#The Merced Blue Notes

[peninsularian]

Raucous early 60's Mod dancer out of the San Joaquin Valley

[jukeboxblowingafuse]

Do The Pig.

[harbingersecho]

ask not what you can do for your country, ask what your country did to you

[racingliners]

as mentioned in the tags of a prev post, I’m going to make some lockscreens based on some of the team liveries on the 2023 F1 grid. There are just the first test versions, let me know what you think!

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem reader | dirty flirting | suggestive material | it’s not dubcon, it's just you and deadpool's dynamic.

Like a stray cat, a mercenary hangs around your neighborhood. At first he was cute, you'd leave some food out for him, he'd hit on you shamelessly and in a million different shades of dirty, and then you wouldn't see him for six months. It got old quick, especially because he didn't care that you weren't interested. As if flirting with you was a hobby, he didn't mind that he wasn't getting anything out of it besides your irritation.

It's late, but you might as well take your trash out. You didn't bother to cover up when it's hot and humid out. In a crop top and the littlest shorts you own, you step out, immediately greeted with the familiar tune of DEADPOOL's voice.

"Braless—brave." he notes, and you slump in place, turning to see how he lays precariously on the railing of the fire escape. He gestures to his own chest with a flourish of gloved fingers, "Me too. Burn 'em, I say. The 70's were good for something." He nods his head.

You sigh through your nose, dropping your bag to let it sag pathetically on the asphalt. "What do you want, Red? Blowing through my part of town coincidentally again?"

"Oh, no coincidence, sugar." he tsks, and wags a finger at you before gracefully swinging off the railing to flip to the ground. You roll your eyes at his showmanship, and retreat to the backdoor of your apartment building, followed leisurely by the Merc. "Can't a guy say he missed you? Visit suddenly without calling? Golly, a man can't partake in a little light stalking these days."

You round on him, pointing a warning finger in his mask when you catch him watching your tits swing under your shirt. "Nips are hard. Excited to see me?" he asks with enthusiasm, meeting your gaze and you guffaw at him, taken aback with a hand on your hip. "Turn around, lemme see the back again—"

"'Excited?' What part should I be looking forward to? Your outdated jokes or when you make passes at me until you get it all out of your system?" You lean forward, gesturing to your enunciating mouth. "Read my lips, Red, it's- not- happening." Unknowingly, you'd lowered your voice, that sultry tone lulling Deadpool into your direction like a pie on a windowsill.

"Oh, baby, if you could see my face, I'm grinning under this mask right now." he confesses, chuckling under his breath. "Love it when you play hard to get." He straightens to his full height, sighing with relief. "Your place or mine?"

"Red—"

"Seriously, you gotta give me a twirl or something, I'm getting blue balls over here. You take a little stroll in your little jammies and I've got a halfie, throw me a bone."

You scoff at his audacity, as fat and veiny as always, and back away. "I'll see you next time, Red."

"Hopefully you'll see this boner next time, it'll be waving to you like a flagpole flying my tighty-whities." he calls after you. He knows he's exhausted his welcome this time, there'll be another opportunity soon enough.

[mynameisjag]

Because I just remembered, as author, I have power to do whatever the hell I want in fanfiction. The only powers in the universe that can stop me is my terrible ADD and terrible sleeping habits.

It’s a sequel to ‘Mistaken for Wolverine's and Wade's possible kid.'

There was a possible feral child running around with claws and a smart mouth.

“We'll take him home, keep him in the bathroom for a little while so Laura can get used to his scent and then slowly introduce them to each other.”

“…they aren’t cats…”

“Right, weasel family, close enough.”

Logan rolled his eyes with grunt, the smell of crushed ice and iron filling his nose, they had been following the kids scent for awhile now, enough for a quick change out of uniform to throw on street clothes.

Wade had thrown on an over large sweater with the hoodie pulled up with a face mask and glasses, Logan himself was dressed in one of his flannels.

“We look like the Unibomber and the Bounty Paper mascot have decided to go on a date at the local market.”

They were close, the tracks had lead them to a more public place, a small outdoor fruit market, but there was no sign of white hair anywhere. Though that didn’t matter if the kid could go invisible.

They were close though…

“So what’s the bet that baby wolvie can change his appearance to fit in?”

“Hmm?”

Wade nudged their shoulders together as he gave a subtle nod over to the next stall, black hair, blue eyes, different clothes…but the smell remained the same…

“Oh, boy, whoever made this designer baby knew what they were doing, still has those sharp claws and cute little fangs you both share. Congratulations to us? What we naming him?”

“Wade.”

“Right, assuming gender, my apologies.”

The man actually snorted in brief amusement, getting what he knew was a wide grin even if it was covered up, he rolled his eyes as the usually red covered merc grabbed his bicep, “He could be a Void escapee, I don’t smell any other human smells on him, let’s stay up wind right now.”

Wade gave the arm he was attached to a small squeeze, “Led the way Mr. Paper Picker Upper.”

They moved slowly through the crowd, eyes on the kid but still keeping a distance incase he picked up the super senses trait.

Lightly clawed hands were picking up apples, sniffing them then placing them down, head would tilt and the ears would twitch, he was still listening for any kind of disturbance. Eyes would focus on a fruit, then dart to the side, still wary and still watching out.

“The face shape and features are the same…need better proof though.”

“Lucky you and the need for the plot to move forward, looks like someone has itchy knuckles and a case of peekaboo.”

Sure enough, one hand was rubbing at the knuckles were a slight sheen glinted in the sunlight before disappearing.

The kid was frowning down at his own hands, distracted enough to not notice Wade casually stroll up behind him, “Baby boy, is that you! You’ve been gone for two years! We thought you were dead!”

Logan sighed tiredly, accepting his fate as he watched his partner throw his arms around the child in a crushing hug, wailing dramatically how they would be so much better parents now, they would support his interest in professional knitting and how dare he leave with a note written in cursive.

Phones were out, people were clapping over the tearful reunion, the poor kid looked shocked to be manhandled over to him by Wade.

“It’s your Daddy, I know he is currently cosplaying a lumberjack, but he’s still the asshole we love.”

Logan could only shake his head, letting out a huff before staring down the kid, “Ready to have that chat?”

Bright blue eyes glared up at him on a level of unimpressed that only teens could reach, “I don’t know, are you ready to go save Goldilocks, I think you better go off and get lost in the woods looking for her.”

“Oh, he is just the Sassiness! He gets it from me, I swear! Just an absolute deee-light!"

[thelostconsultant]

Playing house (1/2)

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

summary: Max's father is coming to Monaco to hand over the keys to his kingdom, but he has one condition--he wants to see that his son is in a committed relationship. This is where you come in.

note: mafia!AU. Merc!reader is based on V from Cyberpunk 2077, minus the cyberware. This will be a two-part thing, at least that's the plan now. Oh, and this is unedited. (Hey, don't judge, I'm in the middle of a depressive episode, it's a miracle that I can write.)

The fixer who offered that thievery gig didn’t say much, only that the person who was supposed to pick up the portable SSD you stole was captured by Max Verstappen’s men. Now you have to go and pick up the item yourself from the drop point, then somehow manage to survive until the fixer sends someone else for it. 

But when you lock the door of your apartment and lean against it after getting the drive, you hear a strange sound coming from the living room. The sound of someone shifting their weight, causing the wooden floor to creak. Cursing under your breath, you quickly open the door again to bolt out and get as far as you can, but they were expecting this, because a man was standing in the door to keep you inside.

“Don’t be silly, I just want to talk,” you hear a voice from inside, the tone a mixture of sweet and nurturing, as if he was trying to convince a little child not to start sulking. 

There’s an unmistakable accent, and the voice is also familiar, as if you have heard it before. Not in person, but on a recording of some sort. It takes a few moments for the pieces of the puzzle to fall into place, but before you could move your feet to head to the living room, you have your answer: the one and only Max Verstappen is here in your living room. You have a gun, but you’re outnumbered for sure, you wouldn’t get far if you tried anything.

After gulping and taking a deep breath, you head to where the man is waiting for you, only to find him looking at the framed photos on a table under the window. It enrages you, really, the lack of respect for your privacy. He invades your home, he’s going through your personal items, and you can’t help but wonder if he had gone through your walk-in closet in the bedroom. 

When he finally turns to you, there’s a smile on his face that reaches his blue eyes, and for a moment you wonder what’s gotten into him. Isn’t he here to kill you for the drive? But maybe this kind look is just a trap, he wants to coerce you into cooperating without putting up a fight. Then again, you promised to keep the item safe, giving it up without a fight would surely not help your reputation.

The silence in the room stretches out for minutes, and he eventually gets bored, breaking eye contact to go and take another look at your living room. He stops in front of the shelf with a collection of perfumes, and without even glancing at you for permission, he begins to take a closer look at them and their scents, one by one. Not like he needs your permission, you aren’t exactly in the position to tell him what he can and cannot do.

But then he turns to you with one of the bottles in hand. It’s the unmistakable triangle one with the dark pink liquid inside, the Prada Paradoxe Intense you received as a gift. It’s pleasant, but you somehow always forget about it. How could he find the only one you barely use? Max seems to notice that you’re thinking about something, and he steps closer to you with an almost friendly smile.

“You don’t really like this one, do you?” he wonders. You refuse to answer, not until he finally tells you what he wants. When he realizes that, he lets out a sigh and returns to the shelf to put the bottle back to its place. “You know, I don’t want you dead. It would be a shame to kill someone like you. You’re getting noticed. You’re a professional, discreet and efficient, and no wonder fixers are finding you with more and more gigs.”

Though you should be a little relieved after being told he doesn’t want to kill you, you can’t help but think about where he’s going with this. Why is he talking? Why doesn’t he simply take the drive and leave? It doesn’t really make sense, it’s impossible to tell what he’s planning with you. Because there must be a plan, he definitely wants something he’s yet to tell you.

His phone suddenly beeps, and he looks a little taken aback for a brief moment when he reads the message. You don’t move, you don’t make a sound, you don’t even dare to ask anything. Your usual snarky comments are nowhere to be found, which is the result of the ambiguous aura of his that makes you feel threatened and calm at the same time. There’s something about him that unnerves you, but right now all you can think about is survival. 

Max looks back your way, the smile returning the moment his eyes land on you. “Please, don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to hurt you. But I need something from you,” he says. 

Your eyes narrow because you know what he wants. The item he’s looking for is in your bag, and at this point you would hand it over to him in return for your freedom. Maybe the fixer and his client wouldn’t be happy, but right now that’s the least of your worries. They can’t win this. If you don’t give them the drive on your own free will, they will zero you and fish it out of the bag themselves. 

Nodding, you slowly peel off the backpack, and once he stops his man from shooting you, you offer it to him. But he doesn’t seem interested, in fact, he watches you with a slightly confused frown. “The drive. It’s in the bag,” you tell him.

“I don’t need that drive, I can get what’s on it elsewhere,” he begins to explain as he steps closer and gently puts a hand on yours to make you lower the backpack. “It’s you I want. You’re talented, you shouldn’t waste that on these stupid little gigs. Work for me, and in return I’ll give you whatever you want.”

You drop the bag as you gasp and instinctively take a step back. Working for him? He must be joking. Sure, you’re not stupid, you know he holds the kind of power many people can only dream about, no fixer could give you prestigious jobs like he would, and he probably pays a lot better too, but… Working for him would mean you sold your soul to the Devil. Would it be worth it?

There’s something about the way he watches you, something that makes you uncomfortable. Those baby blue eyes are intense, and they don’t miss anything, you’re sure he even keeps track of how many times you breathe in and out. You have a feeling that it’s not just about the job. He doesn’t need a merc to work for him, there has to be another reason why he picked you from all people. 

“What if I say no?” you wonder out loud.

Max nods. “Now, that would be a problem. But why would you refuse? I would treat you right, trust me,” he says, and then he gently sweeps a strand of hair behind your ear before pulling his hand away, making sure his fingers brush your jawline. 

For a moment you stop breathing as your brain is trying to process what just happened. Was he like this with everyone? From what you’ve heard about him, he isn’t exactly a nice guy when it comes to business, yet now his voice is sweet like honey, as if he was trying to coerce you to say yes to him. What if this is personal? What if this has nothing to do with you being a merc?

“What is this really about? You have your own foot soldiers, you don’t need me,” you tell him quietly, suddenly a little afraid of his answer as your gut is telling you he will say something you won’t like.

He turns to the man who’s standing by the door, then signals him to leave. Once he’s gone, Max tilts his head to the side with a soft smile. “I have a little… problem. I need a partner for certain reasons. Someone who knows who I am, someone who could be… my equal. Think of this as a gig. I’ll pay well, way better than other jobs would.”

“How long would this job last? And what exactly would I have to do?” 

There’s an amused smirk on his lips as he watches you, his eyes never leaving your face. “I don’t know, it will last while it lasts. And what will you do? Well, you look pretty on my side. Maybe you’ll give us your opinion about certain matters,” he replies.

Great, so he only wants a good-looking doll. “Hire an escort.” The roll of his eyes tells you that he’s not impressed with your suggestion. “Can I think about it?”

Max nods as he takes a step back. “I’ll make myself a coffee. You have time until I drink it,” he says, then heads to the kitchen as if he was home. 

The way he tries to get an answer out of you so fast tells you there must be a reason why he’s in such a hurry. He needs your help, and maybe he doesn’t have many options. Or he’s lying to you because he wants to make sure you say yes. Either way, you really don’t have a choice. Knowing who he is, you’re sure he could force you to do this, maybe by threatening your loved ones. When he returns and sits in the armchair, legs crossed while he takes a sip of the warm drink, you gulp and let out a sigh to prepare yourself to speak. 

“Since I highly doubt I have a choice,” you begin, instantly earning a surprised look from him, “fine, I’ll do it. But it’s strictly business.”

There’s a strange glint crossing his eyes, but it disappears as fast as it showed up. “Good. Pack some essentials, we’re leaving soon. Oh, and only pack one or two sets of clothes, I’ll get someone to buy you new things anyway. You’ve got to dress the part after all,” he tells you with a satisfied smile.

Your eyes narrow in confusion as you take a better look at the Red Bull F1 team merch he’s wearing now, wondering how he’s the one talking about fashion choices. He follows your gaze, quickly understanding what bothers you, because he flashes a smile at you with a barely visible shake of his head. 

“It’s race day and I support my favorite team. I do normal things, you know,” he says.

Normal things. Sure. And here you were, assuming that leading the biggest underground organization in Monaco is a job that takes up all of his time. But now that he had the chance to mention his favorite sport, you saw a glimpse of a version of him that wasn’t a criminal, that wasn’t a cold-blooded monster. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as you thought. Well, okay, he probably was.

Deciding to drop the conversation, you go to your bedroom and pull out a suitcase from the walk-in closet. Max said he would buy you clothes, so you follow his instructions and only pack what you really need. Once the suitcase is zipped shut, you sit on the edge of the bed with your phone in hand, wondering if you should call your best friend so at least one person would know you’re disappearing on your own free will.

But as you think about it, you realize that a phone call would be dangerous, you have no idea if anyone’s eavesdropping from the hallway, so you simply type a message that you’ll be unavailable for a short while. It couldn’t last longer than a week, right? Now that you think about it, you have to realize that this is a dangerous game you’re playing. You only know the stories about him—those Grimm’s fairy tales level stories that scare so many people in the underworld.

Until now, while your job isn’t always legal, you’ve been known for helping the cops every once in a while. But if you semi-publicly side with Max, things can change for good, and not necessarily in the right way. Even if you say you were only doing this temporarily for, like, casual sex, there would be a permanent target on your back. Some might assume you still have ties to him, some might think he still has a soft spot for you and can get to him if they hurt you… 

Going with him now is a double edged sword, but you don’t have a choice if you want to live. This is your life now, it’s time to accept it. Whatever happens after this job is something you can’t avoid. It’s annoying–no, it’s actually quite depressing as you think about it. You could just as well stay in his circles and work for him later too. 

Just when the existential crisis could truly kick in, there’s a knock on the door and Max pokes his head around seconds later. “Ready? We should leave now,” he informs you. There’s a gentle edge to his voice, something way softer than what you heard before. 

After a nod, you pick up the suitcase, but he walks over to you to take the handle from your hand. The two of you, followed by the man who’s been waiting in the hallway apparently, make your way to his car, a simple black Audi SUV that doesn’t really get people’s attention in a place where supercars can be found on every corner. 

You and Max sit in the back, and even though he’s busy typing something on his phone, you notice that he keeps glancing your way. Just brief, easily missable looks, but you still notice, because you can feel the way he’s staring at you. When you turn to him with eyebrows raised in question, he clears his throat and turns away. 

The rest of the car ride passes in the same silence, except he does his best not to look at you again. You can’t help but wonder what’s going through his head. Is it as loud inside as it is in yours? Because here you are with a brain in overdrive, fear and curiosity battling for the lead in there. On the one hand, he’s known for being ruthless and sometimes even cruel, but on the other, from what you’ve seen so far, he’s not that bad. But maybe he’s just desperate. When he told you he needed a partner, there was something in his eyes–annoyance, maybe–that told you he doesn’t really have a choice in this matter. 

The car soon parks in an underground garage, and you’re led to a beautiful apartment on the top floor, with a view so amazing that you can barely stop looking out the window. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Max watching you with a smile, but he doesn’t say anything, and eventually he moves to the living room to turn on the TV and open the F1TV app on it. Of course, the race he was talking about. Unsure of how to proceed, you move closer to him, but you just wait silently in the border of the hall and the other room. You wonder how long it will take someone to take pity on you and tell you things like where your room is. 

“Come, sit,” Max speaks up suddenly, patting the empty side of the couch. “Watch the race with me.” Knowing better than to refuse, you obediently go there and put your bag at the edge of the couch before sitting down, leaving quite a lot of space between you and the man. “Oh, by the way, put your phone on the coffee table, please. Daniel and a friend of mine are out to buy you some new clothes and shoes, and they’ll stop to get you a new phone too. Wouldn’t want anyone to track your location, right?” There’s a small smile on his lips that makes you want to punch him in the face. 

In the next two hours you watch the race, and since you admittedly don’t know much about F1, he takes it on himself to teach you the basics. To your surprise, it’s not at all boring, but you can feel you would need a little more time and slightly different circumstances to become a lot more invested in this sport. Max can see that, because he stops talking about it as soon as the race ends. When you try to fight back a yawn, he looks at you with a curious look in his blue eyes. 

“Did you sleep last night?” Of course he knows you had a very long night, one you spent with a friend in a club to celebrate the successful gig–well, at that point, you thought it was done. So you decide not to lie and nod, surprised to see an understanding look on his face as he leans back and points towards the hallway. “The second room on the right is the guest bedroom. Your suitcase is already inside. Go, take a nap. We’ll order something to eat after you wake up, and we’ll begin the learning sessions,” he says. 

“Learning session?” you ask, profoundly confused by this. 

He nods. “Like I said, I need you as a partner. My father will come here the day after tomorrow, and we’ll have dinner with him. He wants to meet my girlfriend. You’ll need to know a lot of things about me, I’ll also need to know a lot of things about you, and we also need to learn the story of how we met and how we live as a couple,” he explains casually, as if it was perfectly normal. 

Even though you vaguely knew what this job was about, you’re still surprised when you hear the details. You have a day and a half to learn, but you’re not afraid of that. You’re afraid of learning more about him, because that knowledge can be dangerous in the long run. But there is one thing that bothers you, one little detail that makes you question a few things. “Do you have a real girlfriend? If so, why not introduce her to your father?” you wonder. 

Max flashes a sad smile at you. “I don’t have time to date. And my father… Well, he has high expectations. He always told me I shouldn’t waste my time on airheads, so I needed someone like you to play the part. He will like you, I’m sure of it.”

“And why can’t you just admit you’re not dating anyone?”

At first, he opens his mouth to answer, but then he falls silent. The gears in his head are visibly turning, and it takes him a minute to finally speak up. “He’s willing to finally retire and let me handle things in the Netherlands too. But he only lets me take over if I’m in a serious relationship,” he says. 

“Serious relationship? And what if he wants to see us together after this meeting? You’ll threaten me again to play along?” 

His jaw tightens at this, but he doesn’t lash out. He’s perfectly calm when he speaks up again. “I’ll figure something out, don’t worry about that.”

