#and 3. my hatred of concrete

[skylordhorus]

i already do not like brutalist architecture but now i dislike it even more out of grumpiness after i saw a frankly kinda pretentious and self aggrandising post chain that acted like brutalism is THE Leftist Architectural Style(tm), that ornamentation is for the bourgeoisie, and that a preference for older or ancient architecture is absolutely a capitalist and/or neo nazi red flag/dogwhistle

[crowcryptid]

Certified florida moment.

[razrbladekiss]

MAPLE HAZEL | Joel Miller — Part Three

SUMMARY: joel’s misery is palpable. you’re oblivious to it. until you’re not.

PAIRING: no outbreak!joel miller x afab!reader

WORD COUNT: 5.9k, you are welcum.

WARNINGS: angst. reader is an eagles fan (do NOT come for me, they are my boys. go birds 🦅). F L U F F. mentions of reader’s dad. tommy and joel are jerks, but joel redeems himself. tommy can suck a fat one. i kidddd <3 this is probably the angst-iest this story’ll get because im addicted to the fluff so. enjoy. 🤞🏼 not proof read or edited, i cannot be fucked for that.

TAGS: if you would like to be added for future installments, then let me know besties!! if i’ve forgotten anyone that’s asked to get added, then please slap me. @millersleee @goodvibesonly421 @j0elmlllers @scorpio-echo

SERIES MASTERLIST

Joel’s hands seize the steering wheel of his truck—the same one that’s presently stationed on your driveway—knuckles turning sheet white for the hold that he has is completely unforgiving. And sore.

He’s irascible. Livid. His anger is sheathed by shame and hatred for himself as the way that he conducted himself this morning was unseemly. Even for Joel, it was appalling. And though you didn’t appear to have any reservations, he knew that he bothered you. Your face didn’t allude to irritation, nor did your tone or mannerisms, but Joel was more than conscious of your internal hurt.

He just knows you that well.

But now he’s sitting—legs numb and cheeks charring red—striving to conjure up an apology that’ll help to shirk any ill-feeling that you may have toward him. Because he was a fucking jerk this morning.

And it was all because of an Eagles sweater, believe it or not.

9.42 AM

Birch Grove is bustling. It's considerably brighter, this morning. The doom and gloom that enveloped your small town yesterday has now dissipated, leaving nothing but small puddles of rainwater and grit in its wake, and it’s beautiful. A sight to behold when you’re leaving your house today.

You avoid the wetness on the road—hoping not to muddy your shoes—and bounce onto the sidewalk, admiring the oil slick that blankets damp gravel on your way over to Joel’s. You swear that there’s a divot in the concrete that holds semblance to a heart, but you’re not sure if that’s just a delusion from lack of sleep or some sort of sign from the universe telling you that perhaps it’s time to find a significant other.

Nonetheless, you take in the scene. How yesterday—in the midst of a storm—not a single body littered the crosswalk, therefore leaving Joel’s little coffee shop completely empty. But today—now that the air has cleared and rain almost dried up—it’s like nothing had even happened, and the entire town is out in force. Like they always should be.

Joel watches in awe as you make tracks across the street toward the cafe—wondering how he ever deserved such a buoyant presence like you in his life despite the fact that he’s a perpetually miserable middle-aged man—and busies himself so you don’t think he’s been ogling you this entire time.

But then the bell rings, Joel’s eyes flick up—against his own will—and you bound over the threshold with the biggest smile. He swallows extremely thickly.

“Good morning.” You say, as happy as ever—clearly on a high from your not-date—and pad through the room toward him. “Can I please have a—“

“You’re late.” 

One of your perfectly tweezed brows raises. 

“For work.” He elaborates. Joel clears his throat. “You’re late for work.”

“I got the day off.” You remind him. He vaguely remembers you saying something about this elusive break on Monday, but was honestly too distracted by his brother attempting to use the coffee machine. 

Joel nods, taking your favorite mug off of the shelf. You smile at the sentiment. 

“Ah, you’re going shopping. Right?”

You nod. Your stomach gurgles when your eyes satisfy the gaze of a perfectly plump cinnamon roll. Not too thick, not too over-done, and the right bun to icing ratio. It’s sitting—alone—in one of the little cake cases.

“I am.” You reply, taking the glass dome off of the top. Like last time, you swipe the sweet treat right from underneath Joel’s nose. Only, today, you slide two dollars across so he can’t complain. 

But he wouldn’t anyway. Not today. Because he admires the fact that you’re ungovernable, while simultaneously respecting him. To an extent, anyway. 

“I can get you some fall decor.”

“No—“

“He needs to spruce this place up.”

His eyes roll when he’s pouring the frothed milk atop your latte, hardly going unnoticed by his larger-than-life, sometimes a bit too overbearing brother. 

Tommy acknowledges you by saying your name, and you grin back at him. It’s nice to see one of the Miller’s with anything but a stoic expression slapped against those rough, rugged features. Though there’s something about Joel’s that seems rather superficial. 

Despite being perennial at times, you feel as though you’ve cracked through his tough exterior and. You’re certainly able to decipher between his real and mock revulsion. Last night was the first time that Joel’s guard had truly been down, and it was wonderful. 

“Get him some pumpkins. A wreath—“

“I don’t need no pumpkins. And what the hell is a wreath?”

The youngest brother pulls a stool out next to you, and bumps your shoulder as he sits. He looks at you as if to say get a load of this guy, and you laugh. Joel passes you your latte, and you think that you see a hint of a smile tugging at those plush lips. But you won’t swear to it. 

“A wreath is what Mrs. McKlaren has on her front door for each season.”

“Yeah.” Tommy chimes in. He pulls one of the Birch Grove Gazettes from the pile beside the cake case, and opens it up. “But you knew that. You’re just playin’ dumb in front of—“

You elbow him. “Quit teasin’.” Further defending your friend, you say; “it’s not his fault if he’s not too polished up on the names of things. He’s not pussy-whipped like you are, Tom.”

Joel chuckles at that comment, thanking you with a nod. A man of few words, though you get him. Down to a fine art. 

“True.” He flicks through a few pages, before he’s turning to you with a grimace when you take off your jacket to reveal one of your dad’s old Eagles sweaters. “Oh, God no.”

You frown, putting it to sit on the seat next to you. 

It’s common knowledge around these parts that there are two teams, and two teams only that it’s acceptable to support. Unless you’re flaunting the badge of the Texans or Dallas Cowboys, then you’re basically committing a federal crime.  And the men of Birch Grove take this very, very seriously. 

“Joel. I know you’re friends with this broad—“

“Watch your mouth.” He grumbles, appearing from the kitchen. He has his head down, hands full of cutlery. 

“Sorry.” Tommy says oh so quietly. “But—but look. She’s wearing the mark of the devil.”

Your eyes are rolling so hard you fear that they’ll roll straight from their sockets and into your coffee. You just know that beneath the green flannel, Joel is donning an Aikman jersey.

“That’s so dramatic.” Arms are being folded over as you speak, and he still hasn’t looked in your direction. “It’s just a football team—“

“Woah.” The two Millers harmonize. Joel eyes you directly and turns his nose up as soon as he heeds the shade of green that should be classed as blasphemy, not midnight.  

He didn’t know that you liked them. Tess liked them, too. But you know that. You’re not fucking stupid. 

And perhaps she might’ve aided the disgust that percolates through Joel whenever he hears someone utter the name Brian Dawkins, but he can’t help associating them with her. That same way he thinks of her whenever Fall rolls around, or whenever you step into his little cafe. 

He has such strong feelings for you, but needs to put them aside. He needs to bury them deep for fear of the past repeating itself because he isn’t sure if he can go through that again. His guard goes up, and eyes go down. He busies himself with cleaning. 

“Sacrilege.” Tommy spits. “It’s not just a football team, woman. It’s Irreverent. To come in here and wear that is absolutely ridiculous.”

Your jaw rolls and you look down at the faded logo. 

