t mean she’s invincible.

The stairs bottom out to a hallway with six doors – three on either side. At the end of the hallway, there’s another set of stairs heading further underground. Four of the doors are open; one looks to be stuck shut by a shimmer vein growing across it, and the other two are simply shut. It’s pitch black down here, apart from the light of your flashlights, and it makes your skin crawl. You can barely hear the wind howling outside over the sound of your own heartbeat. You shouldn’t be down here.

“We need to get to the heart of this shit to burn it. Don’t try any of it now; it’ll only alert them,” Sevika whispers, lifting her flashlight to check the interior of the first room.

“How can you say that so casually?” you hiss, staring down the hall at the darkened stairwell. “We are standing inside an infected nest, and you’re acting like it’s just another Tuesday!”

“Because it is another Tuesday!” Sevika shoots back, glaring at you. Her flashlight shines at you in the corner of your eye, forcing you to hold her gaze. Her glare makes you want to shrink into the floor and disappear. “This is my life. This is what I do. I go out, I shoot infected, and I keep people safe! If you don’t like it, you can ride your pretty little ass back to Silco and switch to volunteering in medical or some shit. But you’ll be riding alone, princess, because I still have to do my damn job! So, either shut up and help, or fuck off, because this right here – this is not helping! You are stressing me the fuck out, and you’re going to get us both killed.”

“Sorry – I’m just freaking out! I’ve never been in an infected nest before, and every single instinct is telling me to get the fuck out before it’s too late,” you whimper, nervously glancing down the hallway.

“Like I said, you’re free to go.”

“No! I – I’m not leaving you here! For fucks sake, Sev’, you walk into Hell, I’ll follow you. Just cut me a little slack here, alright? This is not an average Tuesday for me – I do not make a habit of actively seeking out infected.”

A crash down the hall from one of the rooms cuts your conversation short and both of you freeze. “What was that?” dies on your tongue as Sevika starts creeping toward the sound. You adjust your rifle to the firing position, sweeping the rest of the rooms to ensure they’re clear. You find an empty kitchen that’s been raided for food, with a half-eaten can on the table, a janitor’s closet, complete with a mop and bucket that shimmer veins have curled into and made a home of, like a hermit crab, and a bunk room with unmade beds as if the people had –

You shriek as a goner lunges at you, its starving hands make a grab for your face, ready to tear flesh from bone. Stumbling back into the hallway, your back hits against something, but you’re too preoccupied to check. Instead, you shoot a bullet into the goner’s sternum, then another between its eyes, and watch as it crumples to the floor. Finally free, you whip your head around to see Sevika standing with her back against yours, a stumbler at her feet. You laugh slightly, wiping your hand over your face.

“Well, looks like we’re not alone here. I counted twelve beds, at least,” you say, trying to lighten the mood.

“You get bit?” Sevika asks, dusting herself off and cocking her shotgun.

You pat yourself over quickly: “No.”

“Good. Let’s keep moving.”

The stairs seem less daunting with a win under your belt, and the two of you on the same page. The stairwell curls deeper into the Earth, like the root of a concrete tooth, until you reach a bunker door. Definitely a safe house. The veins have propped the door open, letting you into the dark, damp and dusty bunker that once held hope for a few lost souls at the end of the world. The bunker’s painted a medical green – almost nauseating when illuminated by your flashlights. Especially when it’s covered in blood and shimmer veins. The tunnel stretches further underground into absolute darkness, making you sigh at the prospect of having to clear the whole damn place out.

Work is work, but Grayson could have given you an easier patrol for your first time!

Almost immediately, you happen upon two stumblers, grunting as they scratch and claw at their own skin. Instinctually trying to dig out the infection. It feels more like a mercy kill to cut through their chests with your machete. Their bodies sink lifelessly to the floor, allowing you and Sevika to enter the bunker properly.

Despite its size and the shimmer presence, the bunker is relatively deserted. Instead of reassuring you, it puts you increasingly on edge. There are supplies taunting you in every room – the infection is too deeply set into this place to risk bringing shimmer back to Zaun. Instead, little signs of life tell you about the people these infected once were. Children’s toys in the nursery are set up in a miniature reenactment of the apocalypse. There is still food left in the dining room, mould eating away at old rations and half-cooked canned goods. Blood splatters on the walls from people who had tried to escape before it was too late – people forced to shoot their neighbours in the vain name of survival. Photographs in every room, next to every bed, of families – of lives stolen by the apocalypse. Little hints of the people you bring peace to as you clear out the bunker. Thankfully, they were either stumblers or goners – no belchers, no sign of starvation amongst infected, no sign of cannibalism.

This was recent. These people died recently. Most likely after Zaun found the weather station – you keep that bit to yourself. Sevika doesn’t need you pointing out that Zaun might have been able to save these people had the weather station been investigated sooner.

Together, you and Sevika follow the shimmer growth back to the source: the air ducts. The door is held open by the thickest shimmer vein you have ever seen as it pulsates on the floor, unaware of your presence. Pulling out your blowtorch, you follow Sevika inside and have to clamp your hand over your own mouth to keep from screaming. The two of you stand utterly still as a creature stands in the centre of the room, holding a ratty teddy bear. Its malnourished body shines in the darkness, white, translucent skin pulled taunt over purple veins. Its face is human but not… quiet. The mouth is a little too wide, the nose is almost flat against the face, and its eyes look like they are sealed shut – as if the skin has grown over them completely. The arms bend in an unnatural manner, as if it has too many joints and it’s struggling to hold itself in the way a human would.

Suddenly, all those rumours about bursters click into place, and your skin crawls.

Behind the creature is the shimmer growth pouring out of the air ducts – an undulating mass of unknown that makes your stomach swim. The mass pumps like a heart, causing the extending veins to pulsate in time with its twitching. You can see pieces of clothing scattered across the floor around it with no discernable pattern – pairs of shoes are on opposite sides of the room, many of the clothes are torn, and all of them are stained with blood – as if the growth had consumed them.

There are a lot of clothes.

The softest, most heartbroken “Oh no” escapes Sevika next to you. Luckily, the creature – whatever it is – doesn’t hear her. You definitely do, slowly turning your head to see what she’s looking at. Your stomach bottoms out; in the corner, wrapped in a wet blanket and wearing a miner’s cap, is a small child. She watches the creature, unafraid, as it approaches her, its spindly legs resembling that of a dancer’s as it crouches down and gives the doll to the little girl. The girl takes it tentatively, cradling the old teddy bear in her arms. She signs “thank you” to the creature, cuddling her face against the teddy bear.

Then the creature dips forward, its mouth opening far too wide, revealing rows and rows of sharp teeth as it hunches over the little girl, getting lower and lower.

“Momma?” the girl whimpers, shrinking back and away from the creature. When she doesn’t get a response, she tries again, her voice barely distinguishable from a whimpering cry: “Momma?”

You shoot without thinking – because what else are you going to do, stand there and watch a kid get eaten?! Sevika has the same thought, the two of you sinking bullets into the creature. Its head whips around, mouth still hanging open, and screeches at you. It’s ear-piercing, making you stumble as you pull your shoulders up to try and block it out. Sevika shoots the thing again, and the child bolts toward the two of you, teddy bear still clutched in her arms. You grab her, not wanting her to run off and get lost in the bunker. She clings to you, shaking violently, arms tight around your neck.

“Get the kid out of here!” Sevika barks at you, aiming at the creature again.

“Don’t be stupid, just run! Come on!” you argue back, firing at the creature and watching it barely flinch as the bullet pierces its shoulder.

Something screams down the bunker hall, and you whip around to see another one of the creatures barreling towards you. The kid screams in your arms, burrowing her face in your shoulder. You fire at it, trying to slow it down but barely doing any damage. Sevika shoves you toward the exit, backing up with you.

“Just go! I’ll be right behind you!” Sevika shouts, pulling a firebomb out of her bag (Jinx’s creation, for when you need to light a shimmer growth on the run).

Without thinking, you press a sloppy kiss to her cheek as if it is your last chance: “You better be on my heels, or I’m coming back down here for you!”

You don’t hear her response as you bolt down the hallway right after, heading back to the stairs as fast as possible. Clasping your hand over the child’s head, you press her against your body, holding her tightly. The last thing you want is her spilling out of your arms right now. Infected charge into the hallway from nooks and crannies you didn’t even know existed, forcing you to waste bullets as you race toward fresh air. Another one of those creatures tries to head you off at the nursery, but you manage to sink your machete into its ankle as you under its flailing arms, severing its Achilles tendon (if it even has one). It buys you enough time to reach the stairs as the scent of burning flesh reaches you. Sevika must have lit the shimmer growth. You don’t dare risk looking over your shoulder as you barrel up the stairs. She’s right behind you. She has to be.

The moment you’re free of the stairs, you charge out into daylight, racing toward the horses in an effort to put as much distance between you and the bunker as possible. You don’t even register you’re not alone until someone grabs your shoulder, and you whip your head up to see Jinx. A sob escapes you at the sight – you have never been happier to see a friendly face.

“What’s got you running like your pants are on fire?” she giggles, brow furrowing at the kid in your arms.

“HOLY SHIT WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!” Ekko screams, barely having dismounted his horse as the creature that had been chasing you breaks out of the weather station into the daylight. Its translucent skin shimmers in the daylight, revealing its purple organs underneath. It opens its mouth to scream again and you wrap your hands around the girl’s ears to protect her.