Letting out a sigh, you pick up your bag and head to your room without saying anything. You can once again feel his eyes on you, and for a brief moment you even feel bad for him. It’s a lot of pressure he’s under, and it’s obvious that he really wants this. But you have a small voice in the back of your mind telling you that he doesn’t want control in another country, he wants his father to be out of the picture. There have been rumors about his troubled relationship with his father, and if even half of it is true, you wouldn’t want to be in his place. 

In the evening, after you emerged from your room, you only find an unknown man in the living room, flipping through the channels to see if there’s anything on TV that catches his attention. After some hesitation, you clear your throat to let him know you’re there, and he turns around to look at you with a big, contagious smile on his face. As it turns out, he’s Daniel, the man Max briefly mentioned in the afternoon, his right hand man as you now learn. Your host is out on an unexpected meeting, but he left instructions to order you something to eat while he’s away. 

After the introductions and the food order, your companion for the evening shows you the dozen shopping bags that are waiting for you in the hall, full of clothes and shoes that he thought you would like. While you wait for the dinner, you check the bags and realize that Daniel certainly has a good taste if it was him who chose them. All of them are designer clothes, things you would never buy for yourself, but they are undeniably pretty.

An hour later you’re both sitting by the dinner table, chatting about how he ended up working for Max, and he tells you details you’re not even sure you should know. But Daniel sees the uncertainty in your eyes, which is why he puts down his fork and knife in preparation for a speech. “Listen, you’ll have to be prepared. This game Max is playing? You need to have the answers to questions, you need to know these little details to play your role in a more believable way. So just listen and learn, okay? I’m sure Max will also tell you a lot of things,” he explains. 

“What is he like? Like you said, he’ll probably talk about himself too, but maybe as an outsider you can tell me something he wouldn’t mention,” you say as you push your plate away and lean back in your chair to give him your full attention. 

Daniel begins to talk. Max has two cats who are temporarily locked into his bedroom as he wants to introduce the three of you to each other himself. They are his furry children, he loves cats, so if you want to calm him down or avert his thoughts, just find a cute video with cats and show it to him. Then there’s the sim rig in the living room that you noticed earlier, one of the few hobbies he has. He plays padel with his friends every now and then, and he watches an insane amount of F1 and MotoGP. If we don’t count his leadership of one of Monaco’s biggest crime organizations, he’s apparently a pretty normal guy. 

You ask about his family, but he only shakes his head and tells you he would rather let him talk about it himself. This is a sign that there’s some touchy subject he doesn’t feel allowed to talk about, something that is probably important, so you make a mental note to corner Max about it later. 

That’s when he remembers he’s supposed to give you the phone he bought in the afternoon, and it’s already set up. And there’s a text from Max: The meeting lasts longer than expected. Don’t wait up. With a sigh, you put it on the table so Daniel can see what it is. He lets out a low hum, then suddenly stands up, already reaching for the plates. You pick up the glasses and go after him into the kitchen, following his lead as he puts them in the dishwasher.

“Why don’t you go home?” you wonder out loud. 

Daniel looks surprised for a moment, then a warm smile appears on his lips. “I have to stay until he gets back. Just to make sure you’re okay,” he adds.

“I can protect myself.”

“We know.”

So this isn’t about keeping you safe, Max just wants to make sure you don’t leave while he’s gone. It’s not that hard to figure it out, but for now you’d rather not tell that to Daniel. Which is why you nod and fake a yawn, then tell him it’s time to go to bed after such a long day. He’s a nice guy, you don’t want to lie to him, but right now you can’t fully trust anyone. You need to tiptoe around them, playing it smart for now. 

“Hey,” he calls after you. You turn back with a questioning hum, and he walks over to you with an uncertain look in his eyes. “He’s not a bad guy, and he gave you a choice when he offered you the job. I know, I know, it probably didn’t feel like it,” he says with his hands held up when he saw you open your mouth. “But he admires you. Professionally, of course. Ever since you began to earn a name for yourself, he’s been following your career. Just give him a chance.”

You nod, still having a hard time believing him. 

In the safety of your room, you can’t help but take a look around, wondering if you should check for hidden cameras, but then you decide against it. Even if you found one, there would be nothing you could do, because confronting them about it would lead nowhere. His home, his rules, and you’re not exactly in the position to object. Not like you would like to do anything they can’t see. But in the same way, you’re quite sure the phone has spyware too, they’re keeping track of what you do on it–who you’re calling, who gets a message, what social media apps you’re using. 

You’re on your own. 

//////

“Hey, it’s time to wake up.” 

With a groan, you turn your head to see who’s disturbing you, and to your surprise, you find Max standing in the door of your room. He’s wearing shorts with a simple gray shirt, looking sleepy as if he has just woken up himself not long ago. You shake your head and turn back on your side, even pulling the blanket over your head, but he’s not having it. Seconds later you feel the mattress dip on your side when he sits on the edge of the bed and gently peels the blanket back to your shoulders. 

“Look, I know it’s early, but we have a lot to talk about. We need to prepare for tomorrow, okay?” he says, surprising you with how gentle his tone is now. 

You sigh and sit up, resting your back against the headrest as you take a closer look at him. Could it be that he’s not as bad as you always thought? No. It’s just a trap, he’s only trying to earn your trust to manipulate you more successfully. You’re nothing more than a pawn in this game of chess, he uses you to convince his father to give him the keys to his empire. 

There’s a minute or two that passes in complete silence, but you can see the glint in his eyes that tells you he knows what you’re thinking about, and he doesn’t look happy about it. With a sigh, he hesitantly puts a hand on yours and looks you in the eye. “I’m not acting like I was nice, I really am like that. Especially with you,” he adds so quietly you almost miss it.

“What does that supposed to mean?” 

He looks away and bites the inside of his cheek. “Maybe I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while,” he finally admits, still avoiding your eyes. 

You can’t help but laugh at that. Daniel did mention that last night, it shouldn’t surprise you, but the way he just said these words? Strange. “If I didn’t know better, I would say it sounds like you have a crush on me or something.”

He rolls his eyes, but you can see how flustered he is, his cheeks turning into a bright shade of red within seconds. It’s hard to hide the small smile that wants to creep on your lips, because seeing the big, scary crime lord acting like some stupid schoolgirl is truly entertaining. While a voice in the back of your mind keeps telling you he’s lying, there’s something about the way he looks like he’s still half asleep that makes you wonder if he could even lie at this time of the day.

“Anyway,” he says after clearing his throat, “get ready. I’ll make some coffee and breakfast. Meet you in the kitchen.”

With that, he stands up and exits the room, leaving you thinking about why he’s acting like that. Yesterday he was way colder, giving you no choice but to come with him, but today he seems nice, and you can’t help but wonder if Daniel was telling the truth last night. Having breakfast with him only makes you more confused, because Max is super nice, smiling and laughing a lot as he tells you stories about his childhood. 

Throughout the day, you learn a lot about him, and in return he learns a lot about you. Having done his research, there are things he already knows, but he only lets this show when he asks you questions to clarify details. You notice the differences when he talks about his family, like the small smile and kind tone while he tells you about his mother and sister, and the deep breath he takes every time before talking about his father.

And then in the afternoon he says something that surprises you. Photos. You need photos of the two of you to make things more believable. It’s not that his father is such a big fan of taking a look at photographs, but if your story is that you’ve been together for a while, it would be only natural to find some scattered around your shared home. But how do you do that in such a short amount of time? Well, he has already thought of that.

He has a friend, Lando, who loves to take photos in his free time, and he promised to join you for the afternoon and the evening to help. He’ll instruct you when you do some selfies in his home or elsewhere, then he’s going to take photos with a phone as if you asked someone to help, then prepare his camera to do some professional shots too. All while changing from one outfit into another, sometimes even taking the time to have a small team change your hair and makeup.

Max is going a little overboard with this and he knows that, but it’s necessary to make sure there’s no room left for error according to him. So, despite not feeling energized enough to smile for the camera, you pull yourself together just enough to play the part well. You know you have to make his father believe you’re his girlfriend, but having his arm around you and feeling his body being pressed to yours is really weird at first. But then you manage to loosen up, even laughing at his stupid jokes that he keeps telling you to make you smile, and Lando is thrilled as he goes through the pictures on the locations.

It’s almost midnight, and the three of you are sitting on the couch, with Max being in the middle, an arm casually resting on the back of the couch behind you, while Lando is on his other side, carefully curating your new portfolio. Every once in a while he giggles, but when you or Max ask him what it is, he just waves his hand and moves on.  

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you two are the cutest couple I’ve ever seen,” Lando eventually says with a wide smile as he turns his laptop to show you a photo. 

The photo in question shows you sitting on the beach with your head resting on his shoulder, and he’s looking down at you with a shockingly sweet and loving smile, as if being in love with you was the most natural thing in the world. You glance over at him out of the corner of your eye, and there’s that smile again for a moment while he watches the screen. He says something to his friend, but his words simply don’t stick around long enough to be processed by your brain.

You’re only snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of the laptop closing. “Alright, Daniel can pick up the photos tomorrow. I have picture frames that go well with your apartment’s design, so you’ll only have to put them in their rightful places,” Lando announces as he carefully puts his laptop into the backpack. 

“Thanks, mate,” Max says with a smile as they shake hands.

The Brit waves goodbye before heading to the front door, leaving you alone in the apartment. For a few minutes you’re sitting there in silence, a short break he spends checking his emails while you’re playing with one of his cats. Even though you’re tired, you try to avoid letting it show, but somehow he notices, because he soon puts the phone away and turns to you with a kind smile. He doesn’t say a word, only motions toward the hallway with his hand as he mouths, ‘go.’

With a nod, you stand up and take a few steps away from him, but something feels off about Max. You turn back your head to look at him, and even though he’s once again scrolling his phone, you can see it on his face that he’s not just troubled, he’s also nervous as hell. Yes, he’s good at hiding it, but you can see the signs. Cursing under your breath, you take a deep breath and turn around properly. “Hey, Max?” you ask softly, earning a surprised look from him. “Wanna talk about it?”

His eyes narrow in confusion. “About what?” he asks, sounding honestly lost. 

Letting out a long breath, you sit back next to him and poke his temple with your pointer finger. “About what’s going on in this gorgeous head of yours.” You regret your choice of word right away, but there’s no way to take it back now, and he certainly noticed too. 

“Gorgeous?” Max repeats with a wide grin, and when you roll your eyes at him, he shakes his head. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Don’t worry about it.”

“Does it have anything to do with your dad coming tomorrow?” 

His jaw clenches at the question, but he doesn’t respond right away. Those blue eyes of his turn to the window, focusing on the view of the port below, but his brain is in overdrive, that’s clear as day. When you begin to suspect that he’s not planning on answering, you put a hand on his, even letting your thumb run over his knuckles in a soothing manner. He looks down at his hand and turns it just enough to wrap his fingers around yours, holding onto you as if this would ground him and calm his racing thoughts.

While yesterday you were defiant, this morning you promised yourself to play along and be nice, and apparently he appreciates it. No, maybe it’s not appreciation, maybe… Well, maybe he misunderstands it. Maybe he takes it as a sign that you have a soft spot for him too, after all he made it clear that he’s been keeping an eye on you for a while now. Max wants something from you, something that goes beyond a simple companionship, and this fake relationship might be his only chance to get this close to you.

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when he gently puts a finger under your chin, making you look up at him as he leans a little closer. “You know,” he begins hesitantly, showing you a vulnerable side of him that’s not even close to the image people in your circles have in mind, “my dad might wonder why I don’t kiss my girlfriend when he’s around. So maybe… Maybe we should practice.”

Sure, you have your moments, but you’re not entirely stupid, you can tell it’s not strictly about your upcoming play. He just wants to kiss you, plain and simple, and you don’t know how you feel about this. What would you do if he was a normal guy, someone who has nothing to do with the world of organized crime? He’s undeniably handsome, and today he was nice to you, even nicer than some of your previous boyfriends.

Then again, he’s probably just playing with you, and you can’t be some stupid girl who falls for his charm. Who knows how many women have already heard this story, that the great Max Verstappen had been keeping an eye on them and now wants to spend more time with them. You would be another victim, nothing more. 

“I really should get some sleep. I would probably mess up big time if I met your dad half-asleep,” you reply with a nervous smile after pulling your hand away and slowly getting on your feet. 

He looks confused for a second, but then he follows your lead and stands up as well, watching you with wide eyes. There’s something he wants to say, but he’s hesitating, and eventually he lets out a defeated sigh and nods. “Sure. Sleep tight,” he says quietly.

“Goodnight, Max.”

//////

The day has come. Jos Verstappen set foot in Monaco, and the tension in the air is palpable. Max is tense, he’s pacing his office like a caged lion, responding to questions in extremely short sentences. Eventually, he closes the door, so you’re left in the rest of the apartment with his right hand man, Daniel. He’s also nervous, but you guess it’s just a residue of his boss’ own feelings.

You sit on the barstool next to his in the kitchen, your fingertip running around the edge of the glass as you think about where to start. “Have you met his dad?” you ask him when you’re finally ready to turn to him.

His smile disappears in an instant, and he lets out a troubled sigh. “He’s a real piece of work, let’s stick with that.” He looks away, but you can see he wants to say more, something that you should probably know about the older Verstappen. You gently nudge his arm with your elbow, causing him to turn back to you. “He will grill you, expect that. In his eyes, no one is good enough for his son, and I’m sure he will do his research after meeting you.”

Nodding, you take a sip of your iced tea and begin to wonder what else is there. “I assume a merc isn’t who he would like to see on his son’s side,” you note. 

Daniel shifts in the chair just enough to face you. “It’s not that you’re a merc. It’s the fact you’re not really together. If Jos tries to learn more about the two of you, he’ll bump into walls, because obviously no one will know what he means. Max now has to convince him that you’ve been keeping this under wraps, but you already know this.”

“Yeah, he did mention that,” you confirm with a nod. “Listen, there’s something I wanted to ask. When I got here, you told me Max admired me. What does that mean exactly?”

A nervous grin appears on his face as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, no, I should have known this would happen. He really is terrible at hiding it, I guess.”

“Hiding what?”

“I’m not saying he has some Helga Pataki-style shrine of you in his closet, but… You know, he might have some stupid crush on you,” Daniel explains.

“Who’s Helga?”

Pain becomes visible on his face, and for a brief moment you expect him to start crying. “You guys are so young, you don’t even know Hey, Arnold, do you? God, I feel like a boomer.” He turns his coffee mug, but doesn’t raise it to drink. “Anyway, in that cartoon there was a girl, Helga, who acted kinda hostile with Arnold, but secretly she was obsessed with him and even had a shrine of him in the back of her closet.”

You raise an eyebrow as you try to process what he just said. So, unless Daniel is part of some elaborate scheme, Max might truly like you. In this case, Max picked you for this job because it would be easier for him to play house with someone he has real feelings for. These emotions could cause problems later on, they could easily turn into something violent after this whole play ended. You’re fucked. Damn it. 

“No need to worry about him. I know he can be ruthless, but you have nothing to worry about. He could never hurt you. Trust me,” he adds with a warm smile. 

The two of you sit there in comfortable silence for a while, which is only disturbed by a familiar voice calling out from the end of the hallway. “Y/N, could you come in?” With a sigh, you pat Daniel on the shoulder and head to the office to see what Max wants from you. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the desk with a troubled look on his face, and he avoids your face when you stop in front of him. Something is bothering him, and you guess that something is his father’s arrival. Ever since he received the message that his father’s plane touched the ground, he’s been extremely tense and irritated, and he’s been clearly avoiding you until now. But in a matter of hours you’re expected to meet him in a restaurant, he can’t stay away forever.

For a moment you think about putting a hand on his shoulder, just to give him a little pat to make him look at you. But then you decide against it, because you don’t want him to think you have a soft spot for him. Who knows where that would lead? Let’s just keep a safe distance for now. “What’s going on?” you ask him.

Max finally looks at you, and you can see the hesitation in his blue eyes. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry for wasting your time, Daniel will take you home,” he announces. 

Your brain needs a moment to restart and process what you just heard. “And your dad?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Max,” you say softly as you take a step closer, but he holds up a hand to stop you. “Why are you doing this?”

“I had time to think, and… I can’t do this to you. You were right, I could just hire an escort or someone to play the role. I’ll tell my dad I’ll meet him tomorrow, and that will give me time to get someone else ready,” he explains, then gets off the desk, motioning towards the door. “Pack your things, I’ll discuss a few things with Daniel until you’re ready to go.”

Shaking your head, you reach out to take his hand. He’s clearly surprised, because he pulls it away as if you’ve just burned him. “Why? Did I do something wrong?” The only answer is a shake of his head. “Then what’s going on? We know everything we need to know about each other, why would you bother going through this again?” you ask with a confused frown.

Max lets out a sigh, then bites his lower lip. “I made a mistake. I trust you, I know you won’t turn what you know against me. Now, pack your suitcase and leave.” Gulping, you nod, and turn to head back to your room, but he suddenly speaks up again. “Thank you. For everything.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

You can’t help but wonder why these words tasted so bitter as you said them. Sure, you spent a lot of time getting to learn everything, but you wanted to get away from him, you didn’t trust him, so you should be happy now. Yet, as you’re packing your suitcase, you can’t help but think about the past two days. Maybe there’s a part of you somewhere deep down that’s sad it’s over so soon. Maybe this part actually grew to like Max. 

Well, maybe it’s not just a small part.

[brayneworms]

don't wanna know what's good for me

part one | m.list

featuring. childe/reader

word count. 5.2k

content. NSFW, merc!reader, rivals to Something, masochist!childe, public sex (they're alone but like ... ), gender neutral reader, mild violence + gore (stabbing, blood), degradation (slut), anal fingering, handjob, pet names (sweet thing), begging, reader is fucked in tha head.

notes. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, i check the notes you will be blocked

♩ gods and monsters — lana del rey

The Snezhnayan air is bitter.

All the more for the fact that, even as you traverse the long lapses of snow and frozen rivers, you're still not entirely sure what you're doing here. Even as you emerge upon the house, a round hike from the bustling towns some way back, lit warmly against the overcast backdrop, you're not entirely sure what you're doing here.

Even when you knock and a tired-looking woman with blue eyes and fiery red hair opens the door, because when she asks if she can help you, you open your mouth and nothing comes out for a few seconds.

"I'm here to see Tar—Childe," you say. Oh. You guess that's what you're doing here.

The door stays pretty much put. The woman looks at you dubiously, and you realise with the same kind of shock a butterfly must feel when getting its wings ripped off that this must be Childe's mother. Archons, he has a mother. Not like you didn't know, but still. Sometimes it's so strange to remember that he's flesh and blood like the rest of you.

"Are you... a friend?" You can't fault her doubtful tone. You certainly don't look Fatui, but you're not an ordinary civilian, either. You probably should have stashed away your daggers before knocking; if you're honest, you hadn't expected Childe to live in such an ordinary home. "He's recovering right now, is all."

"No, yeah. That's why I'm here." The words feel stuck, awkward. Her deep blue eyes are swimming with doubt, so you reach into your pocket. Your fingers brush the hilt of a knife.

You hold up the little box you've stowed in your pocket. Gift-wrapped with a blue ribbon.

"I brought sugared almonds."

Childe looks thunderstruck when you walk in, and you take a moment to enjoy the honest shock on his face. He looks tired—when he sits up, the woven blankets fall from his shoulders and pool about his waist, displaying a bare torso bandaged to all hell. You can't fault his surprise whatsoever—it had been months since you'd seen each other, since he left Liyue after... well.

The memory of chalk and dirt under your nails, flaking in his hair. The grunts of pain and pleasure that became so frequent the line was quite blurred. You remember how the column of his throat flexed when—

"Scourge," he says, wide-eyed, voice a little rougher than normal. You're not entirely sure what happened in Fontaine, but it must have been exceptionally rough to put Childe on his back like this. You can't help feeling a smidge of envy toward whoever fucked him up so thoroughly. "Do my eyes deceive me?"

"Not this time," you say indifferently, taking a perch on the edge of his bed. His room is disconcertingly boyish, all carved wood and blue knit blankets. There are animals incised along the headboard of his bed, ducks and narwhals and whales. "Brought you a little gift."