“I respect that you root for the birds, I do. It must be hard to support such a shit team—“

“Language.” Joel scolds, a little heated. “But, I agree. Can’t go wearin’ that ‘round these parts. It’s almost as bad as you comin’ in here wearing a Steelers jersey.”

Tommy grimaces. It’s not quite as bad, but it certainly sucks. 

But, to you, what sucks is the fact that these men—grown fucking men—are chewing you out over a sweater. It’s child’s play. 

“They’re not a shitty team. They’re great.” You defend your guys, watching Joel try to control the bitterness threatening to bust right out of his lips. “I’ve always loved them. My dad is from Philly—“

“Explains why you have such crappy taste.”

You blink at Tommy. 

“Anyway.” You clear your throat. “I’ll always root for the birds, because they’re my favorites. I also, believe it or not, enjoy the Cowboys when they play at home, or against the Giants. It’s patriotic. But they are a pretty shitty team—“

“No, they ain’t.”

“They are.” You uphold, making direct eye contact with the youngest sibling. “Remind me, when was the last time they went to the Superbowl?”

Tommy’s jaw rolls, and Joel can feel himself slipping. 

“Ninety-five.” Begrudgingly, he says. “But that don’t mean shit—“

“Kinda does.” 

“No it don’t.” He growls. “When was the last time those damn birds won the big game, huh?”

Without missing a beat, you say; “twenty-eighteen. They beat the Patriots by eight points, Brady sucked and Foles was the MVP. I tailgated at the stadium with my dad and uncle—“

“In Minnesota?”

“Yessir.” You tell Tommy before taking the last sip of your—now lukewarm—coffee. “I’ll also be heading to Philly to see the Eagles v Steelers game.”

Joel scoffs. 

“Got somethin’ to say, old timer?”

He grinds his lips together before saying; “just baffles me s’all. Don’t get how someone—Dallas born ‘n raised—can root for a team from Philadelphia.”

“Just the way it goes. But I did say that I enjoy them from time to time.”

“Shouldn’t be that way.” Tommy interjects. “Texans are meant to support Texan-made teams all the time. Not fuckin’—“

“Tommy.” Joel gestures to the customers, scolding him again for his crudeness. 

You pull cash from your purse while the two of them bicker, putting atop the counter before Joel can even refuse. You shrug on your jacket, too, promptly doing up the buttons so the tension can dissipate a little. But it doesn’t. 

“I’m not arguing with you two morons over football any longer.” A little meaner than intended, you tell the two of them. You turn to Joel, brows furrowing. “And I know why you despise the Eagles; I’m not an idiot. I saw her walking ‘round the place with her scarves in the winter, ‘n the occasional jersey on football Sundays.”

Tommy looks between the two of you, sensing some friction. 

“Don’t project Tess’s shit onto me, Joel.” Blunt, you say. “I’m sorry that I was the reason for her leaving, but it ain’t my fault we have the same interests. You can’t pussyfoot around forever, and I don’t appreciate gettin’ admonished for a fucking football sweatshirt.”

“Don’t.” He warns, wrenching a dish rag between calloused fingertips. He knew that last night’s conversation was deep-rooted in something more than just you being curious. “I’m not pussyfootin’ ‘round. I just don’t wanna talk about her.”

“I know.” You say—realizing that you were a little too hot off the mark—but you don’t feel sorry. “But there’ll always be people who like the same things that she did, or say the same things, or remind you of her.”

He looks at you. He knows what you mean. He knows that you know that—in some kind of way—you make Joel think of her. You’re so strong, like Tess. So outspoken, exactly like her. But you’re caring and kind, and don’t get jealous over the slightest little things, and you let him speak. 

You let him tell you about his troubles, not that he shares too much. And you’re not pushy. But now, it feels like you’re being exactly that. 

“I’m sorry that my mere presence as a Goddamn Eagles fan pisses you off, Joel, but I’m not going to be able to change that. You’ll just have to try and detach those memories—“

The dishrag is being hurled onto the bar along with his fists. “I’m not gonna detach those memories! I ain’t gonna forget her just ‘cus you think you know me and my relationship with that woman so well! You don’t know shit. All you do is come in here ‘n drink coffee, rant about crap that nobody cares about, make me listen to your stupid fuckin’ problems—and I’m sick of it!”

You blink back tears as you stare at him, for the volume is intimidating and completely unwavering. You’ve never been yelled at before—in front of customers, by Joel—and you want to be sick. Everyone is staring. Some people are even leaving. 

Has he always felt this way? You wonder. Has Joel always thought that your ramblings are pointless, and that your issues are facetious? You’re sure that he’s just spewing nonsense at this point, but it still stings. 

“Joel—“

“Get out.” He looks down, hands gripping tightly the wooden countertop. He refuses eye contact. 

Tommy gives you a weak smile, immediately regretting setting foot into Joel’s this morning. Quite like you, really. 

“I’m really sorry for bringing her up, Joel, I know how—“

“Go.” His eyes lift to satisfy your gaze, hurt written over his features. “Please…Just leave.”

“Okay.” You nod, lifting your purse from the stool. It’s a quick bye to Tommy that has those damn tears spilling as you walk to your car, not even looking back to wave or smile at your friend like you usually do. 

You fear that this’ll change the trajectory of your relationship with Joel. And his brother knows that. 

He knows that if he doesn’t say something—at this point, anything—then Joel will just let this sit and fester, and become something that it has absolutely no business being. 

His brother knows that you’re the only constant in his life—aside from family—and if he lets you go, then he’ll be considerably more bleak. He’ll have his patrons to keep him company, but he won’t have you. The girl that has—unbeknownst to her—given Joel something to look forward to every day. 

The girl that Joel can’t help thinking of, or talking about, whenever he gets the chance. And despite not always showing his admiration, he’s besotted with you. Infatuated, perhaps. His fondness so clear that everyone can see it. Everyone, aside from you. 

Especially after that.  

“You’re a fucking jerk.” Tommy chastises. “She shouldn’t have mentioned Tess, but that was horrible—“

“I don’t care.” Through gritted teeth, he tells him. “She took it too far—“

“No, we did.” He admits. “She probably wouldn’t have brought the bitch up if we didn’t tease her for wearing her dad’s fuckin’ sweater.”

Joel swallows the lump in his throat, refusing to admit that Tommy could be right about this. 

“You need’a get a hold of your emotions, brother. Can’t be sendin’ her away like that when we both know you’ve got feelings for her—“

Joel grumbles as he rounds the counter, polishing a few tables in hopes that his sibling will go and leave him to it. But he doesn’t. 

“Can’t let Tess be the reason you two ain’t talkin’. ‘Specially ‘cus she ain’t even in the state anymore.”

Fuck. Off. 

Tommy watches him feign emotion, knowing deep down that his brother wants to beat himself to a pulp because you didn’t deserve any of that. 

“She’s right, y’know?”

“What?” 

Tommy says your name. “She’s right. If you don’t cut ties with the things that remind you of Tess, then you’ll never be happy. Always be comparin’ shit to her, and makin’ yourself miserable. Or miserable-r.”

“That ain’t even a word, dipshit.”

“True, though.” He says. “Joel, you’re so in love with this girl, you can’t let her go over a Goddamn football team—“

“Not in love.”

“Bullshit.” The youngest spits. “You get literal heart eyes whenever you look at her, and don’t even try ‘n deny it ‘cus Maria notices too.”

Joel blinks at him, wondering how he’d been so openly vulnerable. He‘a confused at how he’d unintentionally let his guard down enough to display his feelings. The ones that he wasn’t even certain about. 

“It mightn’t be love, Joel, but you’re mad about this girl.” He says a bit softer. Quieter. “And you can try to put these feelings aside, but what’re you gonna do if she walks in here with another man? Or she goes on more dates and finds the one? You just gonna live with it? Just gonna be jealous and miserable for the rest of your life?”

Joel walks to the café window and just stares for a few moments, secretly hoping to see you stomp across the street to give him a piece of your mind. But you don’t. 

“Think you’ve done enough wallowin’ in the past, don’t you?”

He supposes that he’s right. Joel knows that there’s some truth to what is being said to him, and so he turns the Open sign to Closed, and gestures for Tommy to get the remaining customers to leave. 