A bang sounds behind it, and it falls to the ground, with enough bullet holes in its body to classify it as Swiss cheese. Sevika stands behind it, panting hard, clothes torn, covered in blood and soot. She has a mad look in her eye as she whips around to chuck another fire starter into the weather station. Something screams from inside as it catches fire. Sevika douses some alcohol across the front door and lights it before storming across the clearing toward you.

“Jinx, test your fucking explosives on that shit storm. Turn it into a damn crater,” Sevika growls at her young friend, shucking off her bloodied plaid shirt and chucking it onto the ground.

“We can deal with that in a moment, is the kid okay?” Jinx redirects the conversation, peering at the child in your arms. “Where did you two even find a kid?”

“Bunker. Was underneath the weather station. You can ask her why she ain’t infected, too… think she was being protected by one of those things,” Sevika grunts, slumping to sit against a nearby tree, head in her hands. “Now, blow that thing up. You don’t want what was down there getting loose.”

“Here, give her to me,” Ekko says, coming up next to you with his arms open to take the girl. “You’re in shock, you need to take a moment to process what just happened. I’ll get the kid a safe distance away from whatever Jinx is about to do.”

“Right… thanks,” you mumble, passing the kid to Ekko. You tip the girl’s hat up to make sure she’s still alive. Two large puppy dog eyes blink back at you, full of tears. “Hey, kid, don’t worry; you’re safe. I promise we’ll protect you.”

She buries her face in Ekko’s shoulder, gripping his shirt. You watch as the two of them walk off, Ekko tilting his head to her to ask: “Are you bit anywhere? It’s okay if you are, we just need to know so we can help you.”

She shakes her head violently, signing to him that she’s “safe.”

Satisfied, you slump down next to Sevika and finally let yourself exhale. Just as Jinx sets off a shit ton of explosives behind you. It thunders through the valley as she giggles manically, the weather station collapsing under its own weight. Once she’s satisfied, chucks a few more explosives in the pit and skips over to Ekko, helping check the girl over and get her something to eat.

“What the fuck just happened?” you ask, finally finding your voice. You card your trembling hand through your hair, feeling it matted with blood and soot. You’re going to need another shower when you get back to Zaun, and your clothes are definitely ruined, covered in scratch marks and failed bites.

When Sevika doesn’t say anything, you slowly turn your head to her and your heart plummets. The imposing presence you had come to know has crumpled into a husk, shaking against the foot of the tree, covered in blood and gore and soot, the ends of her hair singed. Her shoulders are hunched forward, staring down at her trembling hand, covered in blood. You follow the path of her hand to her right thigh and the massive tear in her pants. Blood oozes from bitemark, sunken damn near down to bone.

“No,” you whisper in disbelief, feeling tears well up in the corners of your eyes.

[spicyspiders]

Hi, not sure if you write for Phillip Graves so if you don't no worries but I just thought I had to send in case there's a chance you do🙏🙏

So the idea is the Commander doesn't use the communal showers, he got his own private quarters for that, but maybe something goes wrong with his own shower unit so thats a no go after a really long day. He goes for the showers really late at night, like he usually would at his own quarters. He wouldn't expect anyone to be there this late, but m reader walks in while graves is already there and showering. He's immediately flustered, but graves notices before he could leave, so it would be just awkward if m reader just up and left. Graves doesn't mind seeing the reader there, its been shown that he cares abt his shadows a lot. The reader showers with his fellow shadows a ton of course, but the fact that its the Commander who is usually not seen in here does something to him, and the Commander def notices it and takes advantage of the opportunity, showing him he's got nothing to be nervous about... could contain gratituous fondling and fingering I feel so silly writing this gah damn anyway of course feel free to ignore if you don't write for him keep up the awesome work 🙏🙏

This is really short but I hope you still like it. I put some praise kink in this because idk after reading this ask I just felt like I had to.

“I asked you a question,” Graves says as he nips at the side of your neck. Warm water falls from the showerhead, washing the pinprick of pain away. 

You pant against the wet tile as you struggle internally to try and remember what he just asked you. “Sir, I don’t-”

His fingers crook inside you, right against your prostate, pulling a moan from your throat, “I would say we’re on a first name basis, wouldn’t you say?” He ducks his head into your neck, pressing his grin right into where he just nipped. It makes sense, two of his fingers are inside you after all. 

“I can’t remember what you said,” you grit out, your forehead pressed to the tile. 

Graves– Phillip lets out a chuckle before repeating himself, “I just wanted to know if we need to go somewhere drier?” His fingers move slowly in and out of your hole, and every time you finally think of an answer, the pads will brush over the bundle of nerves, making your mind go blank. 

“I’m fine,” you respond quickly. To prove it to him, you spread your legs and get a better footing on the wet tile. 

“I knew you would be,” Phillip responds, and presses a kiss to your neck. “Just a little praise is all it takes to get your legs spread?”

The praise in question had only been one sentence, but it still managed to set you alight. But then your brain had caught up to your ears and you realized who had said it. 

“Good work on the mission today, your marksmanship made it go through without a hitch,” Phillip had said, his fingers buried in his hair as he cleaned it. The praise already made your cock twitch, but after you turned and saw that it was your commander that had said it, you prayed he couldn’t see as your cock slowly thickened. 

Your prayer went unanswered, but for once, you were grateful. 

A small smile lights up your face, “you’re my commander, of course I want your praise,” his teeth attach to your neck, making it harder for you to get your next words out, “we all do,” you say with a moan. 

“The others don’t spread their legs as beautifully as you do,” Phillip whispers into your ear.

His choice of words makes you want to question if he’s done this with the others, but when his fingers press against your prostate again, your mouth opens, but only to let out another moan.

[soullessdianthus]

𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘

Summary: Reader's everyday life had been turned upside down since she had been recruited to Ghost's team. As a young, but prominent soldier she had to face many obstacles, but there was one in particular that made her blood boil ━ Commander Phillip Graves of Shadow Company. Little did she knew, that the blonde man with angelic was face going to make her suffer and bleed, wishing for the embrace of Death to swallow her whole. Y/C ━ your callsign Also posted on my ao3 ⟶ 𝕏

A/N: Basically, a whump where Graves is torturing the Reader after trying to frame her for a federal crime. Then Ghost finds out. Dark themes ahead.

Warnings: graves, canon typical violence (blood, guns, implied sexual harrasment), gore (desc. of tortures), angst, some sprinkles of comfort at the end

Word count: 7.6k

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐄

For as long as you could remember, the commander of Shadow Company made you feel uneasy. At first, you couldn’t precisely determine what was wrong – with him or you. There was this strange feeling, an odd hunch regarding Phillip Graves. Thank God, you didn’t work for him. 

The whole collaboration thing that General Shepherd had with them was bizarre. A private military company? As far as you knew, they were called mercenaries, not some elitist soldier group. Their commander was oddly loyal to the general, it almost seemed like their bonds were far more complicated than a paycheck. 

Soon enough you realized he was his executioner, a war criminal literally. 

But your colleagues kept chastising you for making such hideous assumptions about higher ranks. You rather quickly learned not to share too much of your personal opinion with the other cadets. 

Thereby, your voice of reason and concerns were sealed within your own mind, left to take roots. Particularly when you sat on your own on the side of the training grounds just after lunch break. Your gaze was focused on the fellow soldiers battling with the obstacle course, although your thoughts kept spinning in a never ending cycle – analyzing the latest mission, what happened step by step, what went wrong, what you had done poorly. 

That was your key to survival – repeating the excellently executed tasks and never letting yourself slip up. Because there won’t be a second chance. 

Some may say that you were an overthinker. That such shredding of each event into smaller pieces might mess up with your brain or worse – sanity. 

But who the fuck cared about your sanity in a military? All of them had their hands tainted with blood, all of you had done some things that a perfectly ordinary person would find atrocious. 

And sometimes you were ashamed of that. There was a time, at the beginning of your service where you couldn’t face your God at all. The evening prayers ceased, as the shame pooling in you forbade you from reciting the lines. 

In spite of that, what wise people used to say that “time heals wounds” became your truth. You reconciled that death would be following you no matter where you would go. And each day, over and over you tried to omit feeding her greedy pit of a stomach.

Until you met Graves –  in many ways he resembled your friend reaper.  But he was far from being a friend. Mowing the fields of living, leaving corpses behind – “claw one’s way” was his motto. But there was a charming shell of a man that many seemed to fall for. 

A soft, rounded face covered with shallow frowns and not so many scars. Short, yellow hair kept impeccably brushed to the side, beard usually trimmed or shaved. And those piercing eyes of his. Phillip’s glance balanced on the edge of calmness and hatred. Only thanks to his brows could you tell the difference.

Some of your colleagues from the cadet group stalked behind you into the shower room as soon as you returned from the latest mission, still drenched in sweat and the scent of war. Pestering, but not about you of course. 

Since you passed all of the tests, you were amongst the few lucky ones that got introduced to the lieutenant's team. It wasn’t just any ordinary lieutenant, it was Ghost. Infamous man who wore a skull mask. Belonging to his division felt like joining some exclusive special forces. Which, in a way, was true. 

But at the end of the day, you were just a private. You have heard from your current superiors that you might have the potential to make it to sergeant in the next few years. Only if you stay alive, that is. So therefore it became your priority. 