You toss the package of almonds over, and his automatic catch of it makes him wince. His fingers are as steady as ever, though, when he deftly unties the ribbon. His eyes peer up at you, even more nonplussed than before. "Did you trek all the way to Snezhnaya to bring me sweets?"

"Oh, you didn't hear? My goal in life is to make you happy." You dig in your satchel, bringing out a small medallion. Childe's eyes glint with recognition when you pull it out into the firelight. "The traveller asked me to return this to you."

"Ah," he breathes. "What a sight for sore eyes." He reaches out, this time, takes it from your hand; you feel the dry brush of his skin against yours. The vision glows happily when Childe cups it in his palm, turning it over and over. "I was wondering how I would've gone about getting this back. The dear traveller is so busy, flitting from one nation to the next... I thought I might've had to trek all the way to Natlan, visionless."

You shuck off your boots and cross your legs beneath you. "Don't tell me you think not having a vision would encumber your progress. You'd really disappoint me."

Childe cracks a smile; there's a split in his lips that has scabbed over, and it strains when they pull apart. "Well, we can't have that, can we?"

He's still irritating, like a bug that buzzes faintly around your ear, the sort small enough to constantly evade killing. But something about seeing him stripped of all his usual finery, and trussed up looking exhausted in his childhood bedroom, is making you more amenable to him.

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth," he says finally, popping a sugared almond between his lips, and you try not to focus on the way they purse and squish around the segment, "But what are you really doing here, scourge? Did you miss me?"

"I think we had this conversation before," you say dryly. "Something about swatting mosquitoes." You pause. "Liyue has certainly been quieter, though. Without all the gods falling form the skies, and torrential typhoons."

Childe's lips quirk. "Well, if you've come looking for adventure, I'm afraid things around here are spectacularly boring. In truth, I grow more restless every day. I'd be up and about already if my blessed mother didn't insist on making me rest. There are a great many things in this world worth arguing with, scourge, but a fifty-year-old Snezhnayan woman isn't one of them."

"I'll bare that in mind."

His eyes gleam. "Oh? You almost sound as if you're planning to stay."

Ugh. You hate when he trips you up like that. He's one of the only people capable of it, too—not that you'd let him know. You squint at him flatly.

"Well. Maybe if you make it worth my while," you drawl, biting back a smirk at the way it makes his ears turn red. "I'm sure I could find something to wave my big sword at in the meantime."

Childe's eyebrows waggle. "Well, if you're looking for a big sword—"

"Down, boy." You jab a finger into his chest, just shy of the bandage wraps, and his shoulders convulse around it with a choked gasp of pain. He glances up at you beneath gingery lashes, so pale you can see the wide, deep blue pools of his irises with eerie ease. Dead-fish blue. You raise your eyebrows. "What're you looking at me like that for?"

He huffs weakly. "I think we both know I have a propensity for a little pain."

"In your family home, Childe? Beneath your blessed mother's roof?" You drag your finger painstakingly down his sternum, over the bandages; you can see the frayed purpling edges of bruising beneath them when they dip beneath your finger, and Childe tenses and groans quietly. He shifts imperceptibly closer to you, and you let your hand drop.

It's too easy. He looks so boyish here. It's honestly throwing you off. You withdraw your hand, aware that something cold must be shuttering over your expression because you see his own one drop in response, brows coming to knit together in a tiny expression of confusion.

"Nah," you say lightly. "Come find me when you're a challenge again. Enjoy the almonds, sweet thing."

Because, yeah—you've never liked anything easy. It's why you carve your way through Teyvat in a bloody railroad, one gang out outlaws at a time. The money you get is only a bonus; your real price, the only one that matters, is torment.

Childe slumps back into his pillows, scrubbing a hand down his face with a wry chuckle. "Ha... might've known. Don't worry, scourge, I won't be such a bitter disappointment for long."

You stand. "I know. Or you're not the guy I thought you were."

It's a month or so before you see him again.

You stick to your word and hang around Snezhnaya, eventually finding some sort of cold, dusky beauty in the frozen plains. The architecture is intricate and colourful, and the people conservatively hostile, which works for you just fine. People were much too friendly in Liyue and Mondstadt; you feel more like you're among your own kind here.

You end up contacting the adventurer's guild and taking on a few bounties, just for enough cash to hold down steady accommodation and food. You don't think too hard on why you're determined to stick around, when flight has always been much more your style. You immerse yourself, for the next few weeks, in wrestling bandits off of trading routes and collecting Hilichurl masks.

It's one evening as you circle a frozen lake, picking off members of a bandit guild that have taken to pickpocketing merchants, that he reappears to you. You're locked in a pretty ugly fight with a monster of an outlaw, taller and thicker than you, when something wet touches your cheek. A flash of water, so hard and sharp as to resemble a glaive, cuts past you and slices through the guy's skin, bearing a spill of scarlet blood. He jumps back with a scream of pain and rage, hefts his rusted ax to take another swing, and you see a flash of ginger and white cut past you.

Childe's water-daggers move so fast that they look like wet blue blurs, making ribbons of the guy's shirt and flesh. Combined with the injuries you'd already imparted upon him, it was no time at all until he dropped to the ground, blood leaking from him to salt the frozen earth. The rest of his guys scarpered pretty quickly.

Childe turned around to face you, a grin on his face. His pupils were slightly dilated—probably sinking his blade into something after so long felt like taking a drink after a stretch of sobriety for someone like him. Not that you could judge; you got antsy, too, when you hadn't fought for a while. Like your hands were filled with too much energy, and if you weren't using them for violence you weren't sure what the point of them was. They became merely many-fingered appendages, attached decoratively to your arms.

"I had him," you mutter, sheathing your swords. Childe bobs on his feet, almost floating with ecstatic energy.

"I know," he says, easily enough that mollifies your bad mood a little. "Just got a little overexcited at being able to fight again. I've missed it more than you can know."

There's blood spattered across his front, a daub across his face and arcing down his pretty dove-grey suit. Here, in the cold of his home nation, he wears a thick fur cloak over his shoulders; it makes him look grander, more impressive. Fatui, indeed.

He catches you looking and his smile gets wider; it barely even resembles a smile anymore, actually, more a baring of teeth. Coupled with the wild eyes, he looked suitably as feral as he is inside. Something deep in your gut twinges at the sight.

"You know, you surprise me," Childe comments, his watery blades dissipating into the air with a flick. "You'll cut your way through a battlefield, but you won't fuck me in my childhood bedroom? Your morals are all over the place, scourge."

"Don't call me that," you say automatically, finding you can barely blink when you look at him. "Fucking freak. You want me to make you cry when your siblings are running over the place?"

"They know not to come into my room," Childe pouts. "Mama doesn't like them to be able to stumble across all my weapons, lest they learn what I truly do for a living. Anyway, that isn't the point. I just can't work you out."

You work your jaw for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. You've never been very good with words—Childe seems to have an endless supply of them, with an uncanny ability to fashion them in any poetic formation he likes. He certainly knows which ones will get under your skin the most, and the pretty way his lips tie up like a bow when he puts emphasis on some of them. You've always been more hands-on. It's no wonder this is what you do for a living, really.

So instead you ask abruptly, "You're all healed up, right?"

Childe tilts his head, looking only mildly surprised. "Fit as a fiddle."

"Show me. You had a pretty nasty bruise on your chest last time I looked." You cross your arms expectantly as Childe blinks, looks around. The landscape around you is assuredly deserted; you're miles and miles from the nearby town. The risk of being stumbled across isn't zero, but it's pretty damn close.

"...Here?" Childe asks.

"Whose morals are all over the place now?" you grumble, indicating the bandit still bleeding out on the floor some feet away. Childe huffs a laugh, escaping him in a frosty white cloud.

"Fair enough. I concede to you, scourge," he sighs, and begins unbuttoning his shirt. You try not to look overly-eager, but something in your expression must give you away anyway, because he catches your eye and laughs as though enjoying a private joke. His fingers are deft as they slip buttons through expensive-looking silk, baring the pale slice of his stomach to you.

Around the snow's white glare, he looks paler than ever, skin practically lurid against the waves of dark orange hair and freckles scattering his shoulders. They spiral down his chest, absent of any bandages now, the only remnants of the ugly bruising a slight mauve discolouration crowding around his sternum.

You poke it; not much of Childe is overly soft, save for a small pouch at the bottom of his abdomen. He's all sinewy muscle, oscillating between lean and bulky. The tops of his arms and shoulders are broad, but he whittles down to a small waist and sharp hips, the suggestions of which you can see now with his skin bared: the ghostly impressions of bones, disappearing into his waistband.

"I'm a sight for sore eyes, right?" Childe says, a note of breathlessness in his voice. You hum dispassionately, poking at the remainder of the bruise; it gives like the skin of overripe fruit, smushing beneath your finger, and Childe shivers. "Wish mama let me out of bed earlier. I'd still have a lovely bruise for you to torment."

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" you murmur, and run your tongue over your bottom teeth. "Lie down. I'll bruise you up again."

You follow him down to the ground; when you kneel, the snow starts melting through the fabric of your pants, makes your knees wet and cold. Childe lays on his cloak, looking up at you warily.

"I won't submit so easily this time," he tells you, sticking his chin up. "You'll have to fight me for control."

You shrug as though it doesn't make the slightest bit of difference. "Okay. I'll win."

Childe shivers; you expect that knowing you'll win is half the fun to him. He likes challenging you just to be shot down. You thought, before, that he was simply a masochist. Now you think that being overpowered, specifically, is what gets him off. Not that you care for the psychosexual intricacies of whatever is wrong with him. You just like feeling strong, and he's strangely pretty, and you like taking the will out of pretty things.

Still, he does begin to make good on his promise. His hand knots in the collar of your cape and he pulls you down for a bruising kiss. You realise with a thrill that he tastes sweet and earthy, and that he's been eating the almonds you left him. It's a fucking weird amount of preparedness, and the idea that he'd come here hoping for this... it excites you. You kiss him harder, shoving his shoulders down to the ground and climbing on top of him.

His hand slips under your shirt, fingers spanning over the stretch of your stomach, and you falter just momentarily. He hadn't really touched you at all, last time—your positions are remarkably familiar, but this initiative is different. Last time he had merely enjoyed being overpowered. This time, you think he craves the fight of it. His thumb strokes over the skin of your abdomen, tantalisingly close to your waistband, and you curse the warmth that unfolds in your gut. You can't start feeling good, not yet, not until you have the higher ground over him.

You drag your lips down, pin them against his cheek until you get to the sharp vertice of his jaw; you tongue the underside of it, finding the ridge of his pulse point and dragging your teeth over it, feeling his hand falter and clench involuntarily.

This is how it should be with him—teeth and nails and tongue. The kind of fucking that lovers do is a million miles from this. It's something sort of angry, sort of reverent, like the worship of an evil god.

"You're such a fucking slut," you growl, and you're close enough to his throat to see the way it flexes when he swallows. "You wanted me to fuck you that first day, didn't you? With your poor family on the other side of those walls? Do you give it up that easy for everyone?"

Childe's breathing picks up; beneath your legs, you feel the muscles of his thighs twitch. When he opens his mouth to reply, you jam two fingers between his lips, feeling the inside of his mouth. He makes a choked noise, but his tongue immediately comes up to lap at the pads of your fingers, lips closing around the knuckle.

You sate yourself, taking several deep breaths even though the hot, wet inside of his mouth has your skin tingling. He makes a humming sound in the back of his throat that reverberates through your flesh, and when you press down on his tongue he makes a pretty gagging sound that makes you close your eyes briefly. Fuck, you want to hear it again.

Whilst your distracted, Childe shifts his leg; his knee slots itself between your own, pushing up against you with a suddenness that makes you inhale sharply and grit your teeth. Childe can't exactly smile with your fingers in his mouth, but he makes a smug noise and his eyes flutter with faux-innocence.

With your free hand, you wrestle his thigh from you and pin it to the floor with your knee. Childe is still making obscene noises around your fingers—putting it on, you'd wager. He sounds like the squealing painted girls in brothels, just stifled by the digits down his throat. You glare at him because it's easier than admitting how much it's turning you on.

With your free hand, you fumble for the opening of his trousers, delighting in the way his throat spasms with shock as you open up the slacks. It's tricky work to shuck the fabric down his thighs, and even trickier to restrain yourself when his legs come into view. They're built, stocky, crisscrossed with pale scars and freckles, and the urge to grab and squeeze is actually painful to resist. Instead you focus on the bulge in his dark briefs and the way his skin pebbles in the cold.

You push your fingers down his throat once, further, until he coughs and jerks and then you pull them free. In the cool evening light, they glisten with saliva, rolling down to your wrist. Childe's lips are glossy, eyes glazed over as he watches you; when you squeeze your dry hand over the tent in his underwear, the full force of his moan rips from him, loud and wavering, perhaps unaware that he'd have to stifle himself now without the gag of your fingers.

He flings his spare arm over his face, mortified.

"Cute," you croon, changing tack. "You're so cute like this, Childe. All small under me, yeah?"

"Shut up, scourge," he groans. "You know where I'm not small?"

You pinch his thigh, making it spasm prettily. You watch the red mark bloom up and fade, like a flower's life in fast motion. "I know where I'm not gonna be touching, sure."

Childe cracks open an eye, staring at you. "Huh?"

You shrug. "What'd you think you were getting my fingers wet for? Decoration?"

You can see his eyes widen with the realisation, even as you tug his underwear down along with his trousers. He casts another furtive look around, but there's no real concern in his gaze. In fact, if you had to guess, he looks almost hopeful that someone will stumble across you both like this. Degenerate.

You slip your hand down his stomach, feeling taut muscle and soft flesh, watching as it twitches with each sharp breath. Between his legs, he's half-hard already, and he twitches when you ghost your hand, feather-light over him. His hips cant up, once, as much as they can with you sitting on his thighs.

You bypass his cock, using your knee to knock his legs further apart and reach between his legs. The first light brush of your fingers over his hole has Childe gritting his teeth, biting the inside of his cheek very hard. His eyes burn into you, cold blue fire, when you carefully ease the tip of your index finger inside.

You let out a breath, chest aching. He's hot inside, tight; you feel him trembling against you as you glance up at him. "No shot you're a virgin here," you comment as languidly as possible, as if your heart isn't beating a harsh tattoo against your ribs. "There goes my theory of how you got so high up in the Fatui."

Childe makes a strangled noise that was probably supposed to be a retort. You don't move your finger either way, watching his face closely for signs of honest discomfort or pain. But there's just a concentrated furrow between his brows.

"You want me to go further?" you ask, voice like silk. "You wanna feel me inside?"

He groans, twisting simultaneously to and away from you. "Scourge—"

"Ask nicely, or I'll stop."

He swallows again; his internal conflict with his own pride is tantalising in the way you wish it could be made into something physical, something you could eat.

"Keep going," he pants. He blinks big, round eyes at you, playing the innocent lamb. "Pretty please?"

It should be no dice—you want him to ask as him, to feel the scorch of humiliation, not as some character. But before you realise it, your finger is sinking into the first knuckle, and his head thuds back against the snow with a punched-out gasp.

God, you wish you could fuck him properly. You'd give anything to stretch him out around you, but you don't have any of the tools or supplies you'd need. So your fingers would have to do for now. Your free hand gathers a handful of his ass and gropes, watching the fat bleed between your fingers as he yelps, hips squirming against your hand.

It takes several minutes and a lot more spit to ease another finger inside of him, and his thighs tense at the brush. His hips rock insistently against your hand, groaning behind a bitten lip, and when your fingers finally have enough give to start moving he makes a cut-off strangled sound in the back of his throat.

"Bet I could make you come like this," you mumble, more to yourself than anything else. "Won't even have to touch your pretty cock, will I? Look at it, crying for some attention." You sort of flick it with your spare hand and he makes a sound like he's dying, eyes flying open.

"Scourge, Archons," he curses, dick jumping in interest despite it all. His mouth hangs open, a slack 'O' of over-sensation. "You're so cruel. That hurt."

"That's the point," you mutter. "Otherwise you wouldn't come to me for this, would you?"

Childe squirms, pouts. "Still. I'm but a simple village boy. I'm not built for a beast like you."

You laugh, almost genuine. "'S that what I am? A beast?" Your fingers curl up inside him, brushing against a tough spot that makes him keen against you, hips jerking.

"I—" he pants, lip trembling. "What?"

"Beasts are selfish creatures," you comment. "A beast would never think of letting you come on their fingers. So surely you're confusing me with someone else, yeah?"

"Yeah," he gasps, rocking against your hand. "Scourge, please. You're killing me here."

"I wish. You'd probably be quieter." But you acquiesce, starting a slow rhythm of your fingers in and out of him. You're slow, working them up to the second knuckle, trying not to shiver at the heat inside of him. When you curl your fingers up against that spot, he keens like a dying dog, thighs clamping around your body slotted between them. It's... a pretty sight, you think. You've never been averse to admitting that he's handsome. You've always had an affinity for breaking pretty things.

It's part of the game, you think.

You move inside him like you're ringing a bell, and Childe's breathing starts coming in short, sharp bursts as he writhes against your hand. After not too long at all his witty remarks trail off into bitten-off grunts and moans, twisting his head into the snow in some effort to try and hide them. With your free hand, you curl your fingers in his hair and yank, feeling the feathery red strands go taut against your digits.

"Don't hide from me, sweet thing," you croon, and Childe shuts his eyes as though praying for patience; his cheeks are bright red, making his freckles more lurid. He shudders and gasps when you yank his hair, body arching so much that he lifts off the floor. You take the opportunity to painstakingly work in a third finger. He shudders at the stretch, the inevitable burn, so you try to distract him. You push his shirt away from the rest of his torso, finding the nipple with a healed slash through it and rolling it between your fingers.

Childe shudders; he looks strangely young in this moment, the age he truly is—what, twenty-five? Barely that? He's flushed down to the chest, stomach convulsing under the comparatively soft gestures. You stroke and pinch him until his hips push tentatively back at your hand again—signalling, in his way, consent for continuation.

You tut. "So greedy. Did you forget anyone could walk across us?" you ask, and Childe makes a broken-off groan. "Maybe you want that? How long do you think it would take the talk to get back to the Fatui, hm? Nobody would ever take you seriously again. Some warmonger you turned out to be, writhing in the snow like a helpless animal, about to come on my hand."

Childe gasps, nodding frantically. "Yes—yes—"

"Yes, you're going to come?" You can't help the wicked smile that spreads over your face, like an infection, like a blight, like something that doesn't look at home.

"Yes, Archons, scourge," he wails pitifully. You get the feeling his body would be spasming if you weren't pinning half of it down. He's bright red against the plains of snow, lips bitten red, eyes barely able to stay open. One of his hands wrapped around your wrists, dragged your hand to his cock; it looked painful now, weeping pre from the tip. "Touch me here."

You roll your eyes. "Why should I?"

"Please," he whines, blinking up at you. "I'm sorry for being annoying earlier. I just wanted you to..."

"I know what you wanted. I'm not in the habit of rewarding brats," you say, but your eyes are glued to where he's put your hand. You haven't moved it, yet. He's hot and hard and wet under your palm, twitching to life when your fingers brush over the burning skin. He makes a wavery, sort of sobbing noise when you don't make any move, hips jerking pathetically for some kind of friction.

"For fuck's sake," you mutter, making your hand into a loose fist and wrapping your fingers around him. His jaw hangs open, eyes rolling back as his pale lashes flutter, and you stroke him quickly in time with your fingers moving in, out, the pace brutal and punishing—exactly how he likes it, and exactly how you like it. Every breath punched from his chest is a moan, hoarse and desperate. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, and you realise he's torn the inside of his cheek to shreds with his teeth trying to be quiet.

It's thrilling, that he'd bloody himself just to try and get under your skin, and that he'd fail anyway. He's pretty like this. And close, you can tell by the way his muscles go tense, moving under pale skin like liquid. His throat is bared for you, head thrown back and he's uttering strings of unintelligible curses under his breath. Fuckohfuckpleasepleasescourgepleaseithurtsplease—

"Come on, Childe," you murmur, leaning in close, mouthing over his pulse point and feeling it jackrabbit against. "Make a mess for me."