“What’re you gonna do?” 

“Make things right.” Joel grabs his jacket from the coat stand beside the door, and throws the shop keys to his brother. “Close up for me, will ‘ya?”

Tommy shakes his head. He gets off of his stool and goes behind the counter, grabbing one of the aprons from the hook beside the kitchen door. 

“Turn the sign back ‘round. You might’ve just lost your most loyal customer, you can’t afford to fuckin’ lose no more.”

Joel just nods. He has no fight left inside of him. He does as told, and storms across the sidewalk to his truck. 

He’s been stationary for the last fuck knows how long, just mentally preparing himself for whatever bullshit will spill from his lips the second he sees you. If you even want to open your door to him. He wouldn’t blame you, if you didn’t. He gave you shit, and kicked you out when you spoke your mind. And the truth. Because, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? As harsh as it might’ve been, it was the truth and it was what he needed to hear. 

It’s been two hours since getting a verbal beat-down and, strangely, he really misses the sound of your voice. The oddly dulcet tone. The sweet, honeyed rhythm that slips from between two of the plushest, softest looking lips he’s ever bared witness to in his entire life. And even though some of the words that fell from them were harsh, he no longer cares. 

If he doesn’t apologize, then he might not get to hear you speak again. And he’ll take several scoldings if it means that he can listen to your beautiful tone. 

Fuck. 

“C’mon, dickhead.” He tells his reflection in the mirror. He eyes himself, wondering whether the hat should stay on or off. Because if he takes it off, then his hair might look bad, but if he keeps it on then you mightn’t be able to take him seriously. 

He’s overthinking it. 

It stays on when he’s lugging his body—warm and palpitating—from the cabin, and onto the gravel of your driveway. He minds the flower beds when his boots hit ground, knowing that he’ll have hell to pay if he crushes your blooms or kicks up any mud.

His breath is hot and heavy. It’s like he’s just ran the Boston fucking marathon, not sit in his truck for the better part of twenty minutes being too much of a pussy to knock at your front door. 

But now he’s strolling to your porch, and can’t put it off any longer. He doesn’t even know if you’re home, but he guesses that you are. The wreath that you got today—golden leaves adorned with acorns and berries—is hanging proudly against the wood that you’ve painted sage. 

He laughs to himself when his hand comes up to knock, number eight. It’s almost comical how the number of your house coalesces with the number of his favorite ex-Cowboys player. But he’s not going to bring that up. Maybe another time. 

Joel takes a few deep breaths, heart only stuttering when he hears your footsteps approaching over the suspended wood flooring. The one that he actually had to help you sand down just eight months ago because you always felt that they looked too dark. Depressing. 

He smiles weakly. It doesn’t last long. When you swing the door open and your face falls, then so does Joel’s. 

“Hi.” He whispers, internally kicking himself for being such a wimp. He clears his throat. “Nice wreath.”

You fight a grin. Your disappointment outweighs any semblance of softness at this very juncture. 

After a few hours of mulling it over—and rage shopping—you’ve come to the conclusion that you were at fault. But Joel certainly didn’t make it any better when he kicked you off the premises after his hurtful monologue. 

“Thanks.” Your cardigan is pulled tightly around your body. Cream always looks so good on you. “Is—uh—is there something that I can help you with?”

Joel looks down for a split second. It feels like forever before he’s looking directly at you again. The thumping inside of his chest hasn’t once subsided since appearing at your street, he’s never felt like this before. At least, he can’t ever remember feeling like this. 

And it’s because of this—feeling—that he’s struggling to extrapolate his inward thoughts. You heed it. You know him like the back of your hand, apparently. His face is sullen—almost remorseful—and eyes hazy. 

Has he been crying? No. He’s probably just really annoyed. He looks like that sometimes when Tommy’s pissed him off, and he needs to vent. 

You shift aside, gesturing for Joel to come in. He hesitates for a moment, before he’s stepping over the threshold and into your beautiful home. The home that presently smells like a mixture of Sandalwood and Lavender, but Neroli and Bergamot in the summer months. 

What the fuck is Bergamot? Why do I know what that smells like?

He takes it in. The subtle scent, the fall decorations that make your cozy home look even more appeasing. It’s cute. It’s put together, clean, and inviting. It’s so you. 

You shut the door behind him when he takes a few paces into the entryway, just watching him. His broad shoulders swathed in soft, green flannel are tipped slightly forward. He’s not holding himself the way that he usually does. 

“Is everything okay, Joel?” You break the silence, shuffling past him through the hallway and to the kitchen. You hear him follow behind. Those heavyset footsteps make your heart ache, for some reason. 

Even by the way he walks—slow, long strides—he seems down. Remorseful, perhaps. And though he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, it’s always easy to tell how he feels. 

“Tea?” You offer without turning around, taking the kettle that’s just come to a boil on the stove. “I have chamomile, green, or English.”

“No coffee?” Your head shakes, pulling two mugs from the small shelf above the counter. Joel sits at your kitchen island. “How come?”

Two English teabags are being lifted from the carton—he didn’t specify, you just guess—and plopped into ceramic. 

“I don’t make my own coffee. Don’t taste the same when I do.”

His heart aches. After skipping a beat, of course. He takes a seat at your kitchen island, watching you potter around, clearly not prepared for a guest. 

“Tea is a little more warming, anyway.” You gesture for the sugar and he shakes his head. “Don’t enjoy coffee when I’m on my own. Only when I’m with someone.”

“That why you always come to see me in the mornin’?”

Faintly, you smile. Your head bobs a little bit, hanging low. 

He says your name. You look at him. “Y’know, if you ever want a coffee outta hours, I’m usually at home. You can come ‘round, if you wanna.”

That strange gnawing sensation returns beside a debilitating thumping. He feels the same, but you don’t know that. 

“Same here.” A weak smile tugs at the corners of your lips and you bring Joel his tea. The white ceramic is festooned with acorns and leaves, and he swears that you’ve just given him one of your best mugs. 

You sip quietly your warm beverage, standing opposite to where he sits in an uncomfortable silence. A lull that neither of you realize lasts an entire minute before you’re clearing your throat, and Joel is still trying to find his words. 

“Listen.” He sets down the tea—the best he’s ever had—and shifts a little bit. Joel tries to avoid eye contact with you, but understands that this is one of the times that he needs to show you just how important this is. It’s not just a casual conversation at the coffee house, anymore. 

You’re facing him fully, now. Eyes wide, lips parted a little bit. 

“I’m really sorry about earlier.” His tone is honest, wreathed with a hint of genuine sadness. “I had no business being such a jerkoff to you, kid. I said some hurtful shit, and I let my mouth get away from me.”

“You were a total dick, Joel.” 

He nods. “I know.”

“And I know that I never shoulda brought her up, but I didn’t think you’d yell at me. In front of everyone.”

He starts to cringe as he remembers what he said. How he said those horrible things. You’re such a sweet girl, he can’t believe he flipped out on you that way. 

“Do you really think that what comes outta my mouth is crap?”

“No, of course not—“

“Is everything I say fucking pointless?”

“Hon—no—no, of course not.” Joel fumbles his words a bit, just glad that he didn’t refer to you as any other embarrassing fucking pet name. He's not even sure that you caught it, what with being blinded by such a haze of anger. 

You do, though. You just don’t acknowledge it. 

Your thumb loops through the glossy handle, and you look into your mug. 

“I choose to start each morning the same way; at your café. I don’t do it because I want to come in and ruin your day by ranting, or spillin’ my guts about shitty dates and bad friends.” You refuse eye contact, still watching the tea slosh around as you move the cup ever so slightly. “I do it because I like you, Joel. You’re a great guy, and make my days a little bit easier. I’d even go so far as to consider you one of my friends. But, if you don’t feel that way—“

“Hey.” He reaches out for your hand. He’s surprised that you don’t pull away when his tan flesh meets yours so suddenly. Joel asks you to look at him, and you oblige. 

It’s so sad. Your eyes—so full of hurt—now locked on his. Soft, warm fingers wound between his thick digits. He frowns. 