Another week began, but you stopped counting days in the calendar. Every morning when you woke up, you checked the temperature and the schedule for the day. The decision of not tracing the days of the week seemed more… soothing. You were not counting the days until your demise, so what was the point of knowing if it was the third or fourth of the month?

Within the short period of time you have spent in the army you learned that time is the most precious thing in the world. The minutes, the seconds of you breathing in and out, devouring the essence of living. 

Time was fleeting and you were ready to do everything, not to let it slip away. 

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈

As the new week started, a new mission was approaching. All you knew was where to report, in what type of gear with what kind of weapon. You were just a private after all. So when you happened to find yourself, sitting on the bench amongst the fellow soldiers, his raspy voice echoed like war drums. The thuds of Ghost’s steps synchronized with the beating of your heart and the loud sways of helo’s propellers.

There it was – the adrenaline. The sweet hormone that kept you going. 

Tonight’s objective was crystal clear – ambush, then break in the building and search through it, looking for a man called Barnet. He was a federal agent, yet allegedly he was involved with illegal weapons dealing in and beyond the country’s borders. Now, he hired some mercenaries to protect his ass. Your group, with the help of Shadows, was supposed to capture that man alive for further investigation.

After another happy landing, you abandoned the helo and walked toward the gathering point where some Shadows were already standing. To your misfortune, Phillip was standing beside them.

And until your last step, you tried to manifest that he wouldn’t notice you this time. Well, the universe wasn’t too indulgent for you lately. 

━ There she is! 

“Oh, fuck me, everything but not him again”, you thought to yourself, making your way to the rest of the group. Your fingers clenched tightly over the M4 rifle you were carrying. 

━ Commander. 

You tried to keep a professional facade, referring to him with his rank. There was no time for a small talk as the clock was ticking. 

━ It have been a while, wasn’t it? ━ Graves turned his body towards you, causing a dozen of eyes landing over your frame. Somehow, the tactical vest and your equipment began weighing on under their curious looks. The lieutenant’s was the heaviest of them. ━ Let me tell you something, doll. I’ve never thought I’d meet someone colder than Ghost here. Are you always like this, huh?

━ I’m not cold. Just focused on my job, sir. 

He kept drilling a hole into your soul by looking a little too long to your liking with his blue eyes. They were the color of the ocean, of the sea you missed so much. God, how long was it since you last let the waves splash over your ankles?

━ That’s appreciated, soldier. 

Only then he returned to evaluating the situation with Ghost. In a matter of seconds you were supposed to enter the battlefield. Therefore you had to get your act together.

Breath in and breathe out. Try to focus on the commands, but count the prime numbers in your head at the same time. The simple mathematics helped you in distress.  At least the technique helped with your panic attacks through the years prior.

Within the next twenty minutes you found yourself with one of your teammates, callsign Omen, on their way, clearing out the second floor, left wing of the building. Since he was physically bigger than his partner, it was you who was going first. In case of need, you would quickly disappear behind the corner – you weren’t as easy to spot as he was. 

The building itself seemed to resemble a school or some sort of city council – the countless hallways and rooms made it an ideal layout for a shoutout with the enemy. Apparently, from what the two of you heard through the radio, Ghost was right after the target. It meant the mission was about to end.

Mrs. Laswell was right, calling it an “in and out” type of operation. All that was left to do was to keep your position until your lieutenant captured the objective. 

Because there was no sign of the opponent’s forces nearby, you and Omen split to sweep through the rooms departing from the long hallway. Perhaps, hiding some mercenaries?

You found yourself standing in front of the locked doors. Your heart slowed down by now, your body wanting to refuse to stay in combat mode. With a few firm kicks, you broke down the blocked doors to find yourself facing… an office or an archive.

The room had no windows and it was almost dark inside, the light from the hallway illuminating the interior. An uneasy sensation creeping up your spine. Plans and stacks of files laying on the table’s surface, pulling you closer. Hanging board, closed laptop still plugged in and a pot of recently brewed coffee. 

In that moment, as you stepped inside the room, you sealed your fate. Your curiosity became your doom, but you didn’t know that yet.

As your gaze wandered through some handwritten notes on the board, you heard a clunking sound of a metal bin rolling next to you on the ground. For some time you couldn’t register what exactly happened. 

Suddenly you began to run through the hallway, before “the bin” exploded. The recoil of the grenade made you stumble forward until your knees and fists hit the concrete ground.

For a moment there was silence. Blissful silence. 

Then the muffled thuds of someone’s steps blended with the squeaking noise ringing in your both ears. The fear pooled in your stomach, causing you to gasp for fresh air. You only noticed their presence as you saw the tip of their shoes right in your face.

The vision in front of your eyes was blurry, the image shaking uncontrollably. It felt almost like you were drunk, but you were clearly not. You were very much sober. 

The tight straps of your helmet dug into your head and temple like they were squeezing your brain out. The helmet weighed down on your poor head, so you tried to take it off – fingers awkwardly struggling with the straps.

The person standing in front of you grabbed you by your arm and helped you get on your feet. Then another set of arms wrapped around your back, but this touch was different – you knew this one belonged to Omen. A colleague, a friend.

Your heart was swaddled with warmth for a minute, until the other person decided to open their big mouth.

━ Come on, doll, we’re leaving. ━ A familiar, southern accent almost made your blood boil.

If God was real, he was clearly turning your life into a comedic spectacle of misery. Of all the possibilities it had to be him. 

━ Can you walk? ━ Omen asked and it was the first thing you registered correctly. The buzzing noise finally freed your eardrums, now leaking with blood. You nodded, but his hand was still belaying behind you. ━ What was that?

━ Some pre-installed grenade, I think. 

“Or someone rolled it beneath my feet”, you thought about that being a possibility too. You always considered other scenarios. It wasn’t your first encounter with an explosive, you knew the pre-installed ones usually weren’t rolling down the ground and you hadn’t nudged any cord. 

Besides, how come the Shadows and Graves suddenly happened to be there? 

Maybe your friends were right and you have already lost your sanity. Perhaps you went absolutely crazy, but that madness made you want to place together the sequence of events. You needed to understand what happened, because something was off. 

And there he was, walking on your right – Commander Graves, the reaper. It seemed that him and his Shadows were escorting the two of you to the gathering point as you were still numb after the explosion. He walked with his chin high, eyes sparkling with confidence after a successful mission. The aura that surrounded him made you feel like a prisoner of a warhound. 

Why?

Everything following “your salvation” blended together into one mush. Omen was a good friend of yours and he made sure you were not seriously injured. Only when the two of you sat on the bench inside the helo, you told him the whole truth.

━ There was something in that room. Something important. Papers. 

━ And they secured the evidence by destroying it with that grenade? ━ He was quick to follow your pattern of thinking, but it still wasn’t enough. You had a feeling it wasn’t as simple as it seemed.

At the end of the day, Barnet got arrested and by this time he should be escorted by the Shadow Company to the FBI associated facility, meanwhile Ghost’s team was on their way back to the base. Everything from now on should have felt steady. 

But it didn’t.

━ Wounded? ━ Lieutenant interrupted the conversations that were being held between the teammates. 

━ Survivor of grenade here, sir. ━ Omen pointed at your bloodied earlobes, the dried liquid staining your neck. As the tall Britishman approached, you sent your colleague a death stare – you didn’t need his attention like this. You were alive, therefore no one should worry. 

━ Can you hear? ━ Ghost leaned over his knees to reach your level, his dark irises looking over you to search for far more serious wounds. You nodded after making sure your hearing was intact.  ━ Then you’ll be fine, Y/C. 

He patted your shoulder before turning around to take his own seat. How lovely of him, a very worried superior he was.

During your way back to the base, you tried to calm your own thoughts. There was a need to stop them from crushing over you, your head still hurt like hell. For the first time in a good while, the thoughts felt overwhelming rather than helpful. You tried to brush them off, but it was unsuccessful. 

You really needed to lay down and rest. A cup of tea would be lovely. 

When the helo landed on the grounds of the British Army’s facilities and everyone slowly was walking away to take a shower and rest, you stayed behind going at your own pace.

And so did Ghost. A lone wolf.

━ Sir? ━ The masked man hummed, joining you on a walk to the barracks. ━ Would you find some time for me tomorrow? I really need to talk to you about the operation and the explosion. 

━ It’s related?

━ I think so, yes, sir. 

━ You think? Are you sure, you’re not wastin’ my time, Y/C?

It took a moment for you to reply, but now you were entirely sure. Your gut feeling never failed you before. 

━ I would never waste time of a lieutenant, sir. I’m sure about that. ━ You tried to conceal the smirk twisting corners of your lips, but it became almost impossible with Ghost’s stupid questions. So you played along.  

━ Alright, we’ll figure somethin’ out. Now, take a good rest and watch that head of yours, private. Don’t lose it. 

Ghost could be funny sometimes, if you got to know him a little better. And of course, if he didn’t eat you earlier on – he could be an incarnation of a Behemoth himself sometimes. Even you were afraid of him at first, but that fear grew into a familiarity. 

Little did you know that you were being watched by a shadow as you spoke with your superior. The all-seeing gaze already began consuming your poor, oblivious soul. You already were a victim of his mischievous plan. 