With a few hoarse, desperate noises, a strangled "Fuck, fuck—" his body convulses beneath you, eyes squinching shut; his insides clamp around your fingers, spend spilling across your hands and his stomach in pearly arcs, hot and wet and pretty disgusting. You ease your fingers out of him as quickly and carefully as possible, not wanting to linger for the aftershocks.

He's limp like a dead fish beneath you, chest expanding, collapsing, over and over like a supernova as he struggles for breath. He looks physically winded, dazed like someone's beat the shit out of him. You take the opportunity to tuck him away and tug at his underwear and trousers, yanking them back up his thighs.

He mumbles something incoherently, sluggishly lifts his hips to assist you. After you button him back up he makes an effort to prop himself up on his elbows, looking up at you blearily.

"You didn't bite me this time," he says, sounding almost rueful. Your eyes dart to the healing ring of teeth at the junction of his shoulder, a mass of blunt scars coiled in a half-wreath. You pang at the thought that one day it might be replaced entirely by new, smooth skin, unmarred, unmarked.

You swallow. "There's still time."

"Nah. Moment's passed." He sighs, shaky fingers working at his shirt. "You'll have to do something worse next time."

Your mouth quirks into a smile before you can stop it. "Next time, huh?"

"I certainly hope so." He cocks his head, blue eyes catching the light briefly, the way they so often miss it. Like something inside it is permanently dampening it. "I'm only getting stronger, y'know. You'll have to fight me even harder for it next time. Or maybe I'll be the one telling you what to do."

"When hell freezes over, maybe," you say. The both of you cast a look around at the frozen wasteland around you and crack up laughing; it reminds you of the seldom times you'd spend together in taverns in Liyue, scarily normal for once.

"Well, I'll count the days," he hums, getting to his feet properly. His legs tremble a little, but he still offers you a hand. You take it. Maybe because it doesn't feel like it's accepting help, from someone so provably weaker.

Some feet away, the bandit's blood has turned the snow bright red.

[tf2-in-my-head]

BANG tf2 steven universe

wanted to draw out a little scene using audio from su soooo heres this

and practice doodles

(tf2xsu au by @lenny-link !)

notes and rambles under cut

bonus points if you can guess the scenes these reference and also one of my mains from this (its engie) im a big fan of peridot and i saw peridot engineer……you know i gotta

i imagine with limb enhancers engineer is taller than a few of the mercs, but without them ends up being just a little shorter than scout like canon height, so scout pokes fun at him

anyways what led me to find out abt this au is the fact that its the top post in the engiespy tag because of the engiespy doodle there soooo expect more soon!!!! lapis blue spy uhh i think so

[babydollmarauders]

SAY DON’T GO — LUKE HUGHES

luke hughes x fem!reader

summary: in which y/n is in love with her fwb but he doesn’t reciprocate the feelings

warnings: slightly nsfw scenes (?), angst, betrayal

notes: based on ‘Say Don’t Go’ by Taylor Swift. i feel like this is a lot less angsty than i had originally wanted it to be, but i basically just wrote this to try and get over writers block, so it’s probably shitty but it’s at least something.

*not my gif*

“fuck.”

his one word is stuttered out in a shaky breath, the rise and fall of his chest steady under my lingering touch.

the faint aching of my legs is nothing compared to the overwhelming dread that settles in my chest, awaiting my impending dismissal.

i climb off of him, a hiss leaving my lips at the sensitivity of him sliding out of me, and drape myself beside him instead. my eyelids flutter, exhaustion creeping up on me as his arms encircle my waist.

these are the worst parts. these are the parts that ruined me. these are the parts that threw me into the inevitable mess of love that drags me through each of our nights together.

“do you need anything?” his lips press against my neck, his hands sprawling across the small of my back, pulling me deeper against him. “a water? a snack? do you want me to clean you up?”

at the shake of my head, he cuddles deeper into me, my hands raising to thread into the mess of curls atop of his head as he continues to kiss down my neck.

after a few moments, he stops, pulling away to lay beside me.

the silence is killer, only filled by our slow breaths and the occasional brush of his fingers against my bare stomach.

“well, i guess i should get going.”

i roll over, rising from the bed as i speak, my volume barely that of a whisper. i peel my discarded clothes from the floor, my breath held in my throat, yearning that tonight might be the night he disagrees. that tonight he’ll tell me not to go; to stay with him.

“yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Jack should be home soon.” his breathlessly spoken words are like a knife to my heart, pushed deeper and deeper by his nonchalance.

gone are the days that he walked me to my apartment; replaced now by an idle wave and his eyes following me out of his bedroom door.

“bye, Luke.”

i stand in the doorway, my clothing messily adorned and my hair pulled into a quick and sloppy bun on my head. it doesn’t take a mirror for me to know that my makeup is smudged, black mascara surely circling my eyes.

the door is half closed, but i linger just a little longer, holding out hope for him to say ‘don’t go.’ for him to tell me to stay; but he doesn’t, and i don’t.

“bye, y/n.” he waves me off, his focus turning to the tv in his bedroom. “see you soon, yeah?”

my head falls, looking down at my light blue toenails; his favorite color. there he went, twisting the knife.

“yeah, see ya.”

i’m slipping my sandals back on my feet by the front door when Jack walks in, stopping in his tracks at my presence.

his eyes scan my disheveled appearance, his smile dropping.

“hey, y/n/n.” Dawson enters the apartment behind him, bumping him out of the way and taking his turn to study my figure. “you okay? you look sad.”

ever the subtle man; Jack is.

“yeah, i’m fine.” i plaster on a watery smile, attempting to round him in order to leave, but his hand wraps around my forearm, pulling me back.

“you sure?” Jack questions, his eyes full of pity. “i didn’t know you were coming over tonight. wanna watch a game with Merc and i?”

i just need to be alone.

“thanks for the offer, but i’m just gonna go back to my apartment. i’m not feeling well.”

“okay, well if you change your mind, just let yourself in.” i nod at his statement and he finally lets his hand drop, giving me the freedom i need in order to slip out the still open door.

i don’t think i can get away fast enough; nearly tripping over my feet to get down the hall and back to my own apartment.

it isn’t until i’m safe and secure inside my own place, my back pressed against my door, that i finally let my emotions out with a guttural sob.

i didn’t think it would turn into this.

when Luke moved in with his brother down the hall, i was just excited to have someone my exact age. someone else who had gone to college, so we could talk about our experiences together.

that acquaintanceship quickly blossomed into a proper friendship, one that meant the world to me. albeit, it had some tension of a foreign variety, i loved it.

then one drunken night turned into a hookup, which turned into two, until Luke proposed a friends-with-benefits situation.

i’ve never been the casual hookup girl, but i really like Luke. it was a shot in the darkest dark, but i thought maybe, if i agreed, we could turn into something more.

but now we’re eight months in and i’m fading into madness, waiting for him to turn us into something more. it’s slowly developed into sadness. more hurt coming from this arrangement than love.

***

Luke drapes a blanket over top of me, head-to-toe, and although i roll my eyes, a smile breaks out across my lips.

“i’m calling it. time of death-” he cuts himself off and i can hear footsteps entering his living room before he’s stage-whispering. “Jack, what time is it?”

“uhh.” Jack drags out, and in my head i can picture him checking his phone. “9:06pm”

“9:06pm.” Luke repeats in confidence, finally finishing his previous sentence. “may y/n rest in peace. loving best friend, caring soul, and horrible baker.”

“hey!” i pull the blanket off my face, glaring up at my friend as i lift my head. “last week, you said my cookies were good!”

“shhh.” he pushes his fingers against my forehead, shoving my head back down onto the cushion of the couch. “you’re dead and i lied.”

“do i even wanna know what i walked into?” Jack asks from his spot at the other side of the living room.

“y/n is dead, may her soul rest easy now.” Luke’s faux solemn tone sends me into a fit of giggles, earning myself a snapped playful glare and a shush from him.

“yeah, i’ve gathered that.” Jack’s eyebrows furrow, his eyes flicking between his brother and i. “how did she die?”

“a broken heart.” i half joke as Luke simultaneously states ‘the plague.’

“and how did she get the plague?” Jack feeds into his younger siblings joke while throwing me a concerned glance.

“she kissed a rat.” my friend determines.

“i did not!” i gasp, “i’ve only kissed one thing in the past eight months!”

Luke gapes at me, and i realize where i’ve gone wrong.

we never determined we were exclusive. he must assume i’ve been dating or seeing other people during our arrangement.

does this mean he has?

my heart twists in my chest at the thought and i have to swallow down rising bile at the image that plays in my mind of him with another girl.

oh Luke, why’d you have to make me love you?

“my cat.” i lie in attempt to cover my tracks, and it appears to work for the most part, as Luke’s expression goes back to his casual dry humored look.

“well, then, that settles it.” he nods his head in determination and Jack chuckles.

“i’m gonna need clarification.” i mutter and Luke takes the moment to sit on top of me on the couch, his weight sinking down on my thighs.

“Yoda kissed the rat and then you kissed Yoda.” he replies and my head falls back against the couch cushions, my abdomen beginning to cramp as i laugh.

“nobody kissed a rat!”

***

“shit, Luke— i love you.” it slips past my lips like a fallen prayer; spewing out in a whimper amongst my blissed haze.

my eyes widen, my hips faltering in their pace to meet Luke’s, the currents of pleasure that wrack my body taking a back seat in my mind.

i study his face; the sweat that beads at his hairline as he thrusts into me, his rhythm never faltering; the scrunched eyes and thrown back head that doesn’t move even after my words.

i can’t decide if he didn’t hear my sex-drunk word vomit, or if he’s deliberately ignoring it; but i figure it’s the latter when his hand on my breast loosens, and he rips it back like i’m too hot to touch.

he heard me.

i said ‘i love you.’

he said nothing back.

suddenly, my lust is gone, and in great timing because it’s at that moment that Luke finishes, pulling out and falling down onto the mattress beside me.

it’s quiet for awhile, neither of us speaking as we catch our breath. his hand sprawls against my bare hip, pulling me closer to him in the darkness of my room.

“did you finish?” he whispers, and i don’t have the heart to tell him that my mood was dampened, so i nod.

“mhm.” i hum and he presses a kiss to my nose.

“you didn’t like, mean what you said, did you?”

another twist of the metaphorical knife that he jabbed into my heart long ago.

“i don’t know, what did i say?” i play dumb, as though i don’t remember the confession that played from my lips just moments ago.

his nose scrunches as he speaks, “that you, like, love me.”

“oh- no. i don’t even remember saying it.” i whisper back, and suddenly i’m grateful for the near pitch black of the room, hoping it masks the glistening tears that spring to my eyes.

“i must’ve said it in the heat of the moment.” i add and he nods.

“cool.”

cool.

he thinks it’s ‘cool’ if i don’t love him.

he cuddles into me, his head resting on my chest, and i’m thankful that we’re at my house, because rather than continue these whispers in the dark, i can force myself to fall asleep.

closing my eyes, tears leak from the corners, dripping down into my hairline.

why’d he have to make me want him so bad?

i focus on the grounding feeling of the weight of his head on my chest until i slip into dreams.

when i awake, it’s still dark out, and my alarm clock reads 3:27am in bold red lighting. but Luke is nowhere to be found.

i’ve been asleep for merely two hours and he’s already left me; gone back to his own apartment.

i don’t bother putting on clothes, rather pulling my blanket up to my chin and curling up on my side.

sobs wrack my body, finally able to let out the painful emotions that i held in while Luke was here.

i’m so sick of him leaving me.

***

my knock echoes through the apartment, but i wonder if it was even heard.

Luke had texted me to come over, but i’ve knocked twice now with no response, and i’m ready to give up when the door finally swings open.

i yelp in shock, jumping back in fright at the rapidly opened door. when i step inside the apartment, Luke is standing behind the door, still dressed in his game day suit, his tie long forgotten now though.

“oh, hey.” i sigh in relief, “i was about to leave, ya know? you took forever.”

i stop in the entry hall, turning back to look at him, and he kicks the door shut, stalking towards me.

“you took forever to get here.” his words are followed by the crash of his lips upon mine, time slowing to a stop as he pulls me deeper into the kiss.

i’m his.

his hands come down to the backs of my thighs, pulling one of my legs to hook around his waist, and on instinct, i jump up with the other. my legs wrap around him as he walks us backwards to his couch, his lips trailing away from mine and instead placing open mouthed kisses down my jawline and onto my neck.

“Luke.” i whimper, my hips grinding down onto his and making him groan.

“shhh.” he hushes me, taking a seat on the couch and leaving me straddling his lap. “i had a really bad game. i need you right now.”

a spark of anger and sadness ignites inside me at his words.

he’s with me because of his game.

not because of me.

i need you right now.

he doesn’t need me.

he needs a release.

something to channel his anger into.

i push him away, detaching him from the pulse point of my neck as i do so. his lips chase after mine and i lean back with a heavy sigh.

“stop.” i whimper and he looks up at me with wide eyes and an alarmed expression.

“did i do something?” he wonders aloud, his hands rubbing comfortingly up and down my thighs.

“i can’t do this.” i smack his hands away, rising to my feet to create distance between us.

“can’t do what, y/n?” he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “i’m confused.”

“this!” i cry out, pointing wildly between us.

understanding settles over him, and i can tell just from the way his shoulders slump.

oh my god.

my heart sinks, my stomach twisting in knots as i shake my head, tears gathering in my eyes.

“you know.” i spit out, disgust filling my body.

disgust for him, for acting oblivious. and disgust for myself, for being oblivious.

“i know.” he confirms my suspicions, nodding slowly.

“you lead me on.” i tell him, overwhelmingly shocked at how calm it comes out. “you know how i feel. you know i love you; and yet you kept this going.”

“i’m sorry, y/n. i-”

“when?” my voice breaks, tears spilling down my cheeks.

“in October.”

four months.

he’s known i’m in love with him for four months.

yet, he continued to lead me on. to keep this arrangement going, despite how much he knows it hurts me.

“oh my god.” my knees feel weak, my body sick. “you knew the other week. when i told you i loved you, you knew i meant it!”

he gives a weak nod, slinking back into the couch cushions.

“why would you do this, Luke?”

he looks back at me, his eyes peering into mine; and i think the worst part is that i see no real remorse.

“i don’t know.” he shrugs, and out of every possible answer, i think that’s the worst one he could’ve given.

“i gave you all of me and you gave me nothing!” i feel like i could be sick.

my best friend.

the person i thought would never intentionally hurt me.

“i can barely look at you.” i mutter dejectedly, ripping my eyes away from his in order to pace to the front door. “i never wanna see you again.”

halfway out the door, i stop, peeking back to find him staring at the wall in front of him, before i continue my journey out.

my hand clasps over my mouth, in attempt to hold in my cries until i get to my own apartment, and when i finally arrive, i spare no effort.

as though i was physically weak, my body crumples to the floor as soon as i close my door. my knees hit against the hardwood, but i’m numb to everything around me; my emotional pain far outweighing any physical.

i feel betrayed and used. my heart ripped out from my chest and stomped into the ground as though it means nothing to him.

but amongst it all, i’m most mad at myself. because despite what Luke did, i still held out hope for him call out to me as i left. to say ‘don’t go.’ to ask me to stay.

but he didn’t. and he never will.

[stellayuta]

Love on The Grid - Formula 1 AU! Yuta Okkotsu - Pt 2.

Your likes, comments and reblogs really encourage me to write more! So do interact with this post and let me know your thoughts 🧡

PART 1

synopsis: One-night stands were nothing but a necessary painkiller for your inability to cross paths with true love. Your most recent find at a Vegas Club was no different. He was boring, obedient, SLOW! You leave him high and hanging hoping you'd never see him again until you find yourself gawking at a supersized billboard of him on a Vegas highway with the title 'LEGEND RETURNS TO VEGAS'.

genre: some s*xual tension, a lot of fluff, thrill and angst

content: 18+ only. Formula one driver! Yuta x f! reader, use of alcohol, swearing, mentions of sex

word count: 5k

a/n: part 2 came soon because i'm so pumped lolol. Note, In this story, Megumi and Toji aren't related.

WARNING: always use protection!

You sat in your hot, plastic seat with bated breath, like a thousand others, keeping your eyes trained on the asphalt of the track.

Even though it was November, temperatures in Vegas were no good - either that, or the revelation that your hookup from last night is a world-renowned athlete is making you nauseous.

You were in the most uncomfortable position in the entire stands combined, smack in the middle of a fired up Noritoshi and a spiteful Kokichi, who were planning on probably shouting at the top of their lungs for their favorite driver on the grid.

"When's this starting?" You turn to Miwa, a bit nervous.are You nervous to see that man, Yuta, in the middle of his job? What if he doesn't perform well - that would be embarrassing. Oh well, no one here knows about us anyway so it's fine. Except for his number one fan Noritoshi maybe.

"Well, they're almost done with the formation lap, so they should line up at the start line soon. Red Bull's Geto has the pole with a surprise front line seat for Ferrari's Gojo. King Okkotsu is sitting third with Ferrari's second, Itadori Yuji. Then it's Red Bull's Mahito followed by Merc's Toge and - " he goes on and on, speaking jargon and names You don't understand.

"Noritoshi." You stop him in the middle of his enthusiastic speech. "You understand that none of what you said passed through my brain right?"

"Ah well, none of it matters!" He cackles. "When the race begins - you will know who you'll cheer for and who will have you at the edge of your seat. Who gets your heart pumping." He says, fisting his chest. The last bit seemed a bit unintentionally personal but you roll your eyes at him anyway.

The drivers are soon done with their 'formation lap' which Kokichi is nice enough to enlighten you - is a circle they do around the track to prep their tyres for the race and check the tracks and engines. You also see now that Pole is the car sitting first in the starting lineup, as you narrow your eyes at dark, red and blue car zooming its way to ease into the frontmost bracket. That must be the bane of Noritoshi's existence and the Object of Kokichi's desire - Geto Suguru.

Behind him is a flashy red car that earns a deafening roar of cheer as he comes into position. That must Gojo Satoru.

Music Recommendation:

Behind him, and you find yourself looking really keenly. You spot the teal and midnight black hues of a fiery car, followed by another deafening roar and a partial standing ovation. So that's him. 'Mr. Cute Dick, I don't drink, I am not a virgin'. You smirk at thought of such a wallflower being at the center of one of the hottest sports in the world, in a championship with the highest stakes.

"Looks like Y/N is an Okkotsu fan." Noritoshi claims, grinning sarcastically at Kokichi who replies with a grimace. "No, I clearly saw her looking keenly at Geto."

"Ah, shut up the two of you." You snap. "Let me watch!"

The both of them exchange glances at your sudden interest but humor you as the crowd waits with a chilling silence. The five red lights light up, sounding a beep and you can hear your heartbeat in that moment as they turn green without warning and the race is on!

The set of 20 cars pick up speed at a maddening rate and are soon accelerating through the curves and straights of the track, tailing one another. The commentator is particularly zealous, and you find yourself listening to him with a lot of attention. Your eyes never leave the Teal and Dark vehicle with his tiny head popping out the cockpit, protected by his shiny, silver helmet.

For around 30 laps or so, nothing changes, and the people have started chatting amongst themselves. You slump back down into your seat.

There is some action going on at the back of the line-up with a few of the cars overtaking and re-overtaking one another.

"Well, this is boring…" You admit.

"It has its moments." Noritoshi states. "Oh wait, what's that-"

You turn to the track so fast, your vision goes blurry, and You nearly miss the spectacle.

The second red is quickly closing in on Yuta's Teal but Yuta swivels out of the way just in time, apparently surprising his tail-end as the driver, Itadori, loses control and touches the back of the first red car, Gojo's. Both of them start spinning dramatically and are vaulted out of the race at one of the turns.

"Collision! In the Top Five! Both Ferraris are out!" The commentator is roaring out now, with several people standing to get a better view.

You yourself are concerned for the Ferraris that seemed to have lost some parts of the car, leaving behind a trail of debris. But soon enough, both drivers emerge from their respective cars, with the taller one giving the crowd a thumbs up. He removes his helmet and a layer of clothing to reveal striking snow-white hair and dazzling smile. This sport is too fucking dangerous.

"The collision will be under investigation for sure to see if Ferrari's Number 3, Itadori is at fault! For now, the safety car is out."

You train your gaze on Yuta again. He seems to have taken a different route from the track now, heading towards a group of people, clad in suits and uniforms similar to the colors of his car.