“Listen to me.” Stern, though soft, he tells you. “Of course I feel that way. I tell you shit that I ain’t even told my own brother, ‘course I see you as a friend. Probably the only person I’d even wanna spend time with, if I’m honest.”

“You’re just sayin’ that, ‘cus you hurt my feelings—“

“No, I ain’t.” Joel shakes his head, trying to ignore the fact that he hurt your feelings. “I’m serious.”

“As a heart attack?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, kiddo, as a heart attack.”

Eyes roll at the sentiment, wondering whether there’ll ever be a time where Joel doesn’t refer to you as kid or kiddo. He tells you that it’s because he’s a lot older than you, but you both know there’s not even a ten year gap between the pair of you. He’s just dramatic and wishing his life away. 

“I’m—uh—I’m no good at this shit.” He looks down, a little curl poking through the back strap of his cap catches your eye. “Feelings, ‘n all.”

Instinctively, your thumb traces over the skin of his hand. You nod. You know. 

He's not the most sentimental person—nor does he cogitate  with his heart—but Joel is one of the most thoughtful men you’ve ever met, and these last few days have you feeling a different way about him. You can’t say that it’s a crush—crushes are for kids, is what your mother often tells you—but it’s certainly something. 

You’re just worried about the fact that he can’t let go of Tess. 

“Don’t gotta explain feelings, sweetie.” You tell him with a smile, reaching for your mug. The tea is cool, now. A little bit easier to drink than when it was piping hot and burning the roof of your mouth. “Just gotta feel ‘em, that’s all. Explain once you understand.”

You take a sip of the drink you made a short while ago, hands detaching. Joel almost feels weak without your touch, now. But he supposes that had it lasted any longer, he’d crumble. 

“Always know what to say, dontcha?”

“I do.” Conceited—though completely satirical—you say. He smiles, and so do you. “But in all seriousness, Joel, I know that you appreciate me. And I know that today was a complete one-off, but I just gotta know one thing.”

“Go for it.”

You suck in a breath, hating where you’re about to lead the conversation. “Did last night make you think differently of me? Y’know, when I asked those questions and pried a little?”

Joel’s heart thumps. Again. He doesn’t know how to say yeah, last night changed everything. But not ‘cus of what you asked me. 

He supposes that he can’t lie to you. He’s as transparent as a pane of fucking glass, at this point. 

“No. Definitely not.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Really. You had the right to know. Nothin’ has changed.”

Liar. 

He’s looking at you with those big fucking heart eyes that his brother teased him about earlier, and he knows it. He knows that he’s smitten. Truly, Joel is more than conscious of the fact that he’s falling—or more appropriately, fallen—for you, but he’s not at liberty to say. 

“You can tell me, y’know?”

He nods. “I know. There’s nothin’ to tell.”

“Okay.” Your tone is skeptical. He’s lying. 

He’s also been sitting here for far too long and is in desperate need of a long, cold shower to wash away the day and shirk any feelings before they come to bite him on his perfectly round ass. So he gets up—pushing the seat back beneath the island—and smiles at you. 

“Left Tommy behind the counter?”

Joel nods. “Yeah. He’s probably cussin’ me out right ‘bout now.”

Your laugh is genuine. Hearty. “Best get back then, hon.”

Joel’s mouth goes dry when his lips part to speak. Nothing materializes. Not even when he’s walking to the front door—you’re hot on his heels—can he figure out what to say. 

He’s opening it before he’s even certain of what he’s doing. 

“Miller.” You say and he turns around. He can’t help looking directly at your lips. “I’ll see ‘ya tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

He’s about to walk away—and you’re about to shut the door—before he’s leaning over the threshold and letting all rationality dissipate. Joel’s left hand meets the doorframe—mere inches from your own—and his breathing grows sporadic. 

Well, now or never, I ‘spose. 

Your fingers tingle, legs weaken. It’s only a split second, but it feels like an eternity that Joel is just standing there; staring at you. He’s waiting to make a move, you’re almost certain of it. 

“You gonna do somethin’?” You taunt, tilting your head a little. It almost snaps him out of his anxiety-induced haze. It eggs him on, if anything. 

“Fuck—shit—yeah.” Joel steps forward so that he’s no longer leaning, and the tips of his boots meet your toes. He’s careful not to stand on them. It’s sweet. 

He’s sweet. 

“C’mere.” He’s telling you when one of his calloused hands meets the nape of your neck, and both of yours are instinctively pawing at his chest. The soft, white  jersey beneath that customary flannel is like satin against your fingertips. He draws you in closer. “I lied.”

“‘Bout what?” You whisper, letting Joel’s hand shift to your cheek. It’s hard not to melt into his touch. 

His thumb brushes over your skin. You wilt beneath it. 

“Last night.” Your eyes are locked. “Everythin’ has changed.”

You nod. You feel the same way.

“And I dunno how to go ‘bout this, ‘cus I can’t do this whole lovey-dovey crap, but I do know that I wanna kiss you.”

He pulls you forward so that your faces are almost touching, and your hands have no choice but to rest atop the peaks of his glorious shoulders. This is something you only could’ve dreamed of. You and Joel in this position—on your doorstep—like something out of a fucking romcom, or Gilmore Girls. 

C’mon, man. Kiss her. 

The man’s heart juts in his throat. Two noses graze one another—when Joel angles his face so that he’s not pushing too firmly against yours—and you can’t help smiling wide at the prospect of Joel Miller, grumpiest man in Birch Grove, taking a liking to you. 

It’s almost as if your entire time with Joel flashes before your eyes—all of the early mornings and late nights spent at his coffee house, the stories shared and secrets told—and everything comes to a head in this particular moment. 

Your smile doesn’t falter. Not even when his lips meet yours, and he pushes the most dulcet kiss against your mouth. It’s so gentle. Nothing more than a delicate peck, but so passionate in the sense that; the two of you need this. The tenderness of the other’s touch—the sweet, cloying taste of sugar on your tongue meshed with malt from the tea—is welcomed almost immediately, accommodated by an unexpected desire and thirst for intimacy. 

And though it is but a peck, the two of you know that this is the start of something. Something completely unexplainable and somewhat unexpected, but something nonetheless. 

You’re the first to pull away. He’s too enamored with you. 

“Joel.” You breathe against his lips. Cheeks are flushed red, eyes hooded and completely blown with lust. “Thanks for comin’ here, and apologizing.”

“Thanks for acceptin’ my apology.” He tells you. Joel takes a step back—not before running his thumb over your skin one last time—for fear of initiating something else. “Wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t wanna.”

“Don’t go sayin’ that. ‘Course I’ll always accept your apologies.”

Joel’s heart rate must be through the roof at this point. 

“Even if I run outta maple hazel syrup?”

A gasp falls from your lips and you feign anguish. You soon smile. He looks at his wristwatch, and sighs. 

“I better get goin’. Left Tommy alone a while, now. Not sure if I’ll have a cafe to get back to, if I keep him any longer.”

You laugh. “Go on. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“If it hasn’t been burned to the ground, you mean?”

“Yeah, if it hasn’t been burned to the ground.”

Joel nods. He’s fishing about the pocket of his flannel for the key. 

“Enjoy the rest of your day, hon.”

His cheeks heat up. “Yeah, you too, kid.”

You can’t help letting out a little ha ha when he’s getting into his truck, and you’re watching from your post against the doorframe. When he gives you a little wave, he pulls away and you’re ambling back into your hallway. Satisfied. Though somewhat confused. 

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the trajectory of this day, and you suppose that nothing will ever come close. You just need to figure out what happens next. 

[guilty-ff]

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐏𝐭.3

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

Previously: Wade Wilson was devastated after Y/n's tragic death, blaming himself for not saving her. After passing out from the trauma, he woke in Althea's apartment and learned from Weasel and Dopinder that her body had been sent to the morgue. His grief turned to panic when he received a call- Y/n’s body had mysteriously gone missing.