Yet, you still had a chance for an absolution.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈

A warm shower, good sleep and a few pills of paracetamol was all you needed to regain most of your strength after the latest mission. Despite a new day beginning, sun hovering over the horizon, your head or rather thoughts were coming back to the events of last night. Nervously picking up the cuticles and pinching your own skin, trying to let go of that obsession. 

Yes, obsession. It became pathetically weird at this point, you had no physical evidence to show your superior. Perhaps, you were just overreacting or your mind got to the breaking point? 

None of that. You shook your head to the sides, brushing the fragility and doubts away. 

You were not weak, if you happened to be in his team. Ghost’s team. You were observant, noticing the smallest details – the superiors commented, after the successful recruitment to special forces. 

A voice of reason led you to the women’s bathroom and straight to the sinks. At this time of the day, the facility was empty, so you enjoyed the silence and loneliness. You turned on the tap, before splashing your face with cold water. 

“Breathe in and out, soldier”, you instructed yourself. 

As you calmed down a little, you dried off your face with paper towels. Soon after, you found yourself on the way to Ghost’s office. While you were walking down the hallway, you noticed the presence of Shadows. They were still sticking around. Just, you didn’t know why and probably won’t even know – you were only a private after all.

So to ease your curiosity, you decided to believe they were here for another collaboration. You shouldn’t be so nosy – that’s what your mother used to tell you, when she caught you eavesdropping on a conversation you were not supposed to hear.

━ Good morning, sunshine!

Graves suddenly placed his palm onto your shoulder, causing you to flinch. Fuck, you almost never flinched. Its weight felt abnormally heavy on your body, just like he was pulling you down hills with him – back to the gates of hell. 

━ Jesus Christ ━ you murmured quietly, barely audible. Your eyes shooting up to him, smiling like an idiot  ━ are you scaring everyone like this? 

━ Not particularly, no ━ Phillip grinned, exposing his pearly white teeth. ━ Would you mind going for a walk with me, soldier? There is… a matter we have to discuss. 

━ To be honest, I was on the way to my lieutenant’s office.

━ Why?

When he asked you this simple, one-worded question, you knew Graves was playing a sort of game with you – trying to squeeze as much information out of you, before you realized. But you were far from naive, you were an equal player in the game of shadows. 

There were no obligations towards the commander, he wasn’t a part of the army. So therefore, you decided to bluntly lie.

━ I don’t know, he called me in this morning. 

━ Bet he can wait a lil’ longer. Come on, I’ll take the blame, sugar.

For a couple of seconds you stayed behind, rethinking the decision you've already made. But then your legs aligned with the pace of his steps. The bold curiosity drove your actions. You decided to follow him outside of the building for a walk. 

It was quite a nice day outside. Clouds covered the blue sky, but it didn’t seem to be raining until the evening. It was pleasantly warm, a little too dry to your liking as the dust floating off the ground dirtied your trousers. 

The two of you followed the path near the fence between the storage buildings – armory, garages. Captain Price liked to call it a dumpster and he was right about that. 

The silence that fell between you two wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the pure anticipation of the other person’s next move – will he start a small talk? Because you wouldn’t. Or maybe Phillip would be straightforward with you? But about what exactly? 

━ So ━ you finally spoke out, letting your hands collapse at your sides ━ what was so important that had my superior to wait?

Your gaze landed on his face, searching for any tiny spasms of facial muscles. You needed something to work with. To figure him out.

━ I could have asked you the same question. 

━ I already told you, sir – I don’t know why the lieutenant called me in. 

━ No? ━ Graves suddenly stopped and turned his whole body towards you. A truly natural response was to face him too. ━ Weren’t you two talking in private yesterday? Following the return to the base, no? 

━ Ghost was worried about my ears, I was bleeding after the explosion. You saw it yourself, sir. Why does it matter anyway? 

He had the audacity to speak freely, to admit, that he had kept an eye on you yesterday. The arising question on your mind was: why? Why was he monitoring you?

━ You two seem to be quite close. ━ Graves continued poking the hornet’s nest.

━ He’s my lieutenant.

It took every inch of your willpower to withhold the fastened beating of your heart. You couldn’t be delusional, not right now. Ghost was just your superior.

━ Is he though? You make me wonder ━ he turned his head to the right, before clicking with his tongue. On purpose Phillip was keeping you on edge, waiting before you finally snap ━ if he plays a part of this venture. Is Ghost also involved?

━ What the fuck are you talking about? 

You finally raised your voice at Graves, annoyance flooding your veins. Nothing coming out of his mouth made sense, he was wasting your time here. 

━ I’m afraid you’ve been caught red-handed, sugar. Trying to destroy the evidence of your contribution to illegal weapon trafficking. Some money on the side, huh?

You snorted, amused by this sickening accusation. And until now, you thought your deductions were childish and foolish. Until Commander Graves opened his mouth, spilling more nonsense.

━ You think I planted the grenade? That’s bullshit, Graves. You ━ you took a step forward and your pointing finger dug into the material of his tactical vest, just above the dip between the collarbones ━ were there. You saw everything.

The last sentence came out more of a whisper, carefully threatening him that you knew he was fucking around with you. But he had orders to complete. The commander of Shadow Company would do everything for the sake of good fucking show. 

━ ‘m afraid I have to take you for further interrogation, soldier. 

Graves suddenly grabbed your forearm with a force you would never expect he would bare. At that moment you were confused, standing between a rock and a hard place – should you obediently follow him for “a talk” or should you resist his actions? Phillip was not your boss, he wasn’t in place of authority.

But, there was a hesitation if you should punch him or not. 

━ You can’t do that without my superior presence. ━ You struggled against his grip, looking around and searching for any witnesses. To your misfortune, again, there was none. The training grounds were empty.

━ See ━ he managed to pull you with him, while he made his way to the magazine nearby ━ this is a military rule, princess. It has nothing to do with me.

Graves was playing dirty, when he finally dragged you inside the empty hall. You clung to the both sides of his vest, before smashing your forehead against his face. The blonde man stumbled backwards, cursing loudly, calling you all sorts of names. It had to hurt like a bitch, if all might Phillip Graves was whining like a little boy kicked in the balls. 

━ You little– Fuck!

You tried to pass by him, before one of his Shadows revealed his presence, standing between you and the doors. Then another man emerged from the darkness, until you counted three of them in total. 

“Great”, you thought. 

A deep breath of not so fresh air filled your lungs. A hint of moisture hit your nostrils, while your sight was still getting accustomed to the dim lighting of the hall. Slowly you began to worry as you happened to be cornered by the Shadows with no one by your side. It made you vulnerable – like a wounded animal to a vulture.

━ What is this really about? ━ A simple question was asked, when you carefully tried to back out as far from the reach of his loyal soldiers. The situation was getting far more intense than you thought. 

━ You’re related to Barnet’s scandal or at least you're messing up the evidence, all I have to hear is a confirmation.

Commander, whose hands were dirtier than anyone you knew, wanted you to confess. Ironic, wasn’t it?

━ Don’t make this harder than it has to be, doll ━ Graves wiped his bloody nose with a material of his sleeve, slowly walking in circle around you, a lamb to the slaughter ━ just face the consequences of your own actions. 

━ You know it’s not true. I have nothing to confirm, sir. 

If you were the same person you were years ago, you would fidget with your silver medallion. Praying for courage in a situation like this, facing the personification of evil. But that necklace was laying forgotten in the abyss of your drawer. 

The painful truth was, you were left all alone in an uneven fight. 

━ I was afraid you would say so. 

With the slightest nod of his head you noticed the change in soldiers’ stance. They were about to charge at you and that familiar, eerie feeling in your bones. So you did all that you could to prepare for the upcoming attack. 

When the first soldier swung with his clenched fist towards your face, you swiftly managed to avoid it. Then, you succeed another time. But by omitting the hits you wouldn’t last long, so the next strike had to be blocked. 

Your forearm acted as a shield, when you tried to charge forward the Shadow. The second soldier joined the brawl, kicking you in the back of your knee. The punch in the joint made you stumble.

You decided to push away the first opponent and then with all your body mass, pin the second Shadow to the ground. Your arms wrapped around his thighs and you fell onto the soldier with a thud, punching his jaw with your clenched fist. 

The adrenaline made your nervous system numb to the pain you inflicted upon yourself. If not for the blood staining his jawline, you wouldn’t notice when your knuckles began to bleed. 

As soon as the pinned Shadow’s hands gripped your waist tightly, trying to push you off, you knew the outcome of the fight. Even if you had an upper hand for a split moment. There was no magical foreseeing – a simple conclusion told you, that you against the three of them was an already sealed result. 

But you had to put up a fight – you wouldn’t allow yourself to cross the gates of heaven or any other sort of afterlife if you hadn’t tried.

A sudden yank on your hair, made you cry out and fall off the soldier laying on the ground. Before you managed to get up, the third Shadow, until now standing still and watching, kicked you in your ribs. And then another time.

And another.

You stumbled to the side of your thigh, gripping the aching side of your bones and flesh, blood spilling beneath the surface of your smooth skin. Breathing, such a fundamental ability to live, became harder with each passing second. 

Your mouth fell agape, greedily trying to swallow some air, searching for a boost of energy. 

The three demons abused your position on the ground as they began kicking you around – aiming for your stomach, ribs, arms. It almost felt like you were their soccer ball. 