"Hey, what's he doing?" You ask Noritoshi. You almost hear Kokichi mumbling "Oh shit." under his breath.

"That's a pit stop. Change of Tyres. Now is a brilliant time for this." Noritoshi says, his lips quivering. Is he really that excited for Yuta.

"The Safety Car has been taken off and with Mercedes' Number 7 quick thinking, Okkotsu takes the lead of the race!" The commentator announces earning a barrage of cheer from the crowd and a giant sigh from Kokichi.

"But not far behind him is Red Bull's Number 4, Geto, fastest car of the crop, who is looking to overtake… He has the DRS on and, and…." You don't need to listen to the commentator anymore because You see it happening and You almost let out some weird feral choke as Yuta barely, barely manages to keep his lead and the vicious, red and blue car accepts defeat, staying behind. You finally breathe out when You see Yuta gaining some speed and maintaining a good distance between him and Geto.

Kokichi pokes your shoulder and gives you a look of immense worry when You realize You are literally gripping your hair at the roots with both hands.

"ah, hah!" You laugh nervously, letting go off your now scrunched up hair. You lean back again as they announce the final lap and with no difficulty, as the checkered flag is waved, Yuta's Mercedes finishes first, with Geto behind him, followed by the other red bull, Mahito.

All of us rise to give the winners a standing ovation as confetti is blasted into the air and fireworks decorate the already shimmering Vegas skyline. You watch in wonder at the colors in the sky as Yuta pumps his fists up, getting out of his car and running over to his team.

"Good win, bro." Kokichi smiles at Noritoshi, who You now notice is on the verge of tears.

You see Yuta remove his helmet, but You can only make out his dark hair from this distance. You don't stop yourself from pouting at the disappointment. Why do You feel like You deserve being close to him right now. Maybe your good-luck suck off today guaranteed his win.

You see him disappear into the pavilion and ask Noritoshi if we can take a closer look at them.

"Close is not close enough to get their autographs but I can get you close enough to see their faces." Noritoshi claims and You give him a smile of gratitude.

"Geez Y/N. Did I really convert you in one race? Can't say if I'm prouder of you or myself." He jokes.

We stand for the Japanese national anthem as we cheer for the winning drivers receiving their trophies and drowning each other in champagne. Geto Suguru doesn't seem to be too keen to join into the racket, but Mahito wants to push the whole bottle down Yuta's throat. You smirk at the view. No teetotalling today?

As the crowd disperses out of the stands, we make our way through as well. You are tightly holding on to one of Miwa's and Momo's hands, each.

Noritoshi guides us through a few sections of the crowd and through a few random nooks and alleys of the arena until we reach what seems like a back gate. You see that a sizable yet dealable crowd is already standing there with Cameras and posters and shirts in hand.

"Well, this is a guarded secret, so not many know." Noritoshi winks at us. Today You are glad You became friends with his girlfriend, Momo.

We join the rows of people, but you fight your way to at least the second from start row, earning a lot of swears and some chick even trying to pull your hair.

You gaze at the gate with hope. One last look. Just to curb your excitement. It's just excitement nothing else. I'll be done after this. I'll go back to your city and drown yourself in work. None of this ever happened…. but why do You feel oddly bitter.

Is it because You realized Yuta and You are worlds apart? You are just an ordinary, honest worker - a commonality. Whereas he a star athlete, loved by the masses and with access to as many options as he wants. But what You have learnt from your past is, people can be as special or common as they want - a person who wants to find options, will always go out in search of options.

And as if to prove your point, You feel an ominous buzz in your hands right as You hear the doors open. You check your phone to see the screen flashing "Megumi Baby." right onto your face. You don't react or move; You simply glare at the screen. You are unable to breath as memories come flooding in.

Promises, nectar-soaked words, caressing your face with the deepest look of love. His bare back shining with sweat as he pounded into a girl from your workplace that YOU had introduced to him as your coworker. Him turning around, expressionless, leaving without giving you an explanation. Him telling you that you were expecting too much of him and You should have never assumed we were a thing since he was just trying new things in life.

All of it comes back to me, not particularly with ease. It washes over you like a tsunami. Completely drowns me. It's not until the incessant shouting of the crowd brings you to your senses that You snap out of your trance.

"Yuta! Yuta!" the people cheer. "Look here, please, just once. Yuta!"

You stare in horror as You spot Yuta's back getting into his matte black car. You are only able to see a small fraction of the back of his head and his white shirt.

You missed your chance.

You look back at the still ringing phone and want to smash it to bits. Fuck you, Megumi. Fuck you.

The first thing You do is cut the call and block his vile number. Then You try to scream out Yuta's name too in a futile attempt to get his attention, but You are not loud enough.

Amazing.

You start laughing to yourself now.

What was the point of this?

You recall yourself looking in the mirror at your apartment, coaching yourself to make this a pleasure trip. You would hookup with the best guy You could find, forget Megumi for good and move on with your life. So, whatare You doing now?

That guy Yuta would probably head to some lavish after party now and have a string of the prettiest girls in the world willing to suck him off. What use is it down?

The realization nearly brings you to tears. You should have never tried. You slowly retract your raised hands and sink back into the crowd, letting them continue their cheers. You turn back and slowly make your way out of the crowd and towards your friends.

"Wow, Y/N. Even Noritoshi and I didn't go that far in. You good?" Kokichi asks.

"Y/N, sweetie, you look like you're about to throw up what's wrong?" Momo asks me, cupping your face while Miwa rubs your arm.

"Megumi called…" You admit and all of them show a violent shift in expression.

"You haven't blocked that asshole yet?" Miwa asks, furious. You shake your head. "I just did."

"Y/N. You better not maintain any contact with him. He's the absolute scum of-"

"Hey, hey there miss." Suddenly our discussion is interrupted by a polite voice. We all turn around to see two men in suits and glasses standing tall and strong, waiting behind us. They look oddly familiar somehow with the waxed-up hair and somber faces. One of them has a scar near his lips and the other has his hair in a messy bun.

"Miss, are you the one who took Mr. Okkotsu out of the Four Seasons Club last night?" One of them, the bun guy, asks in a business-like fashion, pointing at me. Ah, now You remember them. The two lookers from the club last night, hiding Mr. wallflower behind their broad backs.

Scarface gets a call before You could reply though.

"Yes, Mr. Okkotsu. We're on our way. Well, we have a surprise for you." he tells Mr. Okkotsu mischievously. You narrow your eyes at the word "Surprise."

Scarface exchanges a knowing look with Bunhair and both of them cage you in.

"Would you like to see Mr. Okkotsu, again? It's not like we can force you, but he gave us specific instructions to find you and let him know."

"I didn't make him out to be a stalker you know." You say sarcastically, pondering if You should accept their offer. your friends do give you a strange look and You almost want to tell at least Noritoshi what's going on. But before You can take a call, You get a beep from your phone. This time it's a fucking EMAIL from Megumi.

Jesus, this man.

"I'm coming." You say abruptly. "I'll meet up with you guys later." You tell your friends as they give you looks of utter confusion.

"And burn this shitty device please." you say, tossing your phone towards Kokichi. "At least until I get some sort of restraining order against Megumi."

You exchange a look with Noritoshi and he knows in his heart that You will certainly get an autograph for him.

The two men take surround you as they guide you towards the waiting car. A matte black Lambo. They make sure to hide you from prying eyes, which isn't too hard with their gigantic muscular bodies.

You take a deep breath before You open the door and slide in.

Yuta and you share a good 10 seconds of absolute silence. Honestly, he looks like he's about to fracture his jaw from how wide his gaping mouth is getting. The two men climb into the front and openly laugh at his expression.

"Really, Okkotsu?" they say in unison.

"Wh-wh-wha-" He stutters.

"If you're that offended to see me, I can get out." You tease him, knowing he's going to grab your arm and make you stay. That's exactly what he does.

"Sorry, I was just surprised." He regains his composure. "Well, it's good to see you again, after last time…"

Uff, he shouldn't remind you because you wouldn't be able to control your cheeks getting flushed. There is another round of awkward silence before he decides to continue.

"Ah, right. You left your undergarments in the room last night, I thought you'd want them back so I-" before he can say anything else you slap your palm onto his lips, turning an embarrassing shade of tomato red.

"Not here, not right now!" You whisper-yell at him but his bodyguards/managers/goons/whatevers are quick to catch onto the conversation. Scarface who's driving the car gives you a perverted whistle without turning back and Bun-guy merely hums to himself, pretending to not have heard anything.

"T-Toji, that's impolite!" Yuta shouts at the scarface driver, turning red himself.

"It's not an uncommon thing with you. Aren't you creating quite a collection anyway?" The bun-guy butts in, leaving Yuta defenseless.

"Todo!" he yells at him too and slumps back into his seat, hiding his face. You study him. This was the champion race car driver an hour ago - and now he's a blushy, awkward, highly embarassing puddle.

"Collection, so you do this a lot huh?" You poke him.

"Absolutely not!" He sits up again. "Last night, I just…"

Now you're interested. Sounds like he broke a rule for you.

"Last night what?"

"Well, I just-"

"Oh my god, speak up, Okkotsu!" Toji screams from the wheel.

"Nevermind!" Yuta retorts and grabs your hands. "Are you coming to the after-party or not?"

"Well, I don't have a gown or anything…" You reply, looking down at your very non-party like clothing - a pin strip pant suit.

"Honestly…" He looks you dead in the eye. "You look so gorgeous, I don't want others to stare too much but if you want a dress, we can make a stop. I'll cover it, don't worry." He assures me, feeling a bit less awkward now.

For that compliment, he deserves to see a pretty dress on you and probably a flick to the forehead for making your heart race.

Todo seems to have a good eye for stores because the boutique he takes us to has a brilliant selection of clothes from classy to elegant to teasingly hot and even a corner for some sexy stuff.

You take some time to think and pick out a silvery satin cowl neck dress that compliments your cleavage and stops just a few inches shy of your womanhood. You also pair it will sparkly, strappy heels. You'll just have to make sure to walk properly to not expose anything… unless. When you walk out of the fitting room, you find Yuta waiting beside the billing counter, on his phone, matching your colors, in a light grey tux and black shirt-trouser set. He has combed his hair in a side part, looking rather sharp and you can smell his fresh cologne from a distance. He hears the clacking of your heels and looks up, his lips parting slightly at the sight.

For a moment when your eyes meet, everything stills, like the two of you are the only people in this room. The magnetic pull is something you have never experienced before, not even with Megumi, who you once thought was the love of your life. You walk over to him quickly, tucking your hair behind your ear and give him a twirl. "What do you think?"

"Might have to punch anyone who looks at you wrong tonight." He admits, sheepishly.

"W-What?" You mumble, looking away. Megumi could never. All he told you was to dress modestly so the men won't look. Never did he say he'd protect you. Maybe he never had the balls or talent to.

"Okay, you two get back in the car." Toji yawns at us, getting impatient or perhaps slightly weirded out by the clear tension between us.

The drive to one of Las Vegas' most affluent casino clubs was short and silent. You weren't really mentally prepared to see celebrities and big shots, partying away.

"This will be the best night of your life, I promise." Yuta assures you, intertwining his fingers with yours. You let him only because it calms your nerves. There are a few questions you need answers to though.

"Why are you doing this?" You ask and see Yuta's brow furrow.

"Are you uncomfortable or anything? You can't tell me-"

"It's not that... it's just..." you start. "It really doesn't make sense."

"I am not the most spectacular lay in the world." you admit. "I'm sure you have the world's most exquisite looking women dying to get time with you. I just don't see how being with me can benefit you."

You notice yourself putting yourself down and try to stop but your self-esteem is at an all-time low. That was one of the prime reasons you didn't want to meet up again with anyone you hooked up with during this trip. You wanted to leave feeling all parties involved had the best time of their lives and had no complaints.

Maybe lust got the better of Yuta and he'd come to his senses any minute.

"I think I liked the fact that you had no idea who I was..." He says and you raise your brows.

"I'm sorry I was unaware-"

"Nope, it's a good thing... I felt like I could just be the party loser, Yuta, for once... not a papped, scrutinized driver, Yuta. It felt oddly liberating." He admits.

"Plus, I-" He starts but swallows his words. "Do you remember what we talked about on the way to the hotel?"

You were not paying too much attention back then, being bowled over by the need to fuck someone, but... what did you say?

"Kids, we're here. Catch up later." Todo lets you two know, looking back. Before you could get off though, Yuta leans over.

"Are you going to tell me your name now or not?" He says. The shadows must be playing tricks on your eyes because in the dark, illuminated by paparazzi flashes you find your heart drumming inside your chest, unable to break eye contact.

"Y-Y/N. My name's Y/N." You say finally.

Yuta smiles wide at this and grabs one of your hands, opening the door to his flashy car and the light, noise and cheers hit you all at once.

He helps you get out suddenly, facing a sea of stunned yet curious people, you find yourself wanting to cry from embarrassment.

Oh no. no no no no no! What were they going to print about you now? What will you tell the managing director at your company about this PR scandal?

"Relax." Yuta holds your hand firmly. "I'll make sure only the news you want gets out." He reassures you, find your fingers again, locking them into his and you feel slightly better as you guys make our way to the inside, walking the red carpet.

The casino obviously is so maximalist, it hurts your eyes to say the least. There are people dressed in grandeur lining up at food tables, cigar tables and alcohol tables. There are some playing a few rounds of poker or gambling away at the machines. You are unable to focus on any one spot because all of it is so grandiose, you can't help but gawk at everything!

When people spot the two of you though, they quickly make their way over. Yuta is today's champion after all - this party is for him. They have a lot of good things to say to him - words of admiration, congratulations, words of passive aggressive envy but what all of them have in common is the looks of confusion or judgement they throw at you. One side-eye with a raised brow and they excuse themselves. Sure, no sparkly dress can make you look like one of them, but you had no idea 'big'-shots had the smallest sense of morals and social etiquette. Yuta introduces you as a 'good friend' to them and although it stings at first, this is a necessary step. It's what you would want and would cause the least amount of headache for the both of you. You aren't really friends or aren't really dating after all.

'One time Hookup-ers' isn't exactly a PR friendly term.

"Sorry about them. Most of them lack manners." Yuta says nervously but you reassure him that nothing they say can dent your self-image.

"No amount of looks they give me can change the fact that I'm not drowning in daddy's money, but my own." You smirk at him, leaving him impressed.

The two of you go through a few more people until you finally get to retire to a corner table of the giant ball room.

"How do you do this?" you ask, staring up at the magnificent chandelier crowning the hall.

"Well the boys never stay back for these kinds of things, we run off to different parts of the city to get wasted." He replies. "Just not before race night." You look at him with some mischief tingling behind your smile. He takes this chance to lean in closer and bump noses with you.

"And you thought I was inexperienced, didn't you?"

"So that's how you aren't a virgin...hmm, adventurous."

But Yuta shakes his head. "I've dated before. We ended things and I'm just beginning to explore my options now..."

"You must be spoilt for choice." You try to boost his ego, smiling wider as you feel his breath fan your face. Oh, how you could use a kiss right now. A kiss with everyone watching.

"I'm not spoilt for good choices." He says. "Having a choice doesn't always mean they're the best option for you." Damn, that's harsh. You cup his cheek in your hand and gaze into his dark blue eyes.

"And yet you gave me a chance-"

Before you can finish though, you hear a pair of boots slapping the ground while running in your direction.

"Okkotsu Yuta, you were supposed to give me the post-race comments. The media is waiting!" You hear a woman yell out as she approaches the two of you. She is dressed in a simple yet elegant navy-blue ensemble. Her eyes look disappointed, but her beautiful face, with its under-lip mole, maintains its poise. Yuta greets her with a sigh.

"I will, I will." He tells her. "Rika, let me off for today at least."

"No can do, Yuta." she shakes her head, getting her phone out.

"You can give me a few phrases and I'll piece together something coherent." she offers but Yuta doesn't want to hear it.

"Um, kind of in the middle of something?" He reminds her, circling his arm around your back.

The woman, Rika, gives you a pointed look. "You get one of those every other week. This is important business Yuta."

What does she mean those? You slightly free yourself from Yuta's embrace and look at him, confused. He looks as unaware as you are.

"Rika, you-"

"Yuta, you should stop toying with chicks. New one every few days. And when they want to get serious with you, I have to deal with all those calls and messages." Rika rants on and Yuta's eyes are getting wider by the minute.

For a second, you feel an empty pit in your stomach but before it can show on your face, you stand up.

"So that's how it is, huh?" you corner Yuta who looks aghast.

"Why am I even surprised?" you mutter, walking away from them. You remember Megumi's deadpan face as he walked out after you caught him and his mistress together. Yuta will be the same.

You reach for the balcony door to get some fresh air, but you feel your elbow being grabbed. It's Yuta. Huffing and very worried.

"W-wait, Y/N." He pleads.

You choose to keep your face neutral.

"It's fine. it's not like we were dating. Maybe, tell that woman to be mindful about her language though because the next time she addresses me as if I'm some object, I'll punch her." That threat, You are very serious about. This was a bad idea after all. You don't belong in the world of racecars, and parties and high-profile vips. You are happy with your computer and 3 cups of americanos, building prolific, useful software, from your cramped up office.

"Listen, Y/N... She was lying!" He tries to reason, and you take a look at him. You mentally give him thirty seconds to explain himself. He takes the cue and wastes no time.

"She's the one I dated. She has been my manager for a long time, and it has been some time since we split. I thought she had moved on since I saw her with another driver a while back but looks like she's still bitter." He explains frantically. But who he has dated isn't even your concern.

"I don't want to deal with fragments of your past, especially ex-flames, Yuta." you say bluntly. "I'm sorry, I have to leave now. Goodbye. Thanks for the evening."

You free yourself from Yuta's clutches, stifling a sob and heading towards the exit. You may have been seeing things, but you see a fluff of white follow you out from the corner of your eyes. It wasn't Yuta though.

Why did you care? It shouldn't matter.

No amount of love could bring people a universe apart, after all.

To be continued....READ PART 3 HERE!!

a/n: Okay there is practically no smut here but the plot needs some build up. Part 3 gonna be out soon and it's going to have a lot of smut, stay tuned guys!

[weapon-xox]

Hi! I saw you did a drabble and and i wanted to ask if I could request Worst wolverine meeting the X-Men where their logan is gone? (Scogan if you want!)

let me start this off by saying i put just enough scogan that you know theyre gonna talk on the phone later laying on their bellies, giggling and twirling their hair while wade twirls logans hair too bc i couldnt help the poolverine......

anyway if the pacing feels off im sorry this ended up longer than it was meant to be but oh well!! thanks for the request, enjoy 💕

oh also idk what this timeline is.... i threw in what i wanted so its my own so if it doesnt maks sense then oops! cherik never divorced thank me later

"You sure you wanna do this, Peanut? You don't have to," Wade assured.

The pair stood outside of the mansion, in front of those large and daunting doors, where Wade was messing with Logans hair, or readjusting his coat, pretending to make Logan look more presentable but he seemed more worried than Logan looked. More like how he felt on the inside, jittery and scared to death. "Really, I mean. We can go home. Right now. We can-"

"Wade."

"I'll make you dinner?"

"Wade," Logan snapped. The merc whined and slouched his shoulders, and Logans voice softened. "Gotta do this. Even if I choose not to be an X-Man in the end, I can't avoid them for the rest of my life."

"You can, though?" Wade half questioned, half stated. "They don't even know you're back. Or, maybe they do, but it's not like they came to find you. You can probably fly that perfect little body of yours under their radar forever!"

Logan knew Wade was just anxious. Domestic life had been nothing short of bliss, and Wade didn't do good with change. Reintroducing himself to the X-Men could really mean a lot of things, and Wade just hoped it didn't mean taking his Logan, the one he kidnapped and domesticated, away from him. Logan chuckled softly.

"I ain't lookin' to become an X-Man again, bub, I don't think. I just... Wanna see them again."

"But wont that be hard?" Wade whispered, hugging onto Logans arm, who leaned forward and bumped foreheads with the mutate.

"Extremely." And then he knocked on the door.

Wade stood in front of him defensively, but Logan pushed him back, and when the door opened a familiar blue, gentle giant stood in the frame.