This story takes place between the second and third movies (warning: not 100% movie/comic accurate)

Pairing: Wade Wilson/Deadpool x (fem!)Reader

Genre: Angst, revenge, Fanfiction, Marvel

Warnings: Movie Spoilers! Explicit content, swearing, torture, mental health, weapons, characters death

Word count: 2464

Y/n's eyes fluttered open, and the world around her slowly came into focus, but it was all wrong, terribly wrong. She was lying on a cold, hard surface, her body aching and her mind foggy.

The first thing she noticed was the harsh, sterile smell that filled her nostrils, a nauseating mix of disinfectant and something far more unpleasant, like rotting meat left out in the sun. Her head throbbed, and she winced as she tried to move, only to find herself restrained.

Panic began to set in as she realized she was strapped to a surgeon's table, thick metal cuffs binding her wrists and ankles. The room around her was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a single flickering bulb hanging overhead, casting strange shadows that danced along the walls.

The walls themselves were concrete, cracked and stained, with streaks of what looked like dried blood smeared across them. It was a place devoid of life, warmth, or hope- a place where suffering was the only certainty.

She tried to turn her head, but the movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing over her, and she groaned softly. The room seemed to spin, the lights and shadows blurring together in a sickening whirlpool.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as she struggled to remember how she would ended up here.

The last thing she recalled was running...running away from Wade...from the silence that had shattered her heart.  The intensely chest pain. And then...the truck. The impact. And then...nothing.

As her vision cleared, she became aware of a presence in the room with her. From the far corner, just beyond the reach of the flickering light, a figure stepped forward, the sound of heavy boots echoing ominously on the concrete floor.

The figure was a woman, her face partially obscured by dark aura, but Y/n could see the glint of cruel, calculating eyes staring down at her.

"Huh, you're finally up?" the woman said, her voice cold and indifferent, as if Y/n's suffering was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. There was no warmth, no compassion- only a chilling detachment that sent a shiver down Y/n's spine.

The woman did not wait for a response. She turned and walked out of the room, her footsteps receding into the distance. Y/n's heart raced as she strained against her restraints, but they held firm, the metal biting painfully into her skin. She was trapped, helpless, with no idea what was going to happen next.

A few moments later, the woman returned, but she was not alone. She was followed by a man who immediately commanded the room's attention. He wore a pristine doctors's coat, the stark white fabric almost glowing in the dim light.

His face was gaunt, his skin pale and sickly, and a small, rounded scar ran painted his forehead, a jagged reminder of some past violence. His eyes were dark, filled with a mix of hatred and sadistic glee as they settled on Y/n.

"Finally," the man said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sent chills down her spine. "Getting my hands on the other girlfriend of the infamous Wade Wilson. You know, it wasn't easy tracking you down, living in the shadows, making sure no one noticed. But here we are, and I have a new toy to play with."

Y/n's confusion gave way to a burning anger. "Get me the fuck off this bed," she snarled, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury.

The man's lips curled into a twisted smile, but there was no warmth in it- only cold, unfeeling malice. "You know," he continued, his tone mocking, "I don't like getting my hands dirty with a woman. But she—" he nodded toward the woman who stood silently by his side,

"-she enjoys it."

Before Y/n could react, the woman stepped forward and delivered a brutal punch to her face. The impact was like a sledgehammer, sending her head snapping to the side, and pain exploded across her cheek, radiating down to her jaw.

She tasted blood, the metallic taste filling her mouth as it dripped from her split lip. She spat it out, the crimson drops splattering on the floor beside the table.

"Ew, disgusting," the man sneered, looking down at his coat with a disdainful expression. "Don't overdo it next time. Her blood almost got on my coat."

Y/n's vision swam, her head pounding from the blow. The room seemed to spin around her, the edges of her sight darkening as she struggled to stay conscious.

The dizziness was overwhelming, but she fought against it, her anger fueling her will to survive. She pulled against the restraints, her muscles straining as she tried to break free, but the cuffs held firm, cutting into her wrists.

The man ignored her struggles, continuing as if nothing had happened. "It wasn't easy monitoring your body and getting you here without raising suspicion. Our members didn't do their job properly when they replaced your body at the morgue. But who the fuck knows, right?"

Y/n's mind was a whirlwind of fear, anger, and confusion. She could barely process what he was saying, her thoughts scattered by the pain and disorientation. But one thing was clear: she was in serious trouble, and these people had no intention of letting her go.

"Fuck off," she spat, her voice hoarse but defiant. "I'm going to fucking rip your eyeballs out of your face and stuff them down your throat."

The man's twisted smile widened, his eyes narrowing with sadistic pleasure. "That'll do," he said calmly, as if her threats were nothing more than idle chatter.

Y/n's confusion deepened, her mind struggling to make sense of his words. But before she could react, pain erupted through her body, a searing, all-consuming agony that made her scream.

It was as if her veins had turned to fire, the pain spreading from her core to every nerve ending in her body. Her muscles seized, her body twitching uncontrollably as electricity surged through her, the current burning her from the inside out.

The pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced, a relentless, unbearable torment that consumed her completely. She could feel her consciousness slipping, the world around her fading as the pain dragged her down into darkness. But it would not let her go. It held her there, on the edge of oblivion, her mind going insane between the waking world and the merciful release of unconsciousness.

As the electricity coursed through her, Y/n's hearing began to fade, replaced by a high-pitched ringing that grew louder and louder until it drowned out everything else. The man's voice became a distant echo, his words distorted and garbled, lost in the cacophony of sound and pain.

"It just continues to get funnier and more interesting to see your loose face and cursing me out. Haven't seen you do that for a long time. We kept an eye on Wade's close ones for my plan," the man continued, though his words barely registered in Y/n's pain-devastated mind.

"We even got samples of your blood. When analyzing your DNA, we discovered something interesting: We actually discovered that you have mutant genes that were deactivated the whole time by an oppressor. We kept the blood sample in track with our systems and waited for the moment. In order for your mutant genes to be activated, the oppressor needs to detach itself from the gene in order for it to be read and, therefore, activated. Your body, desperate to survive, activated those dormant genes, probably by an inhumane amount of cortisol, trauma and adrenalin. It all triggered something in you, and voilà: you became a living curse. You were lucky that your little outburster activated the genes before you were sandwiched by the truck. Fucking awesome."

As Y/n lay chained to the surgical bed, her mind raced with confusion and fear. He loomed over her, his eyes gleaming with a twisted mix of triumph and malice. He seemed to savor the moment, taking his time before finally breaking the silence.

"You probably think you're some sort of miracle, don't you?" he began, his voice dripping with contempt. "Some kind of invincible freak, just like your boyfriend, Wade Wilson."

Y/n glared at him, anger flickering in her eyes despite the pain. "What the hell are you talking about?" she spat, though her voice wavered with uncertainty.

The unknown man chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "You really don't know, do you? Well, allow me to enlighten you."

He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers, the stench of disinfectant and blood clinging to him. "You're not special. You're just a parasite. Your so called 'powers'- they're nothing but a sick twist of fate."

Y/n frowned, trying to make sense of his words. "Parasite? What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means," he hissed, his tone laced with venom, "that every time you heal, every time your body repairs itself from the brink of death, someone else takes your place. The pain, the injury, the death- they're all transferred to some poor bastard unlucky enough to be near you."

Y/n's breath caught in her throat, the weight of his words crushing her. "No... that can't be true..."

He began to pace around the room, his movements deliberate and menacing. "But you're not like Deadpool. He heals on his own, no strings attached. You, on the other hand... every time you survive, someone else pays the price. That night, when you should have died under that truck, someone else did instead. You killed them, whether you meant to or not."

Y/n shook her head, refusing to believe it. "You're lying. This is just some sick game you're playing."

The man's eyes hardened, his expression turning cold. "I don't play games, sweetheart. I deal in reality. You think that pain you felt earlier was just a heart attack? No, it was your body trying to reconcile what it had done—what you had done. You're a walking time bomb, a freak show that drags others down with you."

He stopped in front of her again, his gaze boring into hers. "And here, in my little slice of hell, I'm going to make sure that your hands get even dirtier. Your boyfriend already destroyed one of my labs, but now I have something even better- leverage. You."