Graves stood tall near the raging chaos with his arms crossed over the tactical vest. Only when one of his puppets smacked you across the face, causing you to fall onto your stomach, he intervened. 

━ Not in the face, idiot! She’s quite pretty, isn’t she? Would be such a waste to permanently mutilate such a face. 

The blonde man crouched down and gripped your jaw, taking a closer look at the red mark pulsating on your cheek. It seemed that he was savoring the hurt look on his victim. The commander smirked, finally acknowledging the fear in your eyes. 

The taste of copper spreaded over your tongue, it felt disgusting and made you lightheaded. Only then the pain they inflicted on you began to sink in, causing all of your limbs to become extremely warm. Almost like the tongues of flames were dancing over your skin. 

If the Shadows kill you that night, will you become a martyr? Or would you be remembered as a traitor as Graves wanted to?

They swept you off the floor, upholding your fragile body by hooking under your armpits. Your head craved to hang low, but your consciousness needed to follow their movements, trying to predict what they would do to you next. 

 ━ I don’t like repeating myself, soldier, but I’ll give you another chance ━ Graves leaned in front of you, his hands resting upon his thighs. He became irritated that you hadn’t broken already ━ were you involved with Barnet or his partners in smuggling the federal weapons? 

��� I’m just a private, you fucking fuck! ━ You spat out the truth, brows narrowing close to your eyelashes. ━ I. Did. Not. 

His blue gaze wandered somewhere behind your back. Graves nodded and a sudden wave of stabbing pain spreaded around your kidneys. You cried out, spine arching, pathetically trying to escape the ache. 

Then they would give you a few seconds of break, you trying to breathe through the pain. But the cycle would continue as the Shadow behind your back kept electrocuting you over and over and over. 

The motherfuckers tased you. And they would not stop until you were a panting mess, limp within their hold. Poor mind of yours fried, barely holding onto the debrises of sanity. 

When your body reached some sort of limit and your vision became blurry, you really began to think you were to die tonight. In a matter of hours, you would have to face your friend – death and let her mock you for such an early encounter. 

But at least, you would not die untruthful to yourself.

Within the next couple hours, when your consciousness was wandering between the limbo of the Sandman’s realm and the reality, you gradually managed to understand the truth. 

That night during the operation Barnet, you saw something you never should have. The office and the crumbles of it. There was something inside so fragile and precious that made a person in a position of power command Graves to frame and torture you. As you were the only witness of it.

And for whom Shadow Company worked for?

The picture became crystal clear and you laughed like a madman. A trickle of blood dripped down the corner of your mouth, when they kept inflicting pain onto the poor soul of yours. And your young body too, staining it forever.

General Shepherd’s hands were not as clean as everyone thought so. He had to have something in common with those weapons being smuggled to the terrorists. Shepherd might have been afraid that you knew that, so therefore he needed you dead. Even though you hadn’t managed to read any of the notes before their destruction.

He wanted you buried six feet under the ground with no gravestone. No monument. 

And you know what they say – if you don't know what it is about, it’s probably about the money.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈

Although the pieces of puzzles fit together perfectly, their borders clinging tightly to each other, you hadn’t experienced satisfaction at all. 

The exhaustion became helpful at some point, separating your body from all the pain you’ve endured during the last couple of hours. The blood on your cuts dried up, but the smell of it made your stomach turn. 

You couldn’t believe that the scent and sight of blood would make you lightheaded, ever in your lifetime. Not as a woman of course, they see much more blood than the average man. 

But all of the beatings that those demons inflicted upon you was bearable. Painful obviously, but bearable. If your assessment was correct, they hadn’t broken any bones till now. The split skin on your collar bones, separated with the sharp blade of the knife could be stitched up. With good care the scars would eventually fade. 

If you survive this interrogation. 

Your grunts and whines filled Phillip’s ears, yet he still craved more than this. He hadn’t heard you scream and he would extort those sounds from you pretty soon.

The Shadows dragged you to sit at the wooden chair near the old table, your shoulders slowly sinking to the furniture’s backrest. They gave you a break as their knuckles were bloodied and scratched. Perhaps, they were thinking of another way to push you into the Behemoth’s maw. 

The time between your interactions passed quickly. Your eyelids closed loosely, but you heard the surroundings very well – the gravel crunching beneath the soles of their shoes, the way they shifted their weight. You noticed that, all of it. Your mind was alerted and aware. 

━ Have to give that to Ghost, he trained you well ━ Graves dragged another chair near yours and sat comfortably in it. Too close to your liking though. ━ But you must be tired, don’t you?

━ I’m fine.

A whisper hummed in the storage hall, filling the silence between your breaths. Those which might be your last ones. 

━ You look shit to be honest ━ the commander put his hands in the air, just like he didn’t want it to sound like an insult. ━ It didn’t have to come to this, doll. You wouldn’t have suffered if you just confessed when I asked you to. 

You scoffed, raising your head to face him with a look full of disgust.

━ That false confession is a death sentence. 

Graves shifted in his seat, getting closer to you as he leaned to your ear. One of his hands pushed the loose strands of hair behind your cartilage, while the other rested on your thigh.

Your whole body tensed, when his palm squeezed the soft flesh of your inner thigh. It wandered far too close to the crotch, even through the material of clothes. 

When your hands shoot to grab his, the Shadow standing beside grabbed your left arm and pinned it to the table’s surface. Your other hand’s fingers were entangled around Graves’ wrist, trying to stop him from moving any further. 

You had heard that he was wicked and unpredictable, but not to this extent. 

━ Listen up ━ he said so quietly it might have eluded from you, if you didn’t pay enough attention ━ I’m being generous here and giving you one, last chance, princess. Confess and you’ll be under my arrest. No further harm will happen to you, if you behave, that is. 

The audacity of this sickening man never stopped surprising you. You knew perfectly well what he meant by being under his arrest, what it meant to be Phillip Graves’ prisoner. It was a fate far worse than death. 

Your eyes were locked on his mischievous smile, twisting soft cheeks and underlining the wrinkles on his forehead. He was abusing his power and was perfectly aware of that. It was you against the devil. 

━ Come on, be a good girl. ━ He tried to persuade you with the sweet words and empty promises. It was kind of insulting, Graves thought he would convince you to change your mind. ━ Just say it was you, hm? 

But little did he know, your pride and stubbornness was far greater than his. 

You hung your head low again, before chuckling softly, shoulders trembling. It caught him off guard, you noticed. Graves probably thought you’ve gone far from sanity. 

Naturally you were weary of the pain, of the constant soreness in your muscles, the painful stretch of dried up blood. Yes, you were scared of upcoming tortures, you already admitted to that before yourself. But you would never forgive yourself if you weren’t true to the beliefs that got you here in the first place. You couldn’t let them frame you. 

Not this motherfucker in particular.

━ Go fuck yourself.

Then it was you who spilled out some words coated in pure hatred, almost an exorcism to make him go away. Your faith in your truth was strong. Graves’ hand released your thigh with a disappointed look on his angelic face, instead forcing your right forearm into his chest. He was keeping your limb too tight, while the other one was still pinned to the table.

Another Shadow appeared in the corner of your eye, slowly making his way towards your splayed out hand on the flat surface. Only then you noticed the thing he was holding. 

“Fuck.”

━ Alright, the hard way it is. ━ Phillip said, savoring the building fear in your eyes as your shrinking pupils were following the outline of the drill. A simple machine you would put your furniture together.

But in the right hands it would be a torture device.

━ You can’t be serious. You c-can’t– Y-You–

He shushed you, cradling your right arm within his hold. One of the Shadows stood on the other side of you, squeezing the elbow and your wrist so roughly, it almost made the bones pop out of the joint. 

Your instinct was to try and wiggle away, but the two men held you steadily. The third one flicked the power button and you looked at the small, but pointy drill turning with a mechanic sound. 

━ No, no, no, no, don’t, DON’T! 

The panic and fear overtook your stoic strategy. Only then you began being truly scared of their sinister games. You pleaded, you fought back, you begged until you screamed so loudly, there had to be someone hearing you from the outside. The pain of your flesh getting twisted and ripped off, made you want to vomit, if not the screaming tightening your throat muscles.

Then the drill stopped. You estimated it hadn’t even reached your bone, yet. But the crimson, syrupy liquid climbed up the length of the metal part and trickled to the sides of your assaulted forearm. 

You were breathing loudly, gasping for air. A droplet of sweat rolled down your temple. Every single finger of yours was trembling, muscles spasming from the pain. 

Graves reached one of his hands and forcefully squeezed your jaw and cheeks. He forced your pretty face to stare directly at him. Then, when he noticed how salty tears were overflowing your waterline, he grinned.

━ Look at me, soldier ━ Graves gave an order, but you were not his subordinate. He had to yank your head and dig his digits into your flesh again. ━ Look. At. Me!

The Shadow continued the assault, turning the power back on. This time, he expected resistance from the hard tissues so he pushed harder. 

Your shrieks filled his ears like cathedral music, a gospel of his liking. The tears streaming down your face finally reached his palm that was squeezing your face. Graves wanted to have a good look at all the scowls of ache. 

You swore you had heard the bone cracking, a muscle perforated already. White, blunt pain blinded your senses, only the warm embrace of the commander sitting across you kept you aware that you were still in the land of living. 

Your stomach was hurting – God, you were going to puke. 