"I... Logan, oh dear. Is that you? Do my eyes decieve me?" Logan frowned, furrowed his eyebrows, and was already ready to leave. Until Deadpool cursed and stood in front of Hank, peeking over his shoulder and noting the full house which, if you've forgotten, dear reader, is usually completely empty whenever Wade had been here.

"What the actual fuck?! Does everyone just like, what, go on vacation when I'm around? Logans back and so now you all are, too? Fuck you guys."

Hank wheezed in alarm, having no idea who this guy was, if not because he wasn't in costume. Logan groaned.

"Nice t'see ya, Hank. This is Wade, you might know the name Deadpool though." Hanks face lit up.

"Ah! I understand. It makes sense, you two saved the world together- don't worry, Wolverine. No one else knows that you're back, not outside of the mansion, but the TVA thought it good to alert us of your presence." Logan nodded, and guessed he understood, but that made him think of Wades earlier statement.

"You guys knew? Didn't try to find me?" He was glad, right? He didn't want to be found yet, but it didn't make it hurt any less. Hank smiled warmly, noting the slight hurt in his tone.

"We didn't want to overwhelm you, is all, and didn't know if you would even want to see us. It is best for all to let the Wolverine come to them first, to take your time. Everyone will be so pleased to meet you again."

Meet you. Logan was constantly reminded that this wasn't his timeline, that these weren't his X-Men, and that he didn't belong here. He should be back in that bar, drinking his troubles away and paying for his sins by wallowing in guilt and drowning in booze while the memories screamed at him, reminded him, of what he'd done.

Wade hugged him from behind and whispered, "I can hear you thinking."

No. Right now, Logan should be back at Wades apartment, lounged in his chair Wade had brought in from who knows where, but it was just for him. He should be walking Mary Puppins, or watching (listening, in Altheas case) to an episode of Wheel of Fortune. Not standing here, in front of the mansion, but Hanks excited chattering that Logan hadn't actually been listening to warmed his heart, because maybe they did actually want to see him.

When Hank made a gesture for the two to follow, they did, Wade staying close behind, still seething over the fact that everyone just happened to be here now. Fuck!

Hank showed them around. It was exactly as Logan had remembered, with slight differences, as was expected. Some students ran by them, hardly paying them any mind, but others stopped to pause and gossip among themselves.

Isn't that the Wolverine?

Didn't he leave?

Why does he look different?

Logan felt sick, despite the students best efforts to stay quiet he could hear it all, and maybe Wade somehow sensed that because his seething stopped and now fingers were pressed to the small of Logans back. It helped.

Then, Logan could smell something- someone, familiar and welcome, but the smell brought back so much pain that Logans legs felt like they might start running on their own accord. A second smell was next to it, softer and more floral, feminine, and it wasn't a good smell either. Not right now, while Logan was still grieving, not when he wasn't so sure he could do this anymore.

But before he could turn to tell his companion that he was ready to leave, those smells suffocated him, he couldn't breath, and then a pretty face with soft, grimacing lips was in his line of sight. Logans stomach dropped, and he could hear the thundering of Scotts beating heart from where he stood.

Wade clued in quick enough- this must've been Scott, who Logan would talk so much about, his nightmares more often than not having him scream out Scotts name in anguish. There were other names, too, but it always came back to Scott. And Wade could see why!

The man was very pretty. The stick up his ass was certainly there, Wade could see it in his face and tense body, which he knew would make him so fun to tease. Wade hoped Logan and Scott rekindled some kind of old flame, because he was sure he could make the pretty boy snap and he really wanted to try.

Next to him was a soft redheaded girl, and Wade knew this was Jean. Logan had a lot of guilt around her, too, but he never talked much about it. He rarely talked about Scott either, but Wade hardly slept at night, and Logan liked to talk in his sleep.

"Who is this?" Scotts disciplined voice cut through the tense air, he took a few steps closer, his fists balled up tight and Logan reflexively drew out his claws. Jean forced them back in, then looked at Scott silently. There seemed to be some sort of understanding there when Scott relaxed his fists, and cautiously asked again, "Who are you?'

"You know who I am, Slim," Logan spoke slowly, a step towards Scott, who took a step back. "There's a lot of explainin' I need t'do, but I need you to know... It's so fuckin' good to see ya."

Scotts eyebrows shot up, but Logan zero'd in on the tear that rolled down his cheek. Cyclops didn't say anything, whatever conversation they needed to have needed to not be done here, but he gave a firm nod, and Logan nodded back. A silent understanding.

Jean rushed over and hugged him though, she must've read his thoughts, but Logan didn't mind. He never minded, not with Jean, and he hoped that was an understanding here too. He hugged her back, pet his hand down long, silky hair, then pulled back to eye her up. He smiled through the pain.

"Don'tchya look good, red. Always do." Jean blushed and giggled, swatting at Logans chest playfully but she couldn't stop the sniffles of overwhelming emotion.

"You're such a flirt, I see that hasn't changed. Whose your friend?" Jean hummed, eyes flicking to Wade, who grinned and did his most regal (and dramatic) bow, dipping as low as he could before flicking back up slowly. "Wade Wilson, my spicy little hot tamale, but you can call me daddy. Or, MJ, if you're nasty."

Wade cried out when Logan elbowed him hard.

The rest of the day was filled with "reunions", the meetings and introductions of new faces, and they'd even ran into this timelines Gambit. He was different than the one they had met in the void, taller and more lean but with something of a swimmers build. He was pretty- the other Gambit was, too, but this one reeked of charm. His eyes were a permenant black and red, and long hair hung down his back in a ponytail. Rogue was on his arm, smiling and chatting up Wade, who took a big interest in the two.

Remy gazed towards Logan, a lazy tilt of his head, as that god awful accent drawled while a hand tightened on his girls hip, "Remy like what he sees. Big, strong Wolverine? T'ink ah can get real used ta seein' dat mug 'round here." Wade looked a little jealous, or maybe just protective, but Remy smoothly added "make sure you bring dat friend ah yo's too whenever you visit, sight fo' sore eyes I reckon."

Gambit had Wade blushing like a school girl.

They'd eventually found Storm, who had hugged Logan tight and welcomed him to the mansion, and Kurt, who perched on Logans shoulder while Wade curiously prodded at his tail. Kurt flicked it's tip against his forehead and shouted at him to get away, but it was all playful as he poofed off of Logans shoulder then attached to Wades back.

Jubilee, Bobby, Kitty. They all got their hugs from Logan, made him promise to go out for food with them soon, and after what felt like a lifetime Logan and Wade were alone, standing in front of Xaviers office, and Logan swallowed hard.

"I... Don't think I'm ready," Logan whined, turning around, ready to walk out. Wade grabbed hold of his arms and squeezed, keeping the Wolverine in place.

"Be a good boy, Logan. You'll regret it if you leave now, I know that. Chat with him, Peanut, and then we can finally go home and watch our favorite golden girls re-runs." Logan nodded, turned back around and went to knock, but the door seemingly opened itself with a loud, ominous creak. Wade hid behind Logan like a small, frightened child, the Wolverine shook his head and slowly walked forward.

Logan couldn't believe his eyes.

There were two figures at Charles desk. One was the man himself, smiling wide with those crinkled crows feet, hands folded over the blanket in his lap.

The other was tall, with a long cape and an expression that could turn anyone to stone, but no helmet. Logan parted his lips to speak, Wade beat him to it.

"Oh get the FUCK out of here, no way. Magneto?! Oh I am so wet right now." He squealed, practically bouncing up and down in excitement. Logan didn't see the appeal, his poor metal bones always ached around Magneto. He didn't trust him.

"I was wondering when you'd join us," Charles exclaimed, rolling out from behind his desk where Magneto made sure to keep close behind. Wade ran up to him, groped at his arms, chest, then grabbed at his cape and wrapped it around himself while pressing up close against the mutant. He was going to get himself killed.

Except... Magneto didn't move. He didn't even look at Wade, letting the man climb all over him like a jungle gym, his eyes stayed locked on Charles with the occasional defensive look at Logan.

Alarm bells went off in Logans head, and they must have been loud because Charles shushed him, and Magneto held up a hand, ready to stop the Wolverine right in his tracks. Logan growled, and Xavier raised a brow, pressed two fingers to his temple.

"...Interesting. This Logan is far different than our own was, Erik. If we thought he was hard to tame, this ones more in touch with his animal side!"

This peeked Eriks interest, and Charles went silent, Magneto and the professor looking between each other. If Logan had to guess, they were having a conversation, kept only to themselves, perhaps to keep Logan from flying off the rail.

Eventually, Magneto said aloud, just to Charles, "Very well," hands clasped behind his back, eyeing Logan up with a new fire in his eyes.

The sudden attention from who was supposed to be their enemy made Logan ill. The room stayed silent, tense, until Wade finally spoke, letting out a breath he must have been holding to keep from interrupting.

"Holy shit, baby cakes. Yes. Yes, we're joining the X-Men, and I am so on Magnetos team." Erik didn't seem to like that idea, and was about to argue there was only the one team, until Wade planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Erik pushed him away.

Logan was really regretting coming here.

[redislazy]

Deadly Attachments, Chapter 01

Chapter 02 >>

[EVENTUAL SMUT] - Minors DNI

> ao3 <

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x female!Reader

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Summary: As a skilled mercenary, you've navigated countless high-stakes missions—until one job puts you in the crosshairs of Task Force 141 and the elusive "Ghost." Now forced into an uneasy alliance, you’re drawn into a dangerous game of shifting loyalties and hidden motives. But as the stakes climb higher, one question lingers: how close can you get to the man who was meant to be a shadow in your path?

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Content Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Military Action & Romance, Mercenaries, Soldiers, Non-Canon Antagonists, Eventual Smut, Military Inaccuracies, Slow Burn, Will add smut-specific tags later as the story goes

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Author's Note: i've been wanting to write a multi-chapter Ghost x female!reader fic for a while now, and i'm excited to finally share it! i've already written a lot of chapters in advance, though they still need tons of proofreading; English is NOT my native language, so i rely heavily on tools like Autocrit, Grammarly, and ProWriting Aid to help me with grammar and flow + my bf, who's a native speaker, has been super helpful with this project. <3 a quick heads-up: there are likely some military inaccuracies;; sorry in advance! comments and feedback are hugely appreciated; they help me know if i'm on the right track! (10/29/24) edit: i made a playlist on both Spotify and Youtube!! it’s not exactly tailored to the story’s vibe, but more like the songs that kept me in the zone while writing. have fun!

You stare at the dingy wall of the interrogation room, your body weary from being bound to the chair for hours. You've always been pretty damn good at your job, but somehow, you finally met someone that matched your skills, managing to catch you. You—a mercenary who's been in the industry for ten years, and never once have you been in a bind like this. You let out a loud groan, your frustrations growing the more they make you wait in the room. Typical for the SAS to waste people's time like this.

The door swings open and in walks a tall figure clad in tactical gear, a skull balaclava covering his face. His cold blue eyes peer through the holes in the mask, scrutinizing you. The sound of boots echoing against the concrete floor is the only thing that fills the tense silence. He takes his time to observe you, noticing the signs of weariness and frustration etched on your face. He takes a seat across the table, his movements deliberate and controlled, making sure you know who's in charge here. He leans forward, arms crossed, and studies you.

"Alright," he says, his British accent sharp and authoritative, "let's cut to the chase. We know you've been working with those Russian bastards. What we want to know is why?" His voice is stern and unwavering, making it clear he won't tolerate any lies or evasion. He takes a moment to analyze your body language and reactions, trying to read you like an open book.

His hatred towards you isn't personal, at least not yet. But you represent everything he despises in this world—mercenaries who sell themselves to do dirty work without considering the consequences of their actions. He hates the fact that he has to deal with your kind in the first place. But he also knows that sometimes, information is more valuable than a bullet, especially when it comes to taking down the enemy. So, he'll play this game of cat and mouse for now.

You take a deep breath, stopping yourself from popping up a vein at his question. "I've been telling you this whole time! I'm not one of Kozlov's men. I'm a merc, okay? I was hired by a PMC." You let out an angry huff.

Once a decorated intelligence officer within Russia’s GRU, Viktor Kozlov became disillusioned with what he saw as the corruption and moral decay of powerful nations. After a covert operation went wrong and exposed him to the brutal lengths governments would go to maintain control, he vanished, presumed dead. In reality, Viktor spent years gathering resources, supporters, and arms to launch his own crusade against the "imperialist and morally corrupt" systems of the world. Now, he leads The New Dawn, a terrorist network dedicated to dismantling global powers through calculated attacks designed to destabilize entire regions.

The masked man raises an eyebrow at your response, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. He taps his fingers lightly on the table, the rhythm a silent countdown before he speaks again. "A PMC, you say? And yet, here you are, in the middle of our operation against Kozlov," he retorts, his voice still cold and calculating. In his mind, he's already running through various scenarios and possibilities, trying to piece together your story and find any holes in it. He leans forward once more, the dim light reflecting off his skull balaclava, creating an intimidating visage. "Who hired you? And what were your orders?"

You scoff at his question. "You think I'd just tell you who I work for? I may not look like it, but I have a decent work ethic."

Ghost chuckles darkly at your defiance, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Work ethic, huh? You do know we have our ways of making people talk, right?" His tone turns icy, making it clear he's not one to be trifled with. "Look, we're not playing games here. If you're truly not one of Kozlov's men, then you'll tell us who sent you. If you don't, I can't guarantee your safety. We both know how things can go south pretty quickly in our line of work." He pauses, letting his words sink in before adding, "And if you are lying, well, then it's just a matter of time before we find out anyway. So, what's it going to be?" His voice is firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

You take a moment to study the expression in his eyes, the only part of his face that is exposed. It's almost impossible to tell what he's thinking.

You sigh, recognizing that you no longer have the energy to prolong this game with the SAS any further. You've already been compromised. Hard. Is it truly worth it to hide details of your mission at this point? He's right; even if you don't talk, they'll find out eventually.

"Fine," you finally relent. "Aegis Black Ops. That’s who I work for. They’re a black-budget PMC; no official ties, just results. We take the jobs no one else can—stealing intel, sabotage, high-risk extractions. Founded by an ex-CIA agent, they run ops in total secrecy. Kozlov's been on our radar for a while now, and Aegis has a personal score to settle. We’ve hit his operations before, and my task was to steal data while he and his men are preoccupied fighting you SAS lot," you answer firmly, with no hint of any deceit in your tone.

Ghost listens intently to your explanation, his expression unchanging behind the balaclava. It's not uncommon for private military contractors to have their own agendas, but it doesn't mean he has to trust them blindly. After a moment of contemplation, he finally speaks up, "So, why didn't you just come clean from the start? We could've saved ourselves a lot of trouble." There's a hint of annoyance in his voice, but it's quickly replaced by curiosity. "What kind of data were you after? And what's so special about Kozlov that Aegis wants him out of the picture?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers together, studying you carefully.

You cross your arms, meeting his gaze steadily. “I didn’t ‘come clean’ because I know exactly how this works,” you say, keeping your voice cool. “You and the SAS might claim the high ground, but governments? They’ll weaponize any intel they can get their hands on. I’m not here to hand over data that’ll just end up as another piece on some political chessboard.”

You let out a low breath, fighting the urge to laugh at the irony. “As for Kozlov, he’s a threat, sure. But to Aegis, he’s also an opportunity—an unstable element that could bring a lot of secrets to the surface if we get to him first. I’m not here to play nice or pretend I’m on some noble crusade. I just know where my loyalty lies—and it’s not with any government.”

He maintains eye contact with you, a flicker of amusement crossing his mind. He nods slowly, acknowledging your position. "Understood." His tone is terse, showing no sign of taking offense at your blatant lack of trust.

He pushes himself off the chair, his military boots echoing in the cold concrete interrogation room. He paces around, his shadow looming over the data on the table. "We both want Kozlov gone," he finally says, stopping to look down at you. "That's enough common ground for now. But I'll need proof that you can deliver." He pauses, allowing his words to hang in the air. "Any proposals?" Ghost asks, his accent clipped and authoritative.

"I propose you untie me off this chair and send me home. I'm not going to get involved with whatever you're planning from here on out. I failed my mission already because of you, and that's where my role ended." You glare at him, each word sharp with irk.

He raises an eyebrow at your defiance, his jaw clenching slightly. He reaches up, running his gloved fingers along the edge of his balaclava. "Well, now that's a problem, isn't it?" he replies coldly. "Because I can't exactly let you go back to your merry little band of thieves after all this."

His eyes narrow, assessing your reaction to his words. "Besides, if you're half as good as you claim to be, then I could use someone like you. And it'd be a shame to waste talent like yours because of some misplaced loyalty." He closes the gap between you in a few short strides. Leaning in close, he looks down at you with an air of challenge. "So, what's it going to be? Are you going to be a liability...or an asset?"

You smirk up at him, not budging an inch as he closes in. “Oh, please,” you say sharply, mimicking his demeanor. “Let’s get one thing straight—‘misplaced loyalty’ isn’t in my vocabulary. I know exactly who I’m loyal to, and let’s just say it isn’t anyone waving a government flag.”

You tilt your head, meeting his stare without flinching. “And as for being a ‘liability’ or an ‘asset’? Let’s not pretend you didn’t decide to let me live because of my expertise in the first place. Maybe you’re starting to realize you need someone like me a little more than you thought, hm?”

You shrug, all casual defiance. “So, what’s your choice, skull-face? Going to trust a so-called ‘liability’ to get the job done, or keep playing it safe with your merry band of rule-followers?”

He straightens up, his gaze never leaving yours. "Skull-face, huh?" he replies dryly. "You think that name bothers me?" He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You're not the first to try to get under my skin." He steps back, his eyes glinting with a dangerous edge. He crosses his arms again, studying you closely.

You snort at his response. "Now, don't get me wrong, I simply just don't know what your name is. Until you introduce yourself to me properly, well, 'skull-face' it is." You give him an annoyed look, remembering how he just brought you in here with no pleasantries whatsoever.

He chuckles softly, the sound sending a chill down your spine. "Fair enough," he concedes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He takes a deep breath, contemplating his next words. "Names aren't important in our line of work," he says finally. "But since you asked so nicely, you may call me...Ghost."

A loud, audible chuckle escapes your lips as he mentions his name. "Ghost? Really? You think that sounds cool or so—"

But then it hits you, and your laughter dies mid-sentence. The callsign is strikingly familiar, and suddenly, the pieces fall into place. You let out a heavy groan, frustration washing over you.

In this line of work, you hear a lot about the big players, whether they’re on the right side or the wrong side of the law. Whispers swirl around powerful individuals, and one name always stands out: Task Force 141. Rumor has it they’re a unit of some of the most skilled soldiers, and one particular figure has earned a notorious reputation. A man who wears a skull balaclava and goes by the callsign 'Ghost'. Stories of his exploits send shivers down the spine of those who hear them.

Now that you’ve connected the dots, your previous confidence evaporates. The realization that you’re in the custody of this man sends a chill down your spine. The idea of wriggling free from his grasp suddenly seems a lot more daunting.

"Ah, so you're that 'Ghost'," you manage to say, the cockiness in your voice significantly dimmed.

He watches as your demeanor shifts upon hearing his name, and a smug sense of satisfaction fills him. He nods slowly, letting you process the information. "You might want to reconsider your choices," he warns, his voice low and serious. "You're in, whether you like it or not." He cuts off your restraints, freeing you.

You stretch your arms, letting out a sigh of relief. You get up from the seat, and you walk towards him, stopping right in front of him. His towering figure does not intimidate you at all.

"Just this one time. After I'm done being your lapdog, I'm out of here. Give me your word," you say commandingly.

Ghost studies you for a moment, your boldness surprising him.

"Very well," he agrees, holding out his hand. "One job, then you're free to go. But know this," he adds, his gaze hardening, "if you try to pull anything, I will make sure your name becomes nothing more than a whisper in the wind." Ghost's voice holds an underlying threat, but there's also a hint of intrigue.

Now that you know who he is, you no longer find it in you to scoff at his threats. You just silently stare at him, not saying a word any further as you accept his hand.

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Ghost remains silent as he leads you through the dimly lit corridors of the base, his mind working overtime, processing the unexpected turn of events. He hates being cornered, but something about your tenacity intrigues him. Upon reaching your designated quarters, he opens the door and motions for you to enter.