Y/n's stomach turned as the full horror of her situation sank in. Her abilities were not a gift- they were a curse, one that condemned others to suffer in her place.

"You're lying," she whispered, her voice trembling with fear and anger. "I would never hurt anyone..."

"But you already have," he said, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "And you will again. Because every time I push you to the edge, every time I make you scream in pain, someone else is going to feel it too. You'll kill them, just like you did that night."

Y/n's vision blurred with tears as she struggled against the chains, desperate to escape the nightmare she was trapped in.

"You're sick. You're fucking sick!"

"Maybe," the man shrugged, unbothered by her outburst. "But you? You're something far worse. A monster who doesn't even know it yet. But don't worry," he added with a sadistic grin, "by the time I'm done with you, you'll understand exactly what you are."

He picked up a surgical tool, the cold metal glinting in the dim light as he held it up to her face. "And we're going to have so much fun finding out just how much you can take before you break."

As he moved closer, the room seemed to close in on her, the reality of her situation crashing down with unbearable weight. Y/n could only hope for a quick end, though deep down, she knew that the unknown man had no intention of letting her off that easily.

Y/n could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears, the sound so intense it felt like her skull was about to split open. Her vision blurred, the world around her reduced to a haze of shadows and flickering light. The pain was all-consuming, relentless, and she could feel herself slipping further away, her thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

The man stepped closer, his face looming over hers as he held up a series of twisted, gleaming instruments. They glinted ominously in the dim light, their sharp edges reflecting the flickering bulb overhead. His grin widened, a sadistic gleam in his eyes as he looked down at her, relishing in her torment.

"Your boyfriend, Wade Wilson, was in this same room once... but instead of serving me as a slave, he decided to leave and blew the fuck off my laboratory and all my researches, as well as shooting me right between the eyes!", he said, his voice filled with hatred. "But this time, you're the one who'll be paying the price for his sins."

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest, fear gripping her as she stared up at him. She wanted to scream, to fight, to do anything to escape this nightmare. But she was trapped, helpless, and the darkness was closing in fast.

All she could do was pray for a quick death.

If death was even possible anymore.

But deep down, she knew that this was only the beginning of the torment that awaited her. The man's twisted grin was the last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her.

As Y/n's vision blurred and the darkness crept closer, she strained to focus on anything that could anchor her to reality. Her gaze landed on the man's pristine white coat, the only thing untouched by the surrounding filth and decay. Amid the chaos, her eyes caught a detail- one that sent a cold shiver down her spine.

Embroidered in neat, black letters over his chest pocket was a name: "Francis."

The word echoed in her mind, a twisted familiarity clawing at the edges of her memory. She tried to make sense of it, but the pain, the fear, and the overwhelming fatigue clouded her thoughts.

"Francis..." she mumbled weakly, her voice barely more than a whisper as her lips struggled to form the word.

Her eyelids grew heavy, the effort to keep them open becoming too much. The world around her faded, the edges of her vision darkening until only the name remained, etched in her mind like a cruel joke.

And then, just as her consciousness slipped away entirely, the darkness finally claimed her.

[dtrghost]

closeness and proximity

Side note: This is my first ever tumblr fic, so uh, be gentle!! moving on!

pairing: ghost x f!reader

synopsis: callsign is sunshine, because you're anything but. team 141 thought ghost was bad? at least they could crack a smile out of the guy from time to time, you? you were stone faced, all day, every day. until one day you're not, not with a certain someone anyway.

warnings: inaccurate military language and sequences, violence, angst, descriptions of interrogation and torture, INTENSE gore (imo), cursing, allusions to mental illness (reader has sociopathic tendencies) you get the gist. If you have a weak stomach or faint heart, please do not read this, like please.

I'd also like to start this off by saying that the mc is not a good person, and that is on purpose. I've seen a lot of the angel fics where ghost falls for his antithesis, so I decided to try something new. So here, please forgive any mistakes.

if this does become a series there will most likely be smut because,,, yes.

(update it's becoming a series so if someone wants to be tagged for that lmk cause i have so many ideas for this)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Word count: 3.4k

"Sunshine how copy?" Ghost's gruff, static filled voice called through coms, scope checking the parameters of the building she found herself held up in. She didn't respond at first, busy fighting for her life in a basement underneath the building they weren't aware of.

The deeper she went the harder it was to understand what was being relayed to her, so she settled on doing it on her own. He listened to a man grunt, their body dropping to the floor under her boot as she took a deep breath.

"There's a basement underground, coms are cutting out. I'm taking charge on clearing the basement. I'll report when I get to the surface. Sunshine out." She loathed her callsign with a passion. To speak it caused a burning hatred to spark in the lowest depths of her heart and made her cringe horribly. However, she knew it was better than letting everyone know her real name, so she dealt with it.

Ghost sighed, knowing she couldn't be stopped once she started. She had been on a few missions together in the past few years, he knew she was uptight and lacked the emotional capacity to make friends with others. It made him wonder why, what could've been that bad to freeze her heart over and shrink it to the size of the pebble he was crushing under his foot as he shifted uncomfortably. People would try and try to thaw her out, yet always failed.

He waited, taking out strays that attempted to heed the possible rescue requests that came from that basement, and patiently waited.

"This is Sunshine, basement cleared. Might wanna come take a look at this." His eyebrows furrowed, affirming the request and making his way down quickly, not wanting to stay in the open for too long. He made his way to the basement, eyes widening at the various bodies that trailed to wherever she was down there.

Had she done this all by herself?

He followed the bodies all the way to her, lights flickering, casting a bland white light on the concrete walls. seeing her digging through an opened trunk in a room filled with them.

"Weapons. American." Sunshine reported, glancing at him as he took his place next to her, seeing the American flag painted onto the inside of the lid. She turned at the sound of a groan, a soldier she left alive rousing to consciousness.

"Fuckin' hell. This mission was to take out ultranationalists." Ghost sighed. She didn't respond, the task force member watching her turn on her heel and grab the soldier by vest, throwing him against the wall with impressive strength. Blood flowed out of the back of his head, smearing against the wall as he slowly slid to the floor. He had never seen her in interrogation, but he had heard from those who have.

Brutal, heartless, some had to exit the room.

He wouldn't. He's witnessed plenty of torture tactics, even had to rely on some himself to get information necessary for national security. But this is another reason why they called her 'Sunshine', because to others she didn't feel remorse for what she did, some said she enjoyed it even, that her eyes brightened like the sun peaking over the horizon. Whether that was true or not he'd figure out now, as eager as he was. He watched her take out her knife, flipping it in her hand as she crouched to the soldier's level.

"Where'd they come from." She asked simply, keeping an even tone that surprised Ghost. He expected something more fierce, intimidating, but it was as if she was starting a conversation with a normal person. The victim attempted to spit in her face, but with a quick turn on the head it landed on the floor behind her. Her knife dug itself into his foot, his cries of pain echoing in the basement as she twisted it. The sounds of his bones cracking made Ghost shiver.

"Where'd they come from. Who sold them to you." She persisted, her face void of all emotion as she ripped the blade out of his foot. She sighed, turning to ghost who stood in the back, surveying the action. His eyebrows furrowed as she pointed to the door with her knife.

"Wait outside. This might take awhile." At first he didn't move, but the hint of impatience in her eyes spooked him out, for reasons unknown to him, but instinct told him to listen. So he slowly retreated and stood watch outside for anyone either getting up or rushing down the stairs. Y/N turned back to her victim, seeing two loops with chains hanging off of them imbedded into the wall. She tied his arms up, leaving his body sagging down.

Ghost listened to her repeat her questions, and when she didn't get an answer, a shout would follow. But those shouts turned to ear-piercing screams very quickly. He listened to pleads and begs of mercy to understand him, that he couldn't say anything out fear to what they'd do to him.

"Imagine what I'll do next if I don't get the response I want." She'd respond.

The bones cracking, the retch of vomiting, blood splattering onto the cold concrete.