━ What’s the meanin’ ‘f this?!

The voice of your savior, echoed somewhere in the back of your consciousness. The mechanical drill stopped its work and you actually felt it when it was ripped off your forearm. You whined, letting your eyelids shut. Blood splashed across the table. 

The two Shadows remained by your side, meanwhile Graves stood up from his seat and took a walk towards the intruders. 

You felt the familiar smell of tobacco, a very specific species of tobacco used only for cigars. 

━ Captain, I can assure–

━ Assure what? ━ John Price said, venom and hatred rolling down his tongue. He was pissed and dear God, you don’t want to anger this man. ━ That you mutilated one of my soldiers? Who gave you the order? 

Graves pressed his lips into a thin line.

━ General himself.

━ Why? ━ Ghost raspy voice sounded next to your limp form and it made you feel protected.

When you opened your eyes, you saw him towering over you even when he slouched to reach your level. You forced yourself to form a subtle smile, because somehow, the fight was over. You were being taken away from the monster that Graves was. 

━ She destroyed the only fucking evidence, trying to cover her own ass.

The lieutenant took a quick look over your body, you felt his gaze roaming on yourself. He was looking for serious wounds, but the one on your forearm seemed to be the nastiest one. 

Ghost helped you rise up from the chair, securing you in the straight line by holding onto your shoulders. Before he did that, he seemed to ask nonverbally with his dark eyes if you could walk. You nodded weakly. 

━ She’s a private under my command ━ Captain Price kept lecturing the blonde man, standing still like a tree. ━ If she had been accused, I’m the one to take her for questioning, not you. This is my team, my base and you will follow my rules, is that clear? 

You couldn’t exactly point to the moment where you walked past Price and Graves. Your eyes were so heavy and the main focus was to keep walking forward. If not Ghost upholding your posture straight by holding onto your arms, you wouldn’t be able to stand by your own strength. 

Despite the stories you had heard about him being rough, he wasn’t with you, at all. His grip was firm, but no digit of his calloused fingers dug into the beaten flesh of yours. Should a soldier ever feel comfort rather than dread in the presence of their superior? Was this normal? Were you? 

━ I had my own orders, the intel pointed out she was a suspect. Apparently ━ he took a deep breath in, keeping his anger on a leash ━ there was a misunderstanding. I apologize for any… inconveniences. 

━ I’ll talk to Shepherd about this one, you stay out of it ━ Price stated, before turning around on his heel. He was walking behind the two of you. ━ Oh, and you owe this lady an apology. Better be a good one, boy.

No. 

You wanted to scream that word over and over. If Graves ever bothered you again, you would gouge his blue eyes out – gladly looking at the soft tissues getting stuck under your nails, Phillip’s blood staining your hands. Ghost felt when your body tensed under his grip as he led you out of the storage hall. Of all people, he could sympathize with you the most. 

You walked in silence, only the echo of the gravel mixed with sand echoed in your ears. The chilly, evening breeze awoke your senses, although it didn’t give you more strength. Your hand clutched to Ghost’s, when you felt your stomach shrinking.

━ God ━ you leaned over your own knees, gasping for air ━ I think, I’m gonna… ‘m gonna puke.

He followed your poor soul to the side of the road. Before you could deny his help, Ghost was collecting your loose strands of hair and holding it firmly behind your neck. 

━ That’s alright. Take your time.

He wasn’t angry or disappointed with you. Ghost wasn’t rushing you as you tried to catch your uneven breath. The lieutenant just stood there, holding the hair out of your face in case you would vomit.

But you hadn’t thrown up at all. You just crouched there gasping for air, pressing your wounded forearm to your chest, blood staining the military shirt. Your limbs began to shiver, but not from the low temperature. Only then you allowed yourself for a display of any weaknesses, for a way to express your pain and exhaustion.

━ I d-didn’t do any-anything. I promise.

Your tone sounded broken and he couldn’t bear it. His stone cold heart couldn’t withstand the look in front of him. Ghost pulled you up from the crouching position, before pressing your forehead into his chest. He could still hear your quiet sobs, your blood surely staining his clothes too. But he didn’t care about some piece of cloth. 

━ I know.

Ghost was already soaked with blood of all the lives he ended miserably, but to be stained with something that belonged to you? That was something different. To him your blood could be the red wine that turns into the blood of Christ during each mass.

The lieutenant wrapped his arms around your back and kept one palm on the back of your head. Ghost caught the glimpse of your tired eyes and all he could see was himself. A reflection of sort, only a shard perhaps. When everything he had held dear to him – the dignity and humanity of Simon Riley, was taken away from him all those years ago, all he needed was a solace. 

The man didn’t have to say much, you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to hear him pity you. But Ghost’s presence was enough, his warm and gentle touch made you feel somehow protected. 

Perhaps it was the exhaustion causing you to melt into his embrace, because how could you feel any special, different from your teammates in his beautiful, dark eyes? He was your lieutenant for God’s sake.

Would he console the others if needed? Or maybe he sees you as weak? A fragile package that needs to be handled with care? Why was he so sympathetic with you of all the people? 

You stopped thinking and sank into the feeling of his soft and clean shirt that covered the man’s sternum and chest. You brushed the idiotic thoughts away, because you deserved that kind of affection. 

You deserved to be held close and to feel safe. 

And in his arms it all became very real. 

Even for a moment.

━ Come on, moppets ━ Price’s now calm voice, broke the heated thoughts and raging emotions as he got closer to them. ━ She needs to see a doctor.

A/N: The end of this fanfic has an open sort of ending so therefore I can write more comfort with Reader/Ghost in the bonus chapter if you would like to. ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

[imaginesheaven]

GN!Reader x Valeria Garza – sibling’s love

Synopsis: Valeria has her Las Almas Cartel. You are one of the Los Vaqueros. Unfortunately, the two of you are twins. So, one day when TF 141 comes to arrest El Sin Nombre, you are confronted with your own family. It will be a hell of a ride to tell your mother, when both of you visit her for dinner together.

Here, something quick I wrote because I couldn't get it out of my head *haha* Please, let me know if you enjoyed it :)

Callsign: Doberman

Warnings: Swearing; violence

Length: ~1.5k

It wasn’t really a pleasant situation how you found out that Valeria – your own fucking twin – is the leader of the Las Almas cartel. Alejandro and Rudy had a long conversation who is actually going to tell you in person, because they knew you would be mad. In the end they just flipped a coin. Alejandro lost unfortunately. It’s an understatement that you were fuming with anger.

“VALERIA!”, you burst into the conversation between Graves and your sister. “You two know each other?”, Phillip looks at you with dislike since you interrupted him. “Ah, we are even closer than that. Same bloodline, eh?”, Valeria winks at you.

Alejandro and Rudy have a hard time to hold you back as you curse a whole lexicon of Spanish swear words over her. “That’s how you greet your long-lost twin, (Y/N)?”, she still knows how to push your buttons. Such a sibling thing of her.

“You disgrace our family. Father would turn around in shame in his grave because of you, pendejo”, you reply playing the same game she does. Valeria leans forward now the one who swears in Spanish; ready to pounce any second.

Graves puts his hand on her shoulder to keep her in the chair. “Get your fucking hand of her, gringo!”, you yell at Graves hating him from the second you first saw him. Valeria leans back in her seat. Something like proud shines in her eyes, “See? Don’t fuck with my little Doberman. I’m well protected.”

For a second your hand curls around the handgun by your side, then you raise your hands in a defensive gesture, “Tell them what you know, Valeria.” With that you turn around to leave before your short fuse will blow up finally.

“Fine, I will. We see each other Thursday for dinner at Mother’s place~”, she yells so you still can hear her words. You don’t turn around or stop. This is going to be the worst week of your whole damn life.

Valeria called you her little Doberman for most of your life, since you were always there to protect her. She is actually the older one for about a minute, but you took your task of keeping your twin safe very seriously. Both of you are very dangerous soldiers. Back when you served together side by side, you were a dream team. Until the day she betrayed you and the army.

Valeria would never admit it out loud that she actually missed having you by her side. She is also a bit jealous how Alejandro and Rudy held you back. It’s like they are your family now. Well, she can understand it after what she has done.

After Graves’ betrayal you didn’t want to be on the team with Alejandro and Gaz to secure Valeria. But what can you say? She is still family. You hate how proud and confident she looks as you put her into the car to bring her to the next prison. “I will be free in 24 hours”, Valeria smiles at you innocently. Both of you know that she tells the truth.

Thursday arrived. You hoped with all you have that Valeria would not be at the dinner with your mother, but no one heard your silent prayers. Your mother opens the door more than happy to see you alive and in one piece, “Come in!”

There she is; sitting at her old place at the dinning table with a glass of wine in her hand. Valeria opens her mouth to greet you, but you raise your hand to stop her right away, “Don’t talk to me, pendejo.”

“What are those manners, (Y/N)?!”, your mother puts her hand onto her chest. “Yes, my little Doberman. Why did you arrest me?”, Valeria smirks knowing exactly how to turn a little flame into a breaching fire. Family is the highest priority for your mother.

“You are fucking El Sin Nombre! I’m militaria! I can’t let you go because we are family!”, you sit down opposite of Valeria. Your mother watches the two of you with furrowed eyebrows, “You arrested Valeria? And you are the cartel leader? Dios mio!”