"Get some rest," he orders gruffly. "We leave at first light." Once you're inside, he closes the door behind you.

Relieved that the room includes a bathroom, you quickly take a shower, dressing in one of the spare outfits provided once you're done. You lie in the darkness of the room, attempting to ignore the creaks and hums of the unfamiliar environment, your mind drifting back to the mission, replaying every detail.

The plan had been flawless—or at least, that’s what Aegis led you to believe. They sent you in, banking on the fact that the SAS and Kozlov’s men would be too focused on tearing each other apart to notice you slipping in through the chaos. You'd timed it perfectly, darting through darkened hallways, avoiding the sounds of gunfire echoing down the corridors as you closed in on the server room.

The data was right where the intel said it’d be, and for a moment, you actually thought you’d pull it off without a hitch. You were halfway through the upload, the light on your drive flashing as it sucked in everything Aegis needed, little by little. The noise outside was just enough to cover the hum of the servers, your fingers poised, watching the data percentage tick up.

Then you felt it—that prickle on the back of your neck. Before you could even look, a shadow moved behind you, and the next thing you knew, a hand was on you, dragging you backward. You’d spun around, aiming to get the drop on him, but you barely managed a step before Ghost countered, deflecting every strike you threw. It was like hitting stone—unyielding, relentless. For every blow you threw, he responded faster and stronger.

You’d landed a few hits—felt the contact, heard his grunt—but it didn’t faze him for a second. Within minutes, you were pinned, arms behind your back, his grip ironclad. He didn’t even say a word, just hauled you up and marched you out, tossing your drive onto the floor like a discarded toy.

And now, here you are, lying in this cold, uncomfortable bed, running the event over in your head, wondering where exactly you went wrong.

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The following morning, Ghost knocks sharply on your door. When you open it, he sizes you up, noting your disheveled appearance. "Get changed," he commands, tossing a duffel bag at your feet, likely containing a fresh set of tactical gear in your size. "Mission briefing in fifteen minutes."

At the briefing, with everyone assembled on time, Ghost stands in front of a map, tracing a route over marked points as he speaks in a low, direct voice. “Alright, listen up. We’ve got a solid lead on Kozlov’s next location—a small compound just outside Grozny. Intel says he’s regrouping there with a skeleton crew. This isn’t one of his main bases, so we’re catching him at his most vulnerable.”

He glances around the room, making sure everyone’s focused. “We’re hitting hard and fast. The objective’s simple: we move in, locate Kozlov, and secure him. The area’s got minimal cover, but we’ll use the terrain to our advantage—come in from the east, using the tree line for our approach. Once we’re in, expect close-quarters combat. Kozlov’s men are few, but they’ll be armed to the teeth. Any questions?”

He pauses, scanning each face, his gaze briefly resting on you—a silent reminder of what’s at stake. “If we do this right, we’ll have Kozlov in cuffs by morning.”

As the briefing continues, your mind wanders to what comes next, once you’re out of SAS custody. You know that once this is over, things with Aegis won’t exactly be...friendly. They don’t take lightly to mercenaries who fumble, let alone those who end up in SAS hands. You’ll have to move fast, probably disappear, setting up somewhere under Aegis’s radar. Burn what few bridges you have left and start fresh—they don’t offer second chances to those who ‘compromise’ a job. Now, with the SAS using you as leverage, you’re as good as a loose end in their eyes.

Your gaze shifts back to Ghost, but he doesn’t notice, focused on the mission. To him, you’re just a tool—a temporary means to an end. Fine by me, you think. You just need to get through this. Once you’re free of their watch, it’ll be time to disappear.

As Ghost wraps up the briefing, Captain Price gives him a light tap on the shoulder, acknowledging a solid plan, then dismisses everyone. But Ghost’s gaze locks on you, silently signaling for you to stay behind.

When the others leave, he walks closer, standing tall over you. "What's on your mind?" he asks, his voice low and gruff, betraying none of the suspicion in his eyes. He noticed after all.

He leans forward, his gloved hands resting on the table, his presence imposing. He expects an answer, and he’s not accepting anything less than the truth.

You shift under his gaze, catching the intensity in his eyes. He’s watching too closely, looking for any sign of hesitation.

Your gaze drops to his shoulder, and you keep your tone casual. “It’s nothing,” you say, your expression unreadable. “Just keeping tabs on the mission, same as everyone else.” You shrug, crossing your arms, leaning back as if his scrutiny doesn’t faze you.

But the tension hangs thick, and his eyes stay on you, probing for cracks. He’s expecting something more, but you hold steady, giving him nothing. Just another merc playing the part—for now.

Ghost narrows his eyes, clearly not fooled. "Don’t play games with me. I don’t have the time or patience," he says firmly, a hint of a growl in his voice. "I’ve seen your type before—always thinking they’re smarter than the rest. But I promise you, testing my limits isn’t in your best interest." He leans in, his skull balaclava inches from your face. "I know you’re plotting something. If it’s against us, you’ll regret it." He straightens, his expression hard. Then, turning to leave, he issues his last command.

“Be ready in ten. We’re moving out.” He exits, casting one final, critical glance over his shoulder, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

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The night is thick with tension as you and the team approach the compound, faint lights flickering through the trees. You stick to the shadows, keeping a step ahead, while Ghost’s voice crackles in your ear, the only reminder you’re not alone. “Stay in formation,” he says in a clipped tone. “Just because you’re tagging along doesn’t mean you get to run off and play hero.”

You grit your teeth, ignoring his tone as you press forward. The plan is simple: sweep through, locate Kozlov, and secure him before he slips away. Gunfire erupts as the task force breaches the compound with their backup unit, everyone moving in sync while you keep to the edges, taking down guards with quick, silent strikes. But as the chaos unfolds, you catch sight of something—a narrow back stairwell leading out of the main area.

You slip through, already guessing where Kozlov is likely headed. If I’m right, I can cut him off before he even knows what hit him. You move quickly, your steps silent on the metal stairs, reaching the next floor and rounding a corner—only to nearly collide with Kozlov himself.

The second he sees you, he bolts, diving into the shadows. You raise your weapon, prepared to take him down. Ghost’s voice buzzes through the comms. “Report. Fall back to the main corridor.”

But you don’t listen; your focus is locked on Kozlov. He darts down a hallway, and you’re right on his heels, firing off a few shots that barely miss.

Suddenly, a strong hand clamps down on your shoulder, yanking you back. You spin around to meet Ghost’s glare, his jaw clenched in frustration. “You just couldn’t follow simple orders, could you?” His voice is ice-cold, and the disdain in his eyes is unmistakable.

You shrug off his grip, anger sparking. “If you’d just let me, we’d have Kozlov by now. I know his methods; he was one step ahead of your ‘perfect’ plan.”

“My plan doesn’t involve risking the mission for a mercenary who’s only here because she got caught.” His tone is biting, but before you can fire back, a gunshot echoes from the corridor ahead.

Both of you turn, watching as Kozlov slips through a hidden exit, vanishing into the night. Ghost swears under his breath, casting a look at you that’s a mix of anger and frustration. There’s no time to argue, and you both know it—but as Kozlov escapes, it’s clear Ghost won’t be letting this go anytime soon.

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The tension lingers all the way back to base, thick and unyielding. You can practically feel Ghost’s anger radiating as you step into the debriefing room. He barely waits for the door to close before he rounds on you, voice low and cutting.

“You just couldn’t stick to the bloody plan, could you?” he growls, his gaze cold. “You had one job—follow orders. But instead, you nearly compromised the entire mission. Kozlov slipped because of you.”

You cross your arms, not backing down. “Compromised the mission? I was the only one thinking on my feet. Your ‘perfect plan’ left Kozlov with an escape route I could’ve closed if you’d trusted me.”

“Trusted you?” He barks out a harsh laugh. “You’re here because you got caught, not because we need you. This isn’t a team exercise where you get a say. You don’t belong here—you’re only here out of mercy, and yet you keep acting like you know better than the people who do.”

Your jaw tightens, heat rising. “Unlike you, I’m not here for loyalty points, Ghost. You kept me because I know Kozlov’s methods. But when I try to use that knowledge, you shut me down.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping dangerously. “You think this is some mercenary gig where you’re the only one with skin in the game? Kozlov got away because you decided to act like a lone wolf. End of story.”

Your fists clench as you hold your ground. “Kozlov got away because you’re too caught up in hierarchy to recognize a good call when you see one. Face it, you’d rather let him slip than admit a merc might have a better idea than your so-called Task Force.”

Ghost’s jaw clenches as he glares at you, the air crackling with tension.

“You’re out of line,” he mutters, his voice low and full of warning. “Next time you pull something like that, I won’t bother hauling you back. You’ll be out there on your own—with nothing but Aegis breathing down your neck. Understood?”

You meet his glare, forcing yourself to stay steady. So he knows what fate awaits you after all of this. Of course he does. He's sharp.

“...Clear,” you reply, your voice cold. But you both know neither of you is letting this go.

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The morning drags on, with the wait for fresh intel on Kozlov stretching endlessly. Ghost’s words from last night still echo in your mind—“You’re here because you got caught, not because we need you.” As if you needed the reminder.

Stuck at the base with nowhere to go, you head to the training field. They won’t let you leave the perimeter, not while you're under their watch, so you decide to make use of the open space. You start running laps, each step an outlet for the irritation simmering inside.

The cold air bites, grounding you in the steady rhythm of your breath and the burn in your muscles. At least here, you don’t need anyone’s permission. A few passing soldiers give you curious looks, probably wondering why an “asset” like you is still around. But you push those thoughts aside, focusing on the field.

As you round another lap, you catch sight of Ghost by the railing, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable gaze. You keep running, refusing to let his presence disrupt your focus. But it’s clear he’s not here just to watch. Eventually, you slow to a jog, then a walk, meeting his gaze with a silent, unspoken challenge.

“Working off last night’s steam?” he asks, tone sharp, as if testing you. There’s a hint of something else there—maybe curiosity, or that familiar Ghost-brand amusement.

You wipe sweat from your forehead, catching your breath. “Something like that. Figured I’d make use of the time since I’m not going anywhere.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you as the type to sit around waiting for orders.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Not much of a choice, is there? Last time I did things my way, you made it crystal clear why I’m here—to do your dirty work and get out. I’m not wasting energy pretending otherwise.”

His expression hardens slightly. “As long as you’re under our watch, you follow our lead. Whether you like it or not.”

You glance away, jaw tight, staring out at the field. “Trust me, I’m not here for team-building, Ghost. I’m here because it’s the quickest way out of your custody.”

A flicker of something—irritation, maybe—crosses his face, but he holds his gaze steady. “Then don’t make it harder than it needs to be. Kozlov’s all that matters right now.”

You don’t respond, just push past him and keep running. He doesn’t need to say anything else; you both know you’re not about to play the compliant asset. And as long as that’s clear, you’ll do what you have to—your way.

The intel finally comes through a few hours later, and the team assembles in the briefing room. The air is tense, thick with the urgency that always hangs before a mission. Captain Price stands at the front, a holographic map flickering beside him, casting an eerie glow over the room.

He gestures to a marked point on the map. “We’ve got eyes on Kozlov. He’s holed up in a safehouse just outside Nizhny Novgorod. Remote location, minimal personnel—keeping it small to avoid detection. But make no mistake, he’s got backup on call, so we need to be fast and hit hard.”

He pauses, letting it sink in before nodding to Ghost, who steps forward to take over. Ghost navigates through the map. “We’ll split into two teams. Bravo will handle perimeter control, keeping his reinforcements at bay. Alpha goes in through the main entry.” His eyes flick briefly to you, his tone unyielding. “That’s you. You’ll breach with me and clear a path. Once inside, we secure Kozlov. No deviation, no solo heroics. Understood?”

He doesn’t wait for responses, focusing back on the map. “Timing is critical. We’re on a tight window, so the moment we hit the ground, we move. Any questions?”

The room is silent, everyone aware of the stakes. Ghost’s gaze lingers on you a second longer, reinforcing his unspoken warning. This time, you nod curtly, already running through the plan in your head. The sooner this is over, the sooner you’re one step closer to freedom.

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The mission starts smoothly enough. Under cover of darkness, the teams approach Kozlov’s safehouse on foot, moving quickly and keeping low. Bravo team takes position around the perimeter, silently eliminating the sparse guards posted on the outskirts, while Ghost, you, and a few others on Alpha team make your way toward the main entrance.

As planned, you breach the door and slip inside. Ghost signals for you to split up, both of you sweeping the narrow hallways and checking each room. It’s quiet—too quiet, almost like Kozlov is baiting you. Your instincts buzz with a sense that something’s off, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

You clear the first floor quickly, then move up the creaky staircase to the second. Ghost leads the way, moving with controlled urgency. As he rounds a corner toward a reinforced door at the end of the hall, it happens—an explosion. A tripwire, hidden under a loose floorboard, detonates. The blast rips through the hall, sending Ghost flying backward. He slams into the wall, dust and smoke filling the air.

“Ghost!” you shout, ducking for cover, the ringing in your ears nearly deafening. Through the haze, you see him slumped against the wall, struggling to stay conscious, blood trickling down his forehead.

A flicker of movement catches your eye—one of Kozlov’s men, sneaking up behind Ghost with a knife. Your heart races, instincts taking over as you spring forward. Drawing your own blade, you lunge at the attacker, catching him off guard. You manage to twist the knife from his grip before he can strike. With a swift, decisive shove, you send him sprawling, finishing him off with one clean motion.

Breathing hard, you crouch beside Ghost, gripping his shoulder firmly. “You good to move?” you ask, your voice sharp but steady. His eyes clear just enough to focus on you, and he manages a slight nod, though he’s visibly shaken.

He takes a shaky breath, forcing out a half-growl. “Didn’t think… you’d bother.”

You roll your eyes, slipping an arm under his to help him up. “Yeah, well, we’re not done here. Let’s get you out alive first—then we can argue about it.”

With Ghost steadying himself, you both push forward, weaving through the remaining chaos to regroup with the others. The safehouse is cleared shortly after, but Kozlov is nowhere to be found—it was a decoy. Not the outcome you wanted, but you’re both alive.

And, at least for now, Ghost owes you one.

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Back at the base, the adrenaline from the mission has faded, leaving an unsettling quiet in its wake. You step outside, seeking a moment of calm in the cool night air. The stars flicker above, but they do little to soothe the turmoil in your mind. You can’t shake the image of Ghost slumped against the wall, blood trailing down his face.

Leaning against the cold metal of the building, you’re lost in thought when you hear footsteps approaching. You look up to see Ghost walking toward you, his gait slightly uneven, a fresh bandage wrapped around his head. His gaze is sharp, unwavering, all business.

“You should be resting,” you say, trying to keep any lingering irritation from your tone.

He shrugs, a faint, almost mocking smile visible beneath his mask. “Rest doesn’t come easy. Figured I’d check on you after today’s fiasco.”

“Fiasco?” You raise an eyebrow. “You nearly got yourself killed out there, and I had to save your ass.”

“True.” He crosses his arms, something resembling respect flickering in his eyes. “But you acted out of turn. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“And what was I supposed to do? Watch you get stabbed?” You shake your head. “I’m not just some disposable asset.”

“Right,” he says, his tone hardening. “You’re still a merc, and I’m not sure where you fit in all this. Just curious—what makes you tick?”

You narrow your eyes, thrown by his sudden interest. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why do you do this? You didn’t get into this line of work for the glory. What’s your story?” He leans against the wall, studying you like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle.

You hesitate, debating how much to let him in. “Does it matter? You don’t see me as anything but a pawn.”

“Maybe.” There’s an edge of sincerity in his voice that surprises you. “But you saved my life today. I’d like to know who I’m working with.”

You cross your arms, defensive but resigned. “Fine. I got into this for survival, for the money. Aegis found me on the fringes, and I’ve been making my way through the chaos ever since.”

He nods, taking in your words. “And what happens when Aegis finds out you’re working with us? Think they’ll just let you walk away?”

You shrug, a bitter laugh slipping out. “If I don’t find a way out soon, I’ll be in deep trouble. But I’m not worried about their opinion. Life’s unpredictable; this is just how things ended up.”

He studies you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze intense. “I know you saved me today, but don’t expect any favors.”

“Trust me, Ghost, I won’t be asking for any,” you reply, a mix of defiance and resolve settling in your voice.

The silence stretches, the night air heavy with unspoken words. You know you’ll have to carve your own path, but this unexpected exchange has shifted something between you. As you look back at the stars, you can’t help but wonder where this uneasy alliance might lead.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ -

Author's Note: my upload schedule will likely be on weekends since I work full-time (rip). some updates might even come a few days earlier if I finish proofreading faster. hopefully, the first chapter has grabbed your attention! if you have any questions, feel free to submit them on my ask box, it’s always open!

[slythereen]

May I ask why you say the orange car is illegal? I see that around a lot and cannot tell if it's a joke or there is genuine speculation.

i think it’s 50% joke/feverish hope and 50% genuine speculation for most tbh. mostly bc the meteoric rise in mclaren’s development came out of the blue and it’s now a better car than even the rb19 seemingly (don’t quote me on that idk the math), with no perceivable disadvantages (monza is supposed to be one of their worst tracks) + some of the upgrades have seemed sketchy (the dagger front wing; this weekend it’s apparently a bendy/flexible front wing design that’s actually against regulations, which merc might be doing too)

when you pair that with distaste for mclaren in general and mclaren’s actual noted history with corporate espionage (against ferrari no less) and f1 fans’ tendency to decide too-good cars are illegal… clearly that mclaren is actually illegal!!!

[katy-133]

How Do Spy's Disguises Really Work? [TF2 Lore]

This is NOT a tutorial nor guide on how to use disguises in the game. This is a Team Fortress 2 essay about Spy's ability to disguise, how it works in-universe, and some implications we can deduce through it.

(This essay contains spoilers for the TF2 comics Old Wounds and The Naked and the Dead, and the Valve animation, Meet the Spy.)

Note: As of the time of writing, issue 7 of the comics has not been released.

Point 1) The Disguise Kit's Backstory

The Spytron 3000 is the personal device assistant Spy uses to disguise as the other 8 mercs. This name is listed in TF2's official website's page for Spy, while in-game, it's named as the Disguise Kit in your inventory. We also see the name Spytron 3000 printed on the model in-game.

The Disguise Kit is made to look like a cigarette case, and Spy keeps his cigarettes in it. Evidence that Spy smokes cigs kept in this case is seen in Meet the Spy, Expiration Date (seen pulling a cigarette out of it), and in-game (when you Taunt while holding the Disguise Kit, and animation can play of Spy smoking and flicking the cig away).

(Image: Meet the Spy)

(Image: Expiration Date)

The Sniper Vs Spy Update gives us this image, which is a catalogue advertising spy gadgets, with (assumedly) Spy circling the gadgets he wants to order.

(Image: Sniper Vs Spy Update)

The Dead Ringer (pocket watch) and the Cloak and Dagger (wristwatch) are items Spy can use in-game.

Another section on the same image shows Spy's catalogue order:

The Disguise kit doesn't appear here, but this image implies that the Disguise Kit came from the same manufacturer. This is significant, because it means that the Disguise Kit is something that Spy didn't make himself, and therefore has to rely on someone else for the Disguise Kit to provide what he needs from it (as he may not be able to edit or change the way the Disguise Kit works by himself). Keep this in mind going forward.

Point 2) How the Enemy Sees Disguises

In-game, enemy players see disguised Spies as whichever merc they are disguised as, from whichever team (as you can also disguise as one of your own teammates to fool the enemy). Enemy buildings (Sentry Turrets, Dispensers, and Teleporters) are fooled by this disguise.

In-game, as disguises are being activated, you can see smoke appear around an Enemy spy disguising. Remember that for later.

(Image: Weapon Demonstration: Disguise Kit, OfficialTF2Wiki, YouTube)

But what about outside of the game? In the comics, we see Classic BLU Spy (from Team Fortress 1) disguised as RED Heavy. The disguise is so flawless, it fools everyone. When he undisguises, there's a smoke effect.

(Image: Old Wounds, TF2 comics)

What about the animated shorts? Meet the Spy is the only example where we see a Spy use disguises in a Valve animation. In this example, a RED Spy is fighting a BLU Medic alone and Spy shapeshifts into Medic.