"If you think you can outlast me, that I'll get tired of this and stop for the night to let you regain some of your humanity, you're wrong. Because unfortunately for you sweetheart." The blade tore through his skin, another bellow of pain emerging from his throat as he squirmed in his place. They were both coated in blood, her eyes dull and her ears tuning out the noise. To her, it was as if he was silent, his screams didn't penetrate through to her, and talked and talked until it drove him mad.

"I don't have all night, and I'm getting impatient. You won't die, I wouldn't allow that. I went through med school, graduated top of my class with a doctorate in Neuroscience. I know how to break." Which was evident as his leg was broken and facing different directions from the knee down to his toes.

"And I know how to fix. I'll keep you alive a lot longer than the night, and I'll do a lot worse. So if you want this to end, start talking, or you're in for a long week." Simon wondered what she was doing. His mind went over the possibilities until her victim finally cracked after the final scream he unleashed into the empty basement. He detailed a secret arms trade between an ally of the United States' and another country, which would lead to the likeliness of intentions for them.

War.

Y/N huffed, ripping off a piece of the soldiers shirt that wasn't soaked in sweat, blood, or vomit, which was a very small one, and wiping her hands clean as best as she could.

"Could've said that 10 minutes ago. Now, you'll bleed out within the next 5. Shame." Ghost listened to his anguished sobs as footsteps approached him, turning around from the entrance to see her, covered in blood. His eyes widened slightly, noticing a piece of...

Her eyes followed his to her vest, noticing a very small piece of flesh sitting between her shirt and gear before flicking it off to the side.

"Hopefully he didn't have HIV." She joked, but there was no humor in her voice, no sign of her finding it funny at all, as if she said it to just say it. Ghost didn't respond, he wasn't sure how. He slowly moved to look inside the room, the curiosity of what she did to the soldier eating him alive, until she grabbed his roughly.

"Don't." The word sent shivers down his spine, and he knew better than the disobey as she had operational command authority, and would likely court martial him if he had. So he took a step back and maintained eye contact, radioing in to Price.

"Captain, this is Ghost. How copy." He called, his gruff voice bringing a smile to her lips that he couldn't see due to her mask which was just a boring black one, decorated with blotches of drying blood that lightened up enough to see. "This is Price."

"We found weapons and gear, they're American." He went onto explain the situation, being weary of his mission leader walking around him in circles, waiting impatiently as he reported their findings.

"Copy that. I'll transfer this to Lanswell. Good work, report back to base for debrief."

"Copy, Ghost out." He connected his radio back to his vest. She took out her pistol, leading him to pull out his own. The behavior she exhibited was one he hadn't seen often, and it led to a deep mistrust he couldn't shake. She smirked, turning around, walking back in the room, and confirming her kill with a bullet between the eyes before reappearing in front of him.

He looked at her suspiciously as she gestured to the stairs, wondering who trained her, who made her into what she is now. She wasn't normal, not like the rest of them, she had no signs of remorse, care, or empathy for the people she killed, and she killed them with ease. Over 30 soldiers in one cramped basement and she came out unscathed, in tip top shape. He followed her out and made it to the landing zone where a helicopter came to pick them up.

She was silent the whole way back, Price being there to greet the two before they sat through debrief.

"Sunshine, we have orders from headquarters to have you join Task Force 141. Ghost is to watch over you. An official introduction will be made tomorrow." Price announced, not missing the tightened grip of Ghost's fist on the table.

"Copy that captain." She responded in her usual tone, only fueling Ghost's anger as he turned to glare at her, though she only ignored him, keeping her gaze unwavering on Price.

"Hit the showers soldier." Price dismissed, Y/N being the first to leave. But before she did, she turned to look down at her new partner.

"Happy to be on the team, Mr. Riley." It took his everything to not jump to his feet and knock her out, holding his breath to calm himself down as she walked away, the door shutting behind her. He hated that she had power over him, and worse that she rubbed it in his face.

"There's no chance in hell I'll stand for her being on my team." He immediately threw at him, standing up in his seat with his finger pressing firmly on the table in front of him.

"First, it's my team. Second, It's not my choice, orders are orders." Ghost growled lowly, clearly upset over the lack of fighting to keep her off, to keep her away to those he held near and dear to his heart, even if that wasn't too close to begin with. He saw her as a danger, an immediate threat, someone who belonged in an institution before they saw the battlefield.

"Then send an appeal. She's a war criminal. Tell em that!" He snapped.

"Bloody hell we're all war criminals. Then we'll be stuck in prison with her and you'll complain some more." Price groaned, rubbing his forehead, clearly irritated by his soldier's insistence.

"Not like that. Not how she is. She'll kill one of us before we get the next mission, hell she parade around our bodies like a joker and hail-" Price's hand slammed on the table, cutting his lieutenant off.

"Quiet." Ghost went silent, sighing deeply as he waited for Price to gather the right words, to somehow ease his mistrust in her, though he doubted she could do that. He watched as he shut the door and locked it, keeping his voice hushed, standing closer to his comrade.

"This is classified information, what I say stays in this room and is to never be discussed with anyone else. Is that understood lieutenant." Ghost's eyes widened for a moment before nodding in affirmation, waiting for his captain to continue.

"She- she wasn't brought up normally. As a great many soldiers weren't, hence why many of them join the ranks in the first place. She was a prodigy, she became a seal at 17, and on her second mission she was set up, deserted, and kidnapped. Nobody knows what happened to her in there, a search team was sent out, but she wasn't found til a few months later, and when she came out after she was different."

She was a child.

That's all Ghost could thing about. God knows what happened to her in there, and he didn't want to think about it.

"She exhibited sociopathic tendencies, she was closed off, didn't speak for a very long time. She failed psychological evaluation requirements, depression, ptsd, ecetera. Even then they sent her back out on missions a couple months later." Simon's eyes blew open, Price nodding glumly.

"Missions? Fuckin' hell, she needs help not special ops." He sneered, not at Price, but his anger was seeping through at rates he couldn't control. He was angry, how could they do that to someone? Did they not care, not even a little bit for her life? Her wellbeing?

"I know. But they're not taking her out any time soon, and now that she's on our team the least we can do is try to help her. I knew her before she became this. She was a kind soul." His voice dropped to a whisper, as if reminiscing, and he was. Her bright eyes, so full of potential when they met for her first mission, how she wheezed when she laughed. She was a kid, and it hurt his heart thinking about what she turned into over the last 6 years. Ghost nodded, silently agreeing to his motives before Price simply waved him off.

Simon hit the showers, scrubbing off the dirt and gunpowder that clung to his skin, watching the water turn black as the face paint drizzled down into it. The captain's words ran through his head over and over, the words going in one ear, through his brain, and out the other in a constant circle. He knew firsthand how corrupt his line of work could be, but that didn't make him any less angry when it revealed itself to him in the ways it did.

When he exited, fully dried and clothed with his mask back on, he passed by Y/N's room, noticing the light peaking out from underneath the door. He sighed quietly, his hand coming up and knocking on the door.

"It's open." Her cold voice responded, though it sounded more distant than before. He twisted the knob and let the door open, seeing her laying on her cot in deep thought. He went to question her, until he realized that she probably listened in on their conversation.

"You were listening." She nodded once, curtly and formally before sitting up and turning to look at him. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, analyzing every aspect about him. He felt like he was being stripped naked just by her look, his soul bare for her to look into.

Her eyes drifted over his exposed arms, the sleeveless tank he wore leaving them on display. He was a big guy, his arms were veined and muscled, tattoos filling up a majority of the space, combined with scars that passed through some of them. The top he wore was a bit tight, outline his chest in an attractive way, but she forced her eyes away, knowing he already caught onto what she was staring at.

"Price is right. I wasn't always like this. And I think he was the only one to notice, or at least point it out." She began, drawing attention away from the fact she just checked him out shamelessly.

"Wasn't right, what happened to you." He replied stiffly. She snickered, standing up. He watched her pace the room, twisting a knife in her hands, causing him to tense. She noticed.