Your sister leans forward to emphasize her statement, “I just do what it needs to protect you two!” For a second you can see the old Valeria sitting there. “You almost shot me last week”, a slight smirk appears on your lips.

Your mother gasps loudly, “VALERIA! THIS IS YOUR FAMILY!” Your twin rolls her eyes annoyed, “I did miss, right? If I wanted to shoot you, I would have done it.” Laughing you grab the wine bottle from the table, “You were never as good at shooting as me, Val. A few things will never change apparently.”

In the same moment both of you put your handguns onto the table, showing each other no mercy. Just like the fucking old times. Neither of you would hesitate for a second to pull the trigger. It has always been like that.

“NO HANDGUNS ON THE TABLE!!”, your mother yells through the entire room. Both of you flinch with the intensity she still rules the house. “Sorry, mother”, you mumble under your breath and holster your gun quickly. Valeria does the same without any apology just like always. There only two or three things she is actually sorry about.

“If you are going to kill each other, at least after eating! I cooked all day long for you”, your mother shuffles into the kitchen.

Valeria and you keep shooting each other death glares over your plates. When your mother doesn’t look you kick each other underneath the table. Neither of you is going to back down like a true Doberman.

The rest of the dinner actually runs way smoother than thought. Of course, both of you help your mother with the dishes. Your mother puts on her favorite record as she swells in the happiness to have you both back safely.

“You missed a spot”, Valeria exclaims and points her finger at the plate in your hand. “Shut up, it’s clean!”, you still try to suppress your anger at her, but she keeps pushing you. Probably hoping to find your breaking point.

“I will tell Mom that it’s not clean”, she grins at you. Without a word you slap her hand hard so she lets go of the plate. It shatters on the floor into thousand pieces. “MOM! VALERIA BROKE ONE OF THE PLATES!”, you return the winning smile at her.

“No! I didn’t! You did that!”, Valeria tries to explain as your mother comes into the kitchen to find the mess on the floor. “Dios mio! Those are the good plates, Valeria”, she leans down to pick up the shards. Smirking you flip Valeria off with your soapy hands. Of course, behind the back of your mother. She would get a heart attack for sure.

Your twin rolls her eyes annoyed and throws the wet rag into your direction. “No fighting in the house, you two! You can beat each other outside. Do what you have to do to get out your anger”, your mother shushes both of you out of the kitchen. Valeria takes her chance to trip you on the way towards the front door.

“FUCKING HELL! You make me go haywire!”, you raise your hand to smack her square in the face. Suddenly your mother grabs your ear and Valeria’s to bring you down onto her level. She will always have enough strength left to lecture you two.

“I want you to get things right. Like I said: fight, shoot or whatever. I don’t care, but no killing each other. I will see both of you next Thursday to dinner again, comprende?”, she releases both of you with a slight smile on her lips, “Great! Have a nice evening. Love you!”

Without a further word you stumble outside with Valeria right behind you. For a moment you stare at each other, ready to blame the other one for this mess. Valeria starts first to laugh and you can’t help but join her.

“Well, that was fun. See you next Thursday, my little Doberman!”, she makes her way towards the black car that waits already for her. You don’t want to admit it, but you kind of look forward to it.

[mr-se-ro-to-nin]

Struggling with my own religion, so I’m projecting it onto Jason lol:

Jason wasn’t catholic, the only time he’d ever been to a holy building was for the soup kitchen on a Tuesday afternoon whilst he was still on the streets.

***

Yet, watching the countdown of the bomb, realising his father won’t come and rescue him, Jason prays to god that he won't die.

Tears streaming down his face, promising that if he’s given the chance to live, he’ll do better. Oh god he’d do better.

***

Jason wasn’t catholic, but sitting at his grave smoking a cigarette, he can’t help but think the big guy kept his part of the deal.

Jason stubbed out the butt on his gravestone and picked up the red hood helmet. There was a trafficking ring trying to start up near crime alley that needed snubbing in the head before it gained any sort of traction.

***

Jason wasn’t catholic but when he first saw Batman in his redhood suit, he prayed to god once again that he would come out of the encounter still mentally sound.

He managed to leave after Bruce said he had no regrets about not murdering joker. That’s fine, Jason had no regrets on blocking out his old family and getting his own revenge.

***

Jason Todd didn’t think he’d ever want anything to do with a god, let alone walk into a shop attached to the back of a church and end up buying a rosary. The cashier gave him a studying look and put in a card on how to pray on the damn beads. “The priest next door would be happy to give any help if ya ask for it,” the man handed over the little bag and Jason left with a thanks and a $50 bill on the counter.

He left it in his pocket for weeks. The string of beads making his jacket feel rather heavy.

***

Jason didn’t go to mass, he didn’t partake in service or even visit a church on any sort of regular basis. Yet, he still spent some time each day before bed bent over with a roasry. Praying to the Hail Marys and meditating on each of the mysteries.

One of the working girls saw it hanging out of his pocket one time and told him to come back 3 hours later so she could teach him to ‘pray on it properly.’ Apparently ‘there was no way he was doin it correctly’. Shortly after she helped him she passed, Jason hadn’t made it to the shooting on time to stop the psycho from killing people. Safe to say the shooter was no longer putting any of the other workers in trouble.

Jason prayed with the dead girl one last time, blood now coating the beads.

***

The rosary had sat on the sink in his bathroom in one of his safe houses for a couple of weeks since the incident, Jason finally rinsed the blood off of it. It had sapphire crystals and a silver cross, it even had ivory for the beads further apart. Seeing no harm, he’d finished reading the bible for the first time around a week after and realised there was something that he could put his faith in without ending blown up.

***

Jason didn’t go to mass, but whenever he was having a particularly horrific episode, he would drag himself to a church and sit along the pews until the pit would subside. His cry’s could be heard echoing around the old building in the late hours of the morning. Sobbing so hard that sometimes he would pass out among the bibles and crosses. Most mornings he was in the church, Jason would watch the priest go about his morning routine and sitting with him whilst he goes through his own rosaries.

The man never questioned Jason, only ever offering a good morning and a smile towards him.

***

Jason didn’t go to mass, but he did begin praying for the people he killed. Crouching next to their bodies, or a building, and began reciting a small prayer, finishing it with the cross against his body.

No one calls him out on it, they never even mention it. They just stand near him silently as he talks. He’s even noticed Tim map out the cross as well, as he’s finished praying before.

***

Jason is at the mansion after a pretty horrific gang bust gone wrong. Alfred is hovering around and dick has left to finish a report on the mess. Reduced to bandages and bed rest Jason begins reciting the rosary, using his fingers as beads because his rosary is in one of the pockets in his trousers. The trousers Alfred has taken to patch up and clean.

Tim walks into the med bay with two rosaries in hand. He passes one to Jason and kneels on the ground next to his bed, and waits for Jason to start his prayer again.

The rosary he was given has rubies and jades inbetween the beads, the cross at the bottom made from silver.

Looking at the boy kneeling beside his bed, Jason startes his prayers from the beginning. Tim joining in at some bits but mostly listening to Jason’s voice.

After they both say amen, Tim just gets up and leaves Jason, not even glancing at the older vigilante. They've always had a turbulent relationship, but Jason wishes he could have thanked the kid for the rosary before he left the room. Clearly with no intention of reclaiming the green and red chain. Jason lets out a sigh and falls asleep, exhaustion taking over his body.

***

Jason didn’t go to mass, but he began to think he had faith. He wasn’t religious, he didn’t follow the rules or play by the book. But he’d say a quick word before dinner and pray for his victims after he’d reaped their soul. He wasn’t religious but he had faith that someone was looking over him, keeping an eye on him while no one else was.

***

Red hood wore a cross, one of the working girls gave it to him after he’d saved her from a guy getting violent. She took the necklace off from around her neck and held out the chain for Jason to take. He thought it through for a moment, then turned around so she could fasten it around his neck. Not wanting to do it himself, imposter syndrome crying out that he wasn’t actually religious - just had faith.

He didn’t turn around to thank the lady, just shot off onto one of the surrounding roofs to get away from the overwhelming situation. The pope brought him some breakfast the next morning for Jason to eat after he’d opened the church.

***

Jason wore a cross, buildings marked with his favour began to have crosses painted onto them. The faith around his neck became a stronger part of his identity than his mask - maybe because it was easier to draw.

***

On his twenty first, Bruce got Jason a black steel cross necklace and bracelet set. The old man had thrown it at red hood before he turned around and fled. Leaving Jason to open and decide on whether to throw the sodding jewellery away by himself. He wasn’t going to take off the cross from the working girl, he wasn’t good enough to put it on, let alone dare to take it off. The jewellery was left on the bedside of Jason’s most frequented safe house.

***

Jason didn’t put the back cross on, dick did. He and his brother crossed paths on their patrols, Jason was heading towards the docks to throw the cross into the water. Not wanting to throw it away. Jason took a moment to think his words through after his brother asked what he was doing out of crime alley. Instead of saying anything he dug out the box from his pocket and held it out for his brother, the older man took it and opens it. Reciting the words on the inside of the box, “to my dearest jason, for when you no longer have faith in me.”