(Gif: Meet the Spy)

We see the following details in this scene:

Rows of red stripes of light appear over Spy.

Heat distortion (also called a mirage).

Smoke appear around Spy.

Spy's face changes into Medic's.

Let's break this down step by step.

I think we can infer that the stripes of light are red because it's a RED Spy disguising. This means that if a BLU Spy disguises, the stripes would be blue.

The heat distortion (the wiggly lines of air you see when you're looking past hot air) implies that there's some sort of release of heat that happens when Spy disguises. Another word for this is a mirage effect. Mirages are associated with illusions and being deceived.

The smoke implies something is burned when Spy disguises. It also adds significance to the Disguise Kit being disguised as a cigarette case (smoke = lighting a cigarette).

Then Spy's face changes to Medic's. It happens less like a morph and more like a liquid (or layer of a soft material) covering over Spy.

So the takeaway is that Spy's Disguise Kit allows Spy to look exactly like another merc, through some sort of process that involves extreme heat creating a cover over Spy. What is this heat and why does it change Spy's appearance?

In-universe, the technical mechanics behind Spy's shapeshifter effect are left vague. But we can look to another Valve game for inspiration to finding a possible explanation: Portal 2.

Poral 2 includes a technology described as hard light. They are used to create bridges in the game. Touching them is described as feeling "like standing outside with the sun shining on your face. It would also set your hair on fire," (according to GLaDOS). It is made from natural sunlight.

(Image: Hard light bridge in portal 2. Image from the Half-Life Fandom Wiki)

My theory is this: I think Spy's disguises are created using holograms that work in a similar way to hard light bridges in Portal 2. It is light bending around Spy, changing his appearance, feeling solid, and creating intense heat to form and unform.

Point 3) How Teammates See Disguises

In-game, teammates see disguised Spies wearing paper masks with an image of the merc they are disguised as.

(Images: Team Fortress 2 Official Wiki)

Why is this? How does this work? How does the Disguise Kit even produce the mask? Does it print it out? What is the smoke for?

Team Fortress 2's developer commentary includes this insight by lead designer Robin Walker:

"With nine classes of characters, and so many weapons and unique abilities, one of our biggest challenges was exposing all these combinations to players without overwhelming them. […] We tried to avoid attaching 2D elements to the HUD as much as possible, since we wanted players to be looking at the 3D world we'd built rather than some abstract representation. For example, players always see their own team's spies as a spy, but they need to know how the spy is disguised to the other team. We tried a quick hack where we put an icon representing the spy's current disguise floating above his head. The icon proved baffling to playtesters. When we tackled the problem by putting cut-out paper masks on the spy, it not only fit the humorous style of the game, but it let players get all pertinent information directly from a quick look at the spy's model, thus keeping them focused on the characters and on the action of the game." —Robin Walker, Hydro Map Developer Commentary

This is practical, because it stops teammates from trying to attack their fellow teammates whilst also being able to see what class (merc) the Spy is disguised as. Even teammate Sentries are not fooled by your disguise, and won't fire at you.

This is a play on an old trope in storytelling where a character is wearing a disguise that obvious to the audience, but fools the fictional characters. This prevents the audience from getting confused or fooled themselves. The TV Tropes dot org article for this is called Paper-Thin Disguise, making Spy's masks really on-the-nose in a funny way.

So can all teammates automatically see through disguises if the Spy is on their team? In-game, it appears so. What about outside of the game?

In the TF2 comics, we see just the smoke effect used. We never see Spy wearing a paper mask at any point in the TF2 comics. Nor in any of the Valve animations.

In The Naked and the Dead, Spy disguises himself as Tom Jones, which fools Scout. When his disguise vanishes, he emits smoke.

(Image: The Naked and the Dead, TF2 comics)

This is interesting because they are both RED teammates, but Spy was still able to fool Scout. This indicates that Spy can choose to have his disguises fool his teammates.

A Detour About Quantum Leap

Let's talk about Quantum Leap. It's a 1989 time travelling series about a man (Sam) who, through a sci-fi mishap, leaps into the life of another person each episode. Sam is always played by the same actor (Scott Bakula), but when he is seen in mirrors, we see another actor in his place. This other actor is how everyone else (the other characters) actually see him:

Scott Bakula as Sam pictured screen-left in both images, looking at his reflection.

(Images: Quantum Leap, 1989)

How does this work? The actor always being Scott Bakula is for the benefit of the audience. He is the main character in a revolving door of different settings, plotlines, and time periods. He is the anchor of the show that unifies episodes, and that's comforting for the viewer. It's non-diegetic.

Diegetic refers to an element in fiction that exists in-universe of the story and is able to be perceived by the characters. It's the soundtrack if the characters complain that it's too loud. It's the camera if they bump into it. It's meta.

So non-diegetic is something that doesn't exist in-universe and is perceived by the audience but not the characters. It's the title of the movie overlaying the screen without the characters commenting on it. It's a stage musical swapping set pieces as the characters talk and don't notice. It's for the benefit of the audience. It values encapsulating a feeling of something, over how something literally is. It's vibes.

Aside from the Quantum Leap example, there are other works of fiction that have done this type of visual style of using multiple actors for mirror reflections. Another example that springs to mind is the 2011 sci-fi film Source Code. In the film, the main character has to re-live a time loop whilst in the body of another passenger on a train in order to figure out which passenger left an explosive on it.

So in Quantum Leap, Sam still feels like himself (and is thus shown that way to the audience), but is actually projecting an "illusion of [the person's] physical aura" (Sam's words) through sci-fi tech that makes everyone around him see the person he's "leaped" into, instead of him.

Why am I talking about Quantum Leap? I think something similar happens when we see Spy disguised in-game.

The paper face masks are for the benefit of the audience. They don't exist to any of the characters.

Point 4) How Spy Sees Himself Disguised

In-game, he sees himself as himself. If you're playing Spy disguised, you see his (undisguised) hands and the weapon he's holding.

You also see a little portrait of the merc he's disguised as (at the bottom-left corner), so you (as Spy) still know how you appear as to enemies.

So Spy perceives himself as himself. He doesn't see his own body as changed.

Point 5) How Voices Work

When Spy is disguised, he also gains the voice of whoever he's disguised as.

In Meet the Spy, Spy disguised as Medic doesn't speak, so we don't get an example of this in any of the Valve animations.

In the comics (issue 5, Old Wounds), Classic Spy speaks as RED Heavy, and fools RED Spy, so we can assume Classic Spy was imitating Heavy's voice (as the webcomics, while they include scripted panel changes, don't include audio).

In-game, when you're disguised, all voice lines switch to the merc you are disguised as. If you call for Medic, you yell as the merc you are disguised as, etc.

This leads to two theories:

a) Spy can imitate voices himself and therefore can imitate voices while not disguised (example: He's on the telephone, he could imitate voices before he joined RED/BLU and can do it without the Disguise Kit)

b) Spy is only able to imitate voices using the Disguise Kit and can't imitate voices without it.

Both possibilities lead to interesting potential plot ideas.

It's worth noting that while on fire, Spy will still sound like the merc he is disguised as. This leads me to deduce that it's the Disguise Kit, as why would Spy bother to maintain the voice impression? He's already been caught and he's possibly about to die.

Point 6) How Spy Undisguises

If Spy's disguises by using technology, how how does he "turn it off"?

There appears to be two ways: Unintentionally or intentionally.

Unintentional examples would include getting hit with Sniper's Jarate in-game. It's like the liquid somehow disrupts or "short circuits" the disguise. Another example would be Spy getting shot while disguised in The Naked and the Dead comic, which seems more like an emotional/psychological/physical response (in this case, pain).

Intentional examples include trying to attack in-game, which instantly undisguises you as Spy. And Spy's disguise fading away after fooling Scout with it in Naked and the Dead. He doesn't say anything or make a motion, he appears to simply will the disguise away.

So it may be that Spy has some sort of "connection" with the Disguise Kit that lets it detect his intentions.

Point 7) Is This Body Swapping?

So when Spy is disguised, is he actually in a copy of the body of the merc he's disguised as? If so, there's multiple implications:

Does he need glasses when he's Medic?

Does he no longer have a right hand when he's Engineer?

Does he lose an eye as Demoman?

How does the clothing swapping work? Can he remove clothing, or would it cease to exist if it travels too far from his body/the Disguise Kit's influence?

There's multiple counter arguments suggesting that this is not the case and Spy is not body swapping:

Spy can switch weapon items of the other merc when he's disguised by switching to his other items (and pressing B).

If Spy was actually using Medic's real glasses, that would presumably mess with his vision. And Spy has no visible issues with his vision.

Spy can't run as fast as Scout, nor double jump, so he doesn't gain Scout's physical capabilities.

As mentioned in Point 4 earlier, Spy sees himself as himself. His body doesn't change from his own POV.

In the comics, when Spy is shot in the leg while disguised, he keeps the same injury afterwards. The person who he was disguised as was Classic Engineer. Who has metal prosthetic legs. And therefore wouldn't get injured from a shot in the leg at all.

(Image: The Naked and the Dead, TF2 comics)

In Meet the Spy, Spy's missing Medic's glasses when he shapeshifts into Medic, but that may have been done to make the scene cooler (he steals Medic's glasses after defeating him).

(Image: Meet the Spy)

Spies also can't use weapons of the merc they are disguising as. Attacking instantly undisguises the Spy. This implies that the new weapons Spy holds when he is disguised are the same weapon with an illusion cast over it, not a weapon swap.

It not being body swapping also opens the door to the potential that Spy can disguise as a person who doesn't exist, allowing him to create an entirely new persona.

Point 8) Spy-Checking In Game

In fiction, shapeshifters often have a "tell" of some sort, where they can't quite perfectly mirror the individual they've shapeshifted as. On TV Tropes org, it's called "Glamour Failure," in reference to glamour, an archaic term used in mythology for a type of beauty spell, or a spell to make the shapeshifter appear human. Common glamour failure examples in fiction include the shapeshifter's eyes being the wrong colour, or their reflection revealing their true form.

(Gif: The Little Mermaid, 1989)

Does Spy have a tell? Well, in Meet the Spy, the audience is surprised by Scout being the Spy. He looks like Scout, sounds like Scout, and acts like Scout. What makes the audience twig on that it's not Scout is when he does a trick with Spy's balisong (knife). Scout wouldn't do a knife trick with a balisong.

And I think that's illustrative to how you can detect a disguised Spy in the game. It's (in part) spotting a teammate acting oddly. Medic running around not healing anyone, that sort of thing.

Other ways to Spy check in the game (but not limited to) are:

You can't walk through enemy Spies like you can with teammates.

Teammate attacks don't hurt teammate Spies.

Sniper's Jarate instantly ruins an enemy Spy's disguise if it splashes on him.

Spy mimics the speed of the merc he's disguised as, but can't run as fast as Scout.

The speed difference between Scout and Spy is notable. Is the Disguise Kit making Spy slow down, or is the speed change just Spy trying to act more like the merc he's imitating? Could he run faster if he needed to? It's unclear.

There are also in-game support-type effects that affect disguised Spies differently:

Teammate's Sentries will always be friendly to disguised Spies. Enemy Sentries will fire at Spies unless they are disguised.

Medic's crossbow heals teammates and hurts enemies. It hurts disguised enemy Spies.

When Soldiers activate a banner, nearby teammates that do not emit a glow are disguised enemy Spies.

If Spy is disguised as an Engineer with a Beep Boy cosmetic, it will always appear with a sad expression, instead of happy with various emotions.

(Image: A Beep Boy with a sad, pained expression)

This means that some forms of technology are fooled by Spy's disguises, but others are not.

This raises the question of whether Spy's disguises can sometimes/always be seen-through by animals. Maybe the dove Archimedes isn't fooled by disguises?

Related to glamour failure, there is a trope in fiction where dogs, cats, pets, etc. are not fooled by disguises because they can sense the morality of the person in a way that humans can't, or because they know their human so well. (The TV Tropes article for it is titled, Evil-Detecting Dog.)

Point 9) Other Characters/Things Using Disguises

Can other characters who are not Spy use the disguise kit? What is stopping them?

Aristotle is a raven Spy has on his shoulder as a cosmetic (an item you can wear in the game). This raven is wearing a tiny paper mask with an image of Archimedes (Medic's dove) printed on it. This implies that other characters are perceiving Aristotle as Archimedes, which is very funny. This also means that other characters can use disguises. It's just that Spy is the one who uses the Disguise Kit, as it's part of his job.

(Images: Aristotle, left. The Counterfeit Billycock.)

The Counterfeit Billycock is an in-game hat disguised as another hat. This being an example of objects using disguises.

This also infers that inversely, Spy can use disguises to appear as an animal or an inanimate object. We just haven't seen him do that yet.

This leads us to...

Point 10) A Note on the Disguise Kit's Interface

In-game, a screen overlay appears when you select Spy's Disguise Kit. This shows the different merc disguise options, but it's for the benefit of the player. It's not what Spy sees in-universe.

What Spy sees is what's behind this overlay: His Disguise Kit being opened. As written earlier, it's made to look like a cigarette case on the outside. The inside of the case includes a screen and three buttons below it. I interpret the interface as a screen displaying portraits of different mercs, with the two yellow buttons being left/right keys, and the red button (or blue button for the BLU Spy in Meet the Spy) being the select key.

(Image: Meet the Spy)

So we can come to the deduction that what stops Spy from disguising himself as someone other than the mercs is the same reason we can't in-game: He isn't given the option in the interface. Not that he has the option, but he chooses not to. Or doesn't think to do it. Or a situation hasn't come up where doing so would be useful.

This doesn't explain how Spy was able to disguise himself as Tom Jones, but maybe the option was given to him at some point near the start of the comic series.

If only Spy were given upgrades to his Disguise Kit for plot reasons, hmm...

Point 11) Applying Canon to Fan Works

So with all this canon information, we can take this knowledge and apply it to fan works to create something new. This includes fan fiction, animations, webcomics, etc.

So let's start asking questions. In the restrictions of established canon, can Spy…

Disguise as another character, such as Saxton Hale, Miss Pauling, or the Administrator?

Can Spy disguise as an animal, such as Archimedes?

Can Spy disguise as an inanimate object? … without contravening canon?

Spy Disguising as Saxton Hale, Miss Pauling, and the Administrator

(Image: Jungle Inferno)

Saxton Hale is not one of the mercs (he's the owner of MANN CO., which RED/BLU get their weapons and hats from) and is much larger than Spy. Maybe Spy can't disguise himself as non-mercs? Again, size does not appear to stop Spy from disguising as Heavy, and Spy has canonically disguised himself as Tom Jones, who is not a merc. So in theory, Spy could disguise as Saxton Hale.

(Image: Meet the Director comic)

Miss Pauling and the Administrator bring up the question of whether or not the Disguise Kit allows the user to disguise as someone of a different gender. Spy's teammates are men, with Pyro's gender being unknown. So Spy disguising as another gender does not contradict canon, it's just unknown if he canonically has done so already.

(Image: Expiration Date)

While not a disguise, we do have official Valve art of Spy wearing the gold/blue "colour illusion" dress (the original dress being designed and manufactured by Roman Originals) in celebration of Steam's 20th Anniversary.

While wearing a dress is not the same as shapeshifting into a woman, this illustrates that Spy has not been stopped by gender expectations of the 1960s from presenting himself more femininely.

(Image: Steam's 20th Anniversary. Art by Claire Hummel)

So the thing stopping Spy from disguising as Saxton Hale, Miss Pauling, or the Administrator would not be because the Disguise Kit is incapable of ever doing so, but because the kit doesn't provide those options, out of the company's benefit. Remember back in Point 1 that the Spytron 3000 is an (unknown) company's invention that was shipped to Spy? It would not be in TF2 Industries' interest to give a merc the ability to disguise as one of their bosses or boss's assistants. It would be a infiltration liability waiting to happen.

Spy Disguising as Animals

This once again falls into the realm of size not stopping Spy from disguising as something, just in the opposite direction. Spy can disguise as Engineer and other mercs shorter than Spy.

Is there a limit to how small? Can Spy disguise as a mouse? A Spycrab? Again, it's just unknown if he can because hasn't happened in the canon.

(Image: Spycrab cosmetic)

Spy Disguising as Inanimate Objects

There's a reoccurring joke I've seen in different fan works of Spy disguising as a lamp by wearing a mask that has an image of a lamp printed on it. I saw it enough times that I had assumed it was from canon, but I couldn't find a canon example of it anywhere. I'm unsure of its original origin in fan works, but it has since been embraced by the fandom.

Another example of a fan work letting Spy disguise himself as an object is Fortress Film's (the creators of Emesis Blue) fan film, Spy's Disguise. In this 28 minute animated film, Spy figures out how to disguise himself as a sentry gun.

(Gif: Spy's Disguise by Fortress Films, YouTube)

12) Conclusion: So How Do Disguises Actually Work?

In conclusion, Spy's disguises can be interpreted as a smokey aura or hologram that surrounds Spy through a piece of tech known as the Spytron 3000.

It is a perfect visual and audio disguise to all the mercs, both for teammates and enemies. We see Spy's paper mask for the benefit of the audience and is possibly non-diegetic (metaphorical and not existing in-universe). The paper masks are not seen by any of the mercs, teammate or otherwise.

A teammate Spy can choose to allow teammates (and possibly enemies) see through this aura, whilst still knowing that the Spy is disguised, and who he is disguised as.

Nevertheless, part of the fun of fan works is that they can deviate from canon. Want Spy to body swap? Yes! Want Spy to be able to remain disguised while attacking someone in a fight? The power is yours.

Fan work is universes within universes.

[cheemscakecat]

A Little Emesis Blue Headcanon

I always thought Fritz’ reaction to burnt Spy was… interesting.

Now, he’s obviously shocked to see it. But I have a theory that he wasn’t just thinking about past respawn failure victims and their injuries when he saw Spy.

I think the plague doctor means different things to different mercs, because they’re sharing a nightmare. And in Fritz’ POV, the plague doctor is a nightmare version of his silent personality. They both move eerily smoothly, they both don’t speak, and despite the quite personality having no mask, he doesn’t emote much.

There’s a lot of fire imagery around Dr Ludwig in this movie.

There’s candles on the casket he’s trapped in, and the Plague doctor is the only person around to put them there. The fact that he put so many on a rickety wooden casket implies that he wants the candles to burn down and set the casket on fire. Causing burns everywhere.

Yet again, we see something evil with a mask, using fire to attack Fritz. Note how the M burn is on the right side of his face and very close to his eye.

You know who else has a mark under his eye?

The quiet one. It’s under his left eye. Something must have happened to it, otherwise he would have equally red bags under his right eye.

In addition to Fritz having the burn on the other side and more of his cheek, the eye injury can’t be credited to the roulette scene. All the worst carnage was on the back of Ludwig’s skull because of the placement of the gun barrel.

So what happened to funeral Medic?

When Fritz sees the plague doctor, he’s always in the dark. He also seems capable of controlling shadows. This leads me to believe that the quiet Medic must be able to visit Fritz in his inner world.

In DID [formerly multiple personality disorder], there’s something called a headspace or inner world. Personalities can interact with each other and sometimes, the Core personality which is what Fritz probably is.

Inner worlds vary a lot in how many settings there are, if there’s fake townsfolk like NPCs, and how much the personalities can control their environment.

My best guess at the moment is that wherever Fritz was when he encountered the quiet Medic in his inner world, it was very dark and the quiet one had powers related to the dark.

Maybe most of the other personalities can’t access the part of the mind where Fritz is at, but the quiet one can. That might help explain why he thinks he’s schizophrenic and is so afraid of the personalities being evil.

Let’s be real, funeral Medic is very off putting even to the audience; imagine that but it’s using your face. Now imagine being Catholic and believing in demons. You probably have a light in your hand, because it’s dark, right?

I think Fritz saw this for the first time and threw a lit candle or lantern directly at his face. Leaving the red scar under his eye and making Ludwig afraid of the quiet one coming for revenge.

That would explain why Plague doctor was reaching towards his face and making smoke/shadows creep around. It would explain why Pyro chose to brand him on his face. And it would explain the look he gave burnt Spy.

”It’s you!-Wait no, he healed.-And I don’t smoke, who’s this guy?”