"I'm not going to stab you lieutenant." She reassured, though it didn't help at all as she went on. She wasn't sure what she felt, confused for sure, as to why she was unable to emotionally process her emotions or evaluate the information she heard, as if her mind was barring her from contextualizing her state of mind. She knew she wasn't normal, but she couldn't bring herself to accept it and label herself.

"I was 17 when I was taken, you know that. Had a rough upbringing, I won't explain that to you now." She wasn't sure where she was going with this, and neither was he, but he'd listen for a bit to try and understand her more, maybe to trust her more now that she was his teammate. "I can feel emotion you know. Only to a certain degree, I can empathize. Fleeting, but it's there sometimes. I do feel some remorse, but you know how we are in this field. Weakness will get you killed, so you internalize it, you keep it buried underneath everything else, and because my everything else was stripped away with me, it just sits in here." She tapped her temple and shrugged. He understood what she meant, he did that too. He withheld his shame, his guilt, and his remorse, remaining a stone cold figure in the field. He saved the emotional crap for his time alone where he could deal with it in the way he knew how.

"You just let it sit there then?" He pressed, crossing his arms over his chest. She nodded.

"Don't know what to do with it. Lost my sense of self and all I know is this job. I do try though, I try to force some tears like I've seen others do, but the only time these.. feelings present themselves is on my missions, which is why everyone thinks I enjoy it. But I don't, for the record, I just can't control it like you guys do. And I envy you for that." His eyes widened slightly.

"Envy, huh."

"Mhm. You can talk to each other, find common ground and relate, make friends and connections. I can't because I don't feel like you guys do. And then you demonize me and outcast me more than I already am, so. Oops." He thought she was getting upset, but she wasn't, there was not a hint of anger or sadness or negative emotion in her person whatsoever, none that he could see anyway. Her arms were loose and carefree as she swung them around every time she turned her heel to pace back in the direction she just walked in.

"We can help you." Her first sign of feeling was an eye roll with a steady irritated gaze. But she didn't say anything. The idea of needing help repulsed her beyond anything else, made her want to punch a wall and scream, her eyes widened. Anger. There it is, outside of a mission too. She hummed, looking back at him.

"Alright Casper." He grunted, displeased by the new nickname which made her smile widen cheekily. She searched his eyes for a moment, finding entertainment in the small flames in his amber eyes, how they flickered and danced when he found something humorous, how they died out when he found something unamusing or boring, how they raged when he grew angry or determined to finish something with a newfound passion.

She liked to think he had that burn in his eyes when Price spoke to him about the notion of helping her, hoping that he'd care that much even if she didn't want the help, or perhaps she did, that would explain the want would it not? That was a thought for later. For now she'd do her job the way she knew how, she wouldn't change, not yet, not that she knew how anyway.

"We're going out for a drink tomorrow night, care to tag along." He offered, jousting his chin up at her in a heads up manner.

"I don't drink." She replied, monotone as she laid down on her cot, shutting her eyes with a sigh. He watched her body sink into the bed, all stress and tension releasing, and he took that as his dismissal. He shut the door behind him, releasing a breath and walking back to his room, confused and tired where he slept on the day's events.

Though he was curious on how tomorrow would turn out.

And that's it! If you want a series out of this let me know!! It's my first fic and I'll probably binge a bunch because I feel like writing. I'm still trying to figure out the whole border thing I wanna make everything aesthetic or whatever but yeah.

See you guys next time!!

[elletheactualmenace]

Was it Worth it?

Pairing: Bruce Wayne(battinson) x fem!reader

Summary: Bruce did something and he is afraid you won’t ever look at him the same.

Warnings: Unfaithfulness, betrayal, harsh words, angst

Word Count: 3.7k

a/n: probably definitely my favorite of the ones I’ve been working on. I kinda wish I made the ending a little different, but I still like it. Should I make another part? Idk, anyways enjoy.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

There is a gentle humming vibration radiating from the floor of Bruce's bat cave. His music is the only thing keeping the room from being dead silent. He's hunched over the table not even sitting in the chair. He looks exhausted, because he is. The tension in the air almost hurts as much as the situation itself. Your chest squeezes in pain and your stomach is dropped farther than you think possible. Bruce, doesn't move. He won't move. He can't look at the mess he made. The mess he got both of you in.

You stand in the middle of the icy cold room. A shiver runs down your spine. Your eyes are wet and puffy. No tears have fallen, and you are going to make sure you keep it that way. At least until you are alone. You won't give him that. Your tears. They're yours, and he no longer has the right to see you in that kind of vulnerability.

Your gaze wanders over the room. It's big. And has a lot of technology. It's dark and it's lonely in a way that reminds you of Bruce. You've been in here before, many times before, but the aura is different, and it's chilling. You can't tell if you're glad or angry. And if you are being honest, if the opportunity to go back and change everything appears, you aren't sure if you would take it or leave it.

"Well," You exhale a regrettable shaky breath. You straighten out your stance. You clear your throat and sniffle in your sadness and disappointment. "I'm going to bed." You turn on your heel towards the elevator.

Your steps are loud involuntarily, and they make Bruce's chest tighten with guilt and an overwhelming sense of self-hatred. His eyes sting from fatigue and emotional pain. His tongue glides over his lip, thinking of how he should approach this, or if he should at all. But he hears your scolding voice in his head. ’Bruce, you need to do something. You have to.’

The echo of your shoes against the concrete ground ends abruptly. You tilt your head up, looking at the ceiling trying to stop the sobs and shaking from taking over. You squeeze your eyes shut, taking in a long breath.

"Bruce," You start while pressing the elevator button. You hear it descending from the floors above. The sound is audibly shaky because of the quiet unspoken tension in the air. Bruce's head turns slightly at the soft sound of your voice.

"Was it worth it?" You're curious, but there is an undertone giving away the true intent of your question. You want him to feel the guilt and feel the same amount of pain and hurt you do.

"No." He whispers the ache in his heart evident in his voice.

“Was she worth it?” Your words are like venom. The elevator door slides open with a ding.

“No. Never. Why would you think that?” Bruce grumbles out, almost insulted. Your jaw tightens at his tone. Why the hell was he insulted? You should be screaming and crying, but you keep your cool for the sake of everyone. For the sake of your marriage. The clashing of your teeth is loud in your head. 

“I'm sorry, what?” Your fist tightens at your side. Now you're not just sad, you're pissed. How the fuck is he fixing this but trying to play the victim? He is not allowed to feel insulted, he doesn’t have that privilege.

Bruce doesn’t say anything, realizing the sound of his voice makes you mad. He stinks in on himself, feeling the guilt and the wrongfulness crawling from the pit of his stomach into every fiber of his being. He wants to undo everything, he wants to fall on his knees and beg for your forgiveness. But you need space. And begging will do as much as fucking Selina again. He needs to do something that proves to you he’s sorry and that it won’t happen again. But he’s not even sure he can prove it to you or that it won't happen again. He prays to everything that it won’t.

“Why would I think that?” You mumble to yourself in disbelief. You questionably hum, loudly, comically, mocking him. You laugh bitterly.

Suddenly it hits you. Why were you giving him so much as a thought right now? He doesn’t deserve your patience. He doesn’t deserve every night you waited for him to come home. He doesn’t deserve your constant ‘it’s fine’ even when it wasn’t. He doesn’t deserve the fact that you hadn’t done something drastic yet. But at the same time you knew his heart was good, and he deserves the world. You don’t know anymore. Fuck your indecisiveness. 

“I’m too tired to deal with all of this right now. Goodnight Bruce.” You step into the elevator, back to the cave. You push the button without a sound and are off.

The second the doors open again you’re met face to face with Alfred. When he sees your sad and pained expression he is immediately by your side. 

“Mrs. Wayne? Are you alright ma’am?” His face is full of concern. And you have to remind yourself to keep it together.

“I’m fine Alfred thank you. I think I’m ready for bed.” You curse how shaky your voice is, because Alfred notices too.

“Of course ma’am. Do you need anything before then?” Alfred is and always has been thoughtful and respectful of others, it was his job of course. 

“No. I’m-, I’ll be alright