“You on your way to the docks?” Jason didn’t respond, not wanting to admit to his rather shaky thoughts. Dick picked the bracelet and moved closer to Jason, he grabbed his brothers hand before it could reach him, the pair shared a heavy look. Dick pulled back and hesitated before pulling the necklace out of the box and put it around his own neck, the black cross sitting wound his collarbones. Reaching out to Jason once again to grab his arm, the younger brother didn’t prevent the contact this time, allowing dick to put the bracket around his wrist. Jason fled before his brother could say anything, not in the mood for anymore feelings.

The next time Jason saw dick, he saw the black cross around his brothers neck, Jason unconsciously reached for the matching black bracelet around his wrist.

[viviettezheart]

{3} Ghost - Yato

Note! Smut, ghost!fem!reader, blowjob, not proofread…

★👻

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: a god meets a ghost…what could possibly go wrong. One cannot die the other one is already dead…

𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: sorry for not being on time with the dates i was like really motivated but now i kinda lost motivation to write…

👻★

Laying on your own grave in the cemetery was a weird feeling. You’re only 22 years old but died last year unfortunately because of a drunk truck driver who hit you as you were walking across the pedestrian path. The last thing you saw was your best friend waiting on the other side for you.

Its been now a year but no one visits your grave, not even your parents nor your best friend who saw you die in front of her eyes.

It made you sad as you saw all the other graves being visited from the family members while you visit your own grave in your ghost body. As you were laying there with your eyes closed until suddenly you felt the sun disappear…weird so you open your eyes only to be meet with a pair of ocean blue eyes. “Wa-Who are you?!” You asked, eyes widen as you noticed he could see you.

A human? Seeing a ghost? I don’t thinks so. “Or what are you?…”

“Name’s Yato!” He said enthusiastically with a big grin and hold his hand out for you. Does he not realize you’re a ghost. Ghosts can’t teach human but as you streched out your hand to shake it, you’re hand didn’t seep through it. “Are you human? Or also a ghost?” “No sweetheart i’m a god!” “A god?! “yes a god!” “…Oh god am i dreaming?” “Nope its all real…” “what is a god like you doing here at this cemetery?…” “your friend Maria prayed to me so i thought i could meet you in person and tell you her prayers!” The god spoke almost happily. How could he be so happy. Does he do things like that all the time…so many questions began to pop up in your head but you brushed them aside.

“What did she say?…” you gulped and looked up at him. “Dear y/n i hope you forgive me for that i couldn’t visit you…i deeply apologize and i miss you…i wish i could talk to you in person again…” He quoted. Tears began to escape your empty and hurt eyes. The god’s happy façade faded into a soft and empathetic expression. Thumb sliding along your lips as you turned your gaze away from the other graves and into his blue eyes.

“Don’t cry name your to pretty to cry…” yato bends down and smashes his soft lips against your cold ones. It took you by surprise as you hesitated to kiss him back but you felt like you could trust him so you kissed him back. It didn’t take long for him to pick you up and walk you bride style into his shrine…where you then meet Yukine.

Its been months now since you meet the god yato and his shinki Yukine. You three are basically like best friends except for the fact that yato and you are a thing. Yukine knows it but pretends to not know it. You were sitting with yukine at yato’s old shrine at the table on the floor when the door suddenly got slammed open making you two shriek. “Hello my two favorite people!” He said enthusiastically like always but this time it made you giggle. You actually found some people who visit you by being by your side 24/7.

You three have been sitting on the floor for a while now, watching a movie on the small tv that he found on the streets. It was a boring rom-com where you can’t really tell who loves who so when Yukine has fallen asleep with his head on the small desk on the floor you both decide it was a good idea to have some intimacy.

Quietly you sat yourself on his lap, facing him while wrapping your arms around his neck. One of his arms sneaked itself around your waist while the other one held your your underthigh as you were only hovering over his lap instead of fully straddling him. Sliding your hands down his torso to meet his crotch only to feel him already getting hard from nothing, you were only looking into his eyes but you guess your looks are this seductive to get him hard without even having to kiss or touch each other.

Yato began to blush a bit as you slide your body down while also sliding his pants with his boxers down. Freeing his hard cock. Your eyes widen a bit at the sight, licking your pink lips and stroking his dick. Yatos head falls back. Blue eyes staring at the run down ceiling but once you put your mouth on it his head falls forward, staring down at your innocent smiling face staring up at him. Yukine was still sleeping head down, deep in his slumber.

The tip of your tongue grazed his pink tip, licking the pre cum away and using is as lub for your hands to stroke the rest of his cock which wasn’t in your mouth. Moaning with him as yato whimpers almost whines as his hups buck up to meet your up and down bobbing head.

After a few minutes of him grabbing your hair and pushing your head up and down…helping you. Yato came inside your mouth and being the innocent girl you were you looked up at him again while opening your mouth, showing him the white cum his white cum just sitting in your tongue waiting to be swallowed which you did after giggling when yato blushed again…

“Thanks for the meal…” you kissed yatos lips as yukine slowly woke up at the same time as the movie ended.

[queerprayers]

update <3

I've been procrastinating this (as if that could make it all less real), but so many people have sent prayers and well wishes that I wouldn't feel right not letting you know how grateful I am for your words and also letting you know this: My beloved grandfather died last week.

I honor the faithful service he gave to countless churches and communities, the children he helped raise, the grandchildren he sang to, the children he baptized, the couples (including my parents) he married, the people he buried, the music and faith that never left him even when so much of him did.

I will pass on the last thing he ever said to me, in July, after a busy and joyful weekend celebrating his fiftieth wedding anniversary, as he got in bed for his nap, taking seconds in between words to think: "It's not all hard. Not all the time." This is so hard. But it's also part of loving someone: promising to mourn them when the time comes. Promising to keep going. Love is hard, but it's not all hard. Not all the time.

His funeral will be Catholic, but he used to be a Lutheran, and he presided over many funerals from the worship book I still use, so here are some words I've been saying from there:

O God of grace and glory, we remember before you today our brother. We thank you for giving him to us to know and to love as a companion in our pilgrimage on earth. In your boundless compassion, console us who mourn. Give us your aid, so we may see in death the gate to eternal life, that we may continue our course on earth in confidence until, by your call, we are reunited with those who have gone before us; through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.

Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive him into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.

The generations rise and pass away before you. You are the strength of those who labor; you are the rest of the blessed dead. We rejoice in the company of your saints. We remember all who have lived in faith, all who have peacefully died, and especially those most dear to us who rest in you. Give us in time our portion with those who have trusted in you and have striven to do your holy will. To your name, with the Church on earth and the Church in heaven, we ascribe all honor and glory, now and forever. Amen.

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, thy victory? The strife is o'er, the battle done. Love will come again like wheat arising green. The Lord bless and keep him. The Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious to him. The Lord look upon him with favor and grant him peace.

I'm not a Catholic, and was never really taught to pray for souls, but I think I get it a bit now. He was, though, and if that's something you do, I'm sure he would have welcomed that. (And if you know any good saints to throw in the mix, go for it.) My grandmother could also use your prayers.

Thank you for reading this, and holding for a moment the love I have for him. It's heavy right now, and easier to carry with others' prayers beside me. I am praying beside you as well, especially with the many people who have sent me asks that have gone unanswered for ages now. And God holds all of us, more than we could ever imagine. I don't claim to understand death, but I am in the palm of the universe's hand, and my granddad is too, reunited with all that left him in his sickness, and united with a God who knows death intimately. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, love to love.

<3 Johanna

[aussie-tea]

My personal headcanon is that Glinda actually hated Nessarose.

First and foremost I want to make it clear I don't think Glinda ever intended for Nessa to die. And even if she did I think Glinda would protect Nessa if only for Elphaba's sake.

But I do think that Glinda had a very unique third-party perspective on the sisters' relationship, and she would have seen how Nessa treated Elphaba; as nothing more than a personal assistant and human punching bag.

Glinda and Nessa were once extraordinarily alike. Both were beautiful girls, spoiled endlessly by their parents. They both treated Elphaba awfully, but the difference is Glinda has learnt, grown, and probably agonized over it. Nessa hasn't.

This was solely due to Elphaba. It was Glinda's friendship with Elphaba which taught her selflessness. And nothing shows this as clearly as her own desire for Elphaba's success, not only her own.

She even seems to recognize that Nessa is one of the things in Elphaba's life that is actually limiting her, and encourages space and separation between the sisters, which, arguably, is what's best for Elphaba.

Elphaba isn't the only person Glinda cares about that has been hurt by Nessa's actions either. Despite Glinda's moral flaws, she isn't blind to open cruelty and tyranny, especially concerning people she cares about. Nessa's treatment of the Munchkins, and Boq in particular, would not have gone unnoticed by Glinda.

Jealousy is also a huge part of Glinda's personality, so I can imagine her believing herself a better sister to Elphaba than Nessa. Or one more deserving of a sister than Nessa.

I attribute her reaction to Nessa's death to her guilt rather than any lost love between them. I can imagine that in the absence of Elphaba, Glinda might have wanted to step in as a grieving sister, placing flowers on her grave, saying a prayer.

It's further supported when Elphaba shows up, and Glinda immediately drops this act, showing her true blasé reaction to Nessa's death, whilst remaining sympathetic to Elphaba's pain.

Regardless of whether she is the besties-with-everyone schoolgirl in Act One or the happy-go-lucky Good Witch of the North in Act Two I can not imagine, in the musical, Glinda feeling anything but contempt towards Nessa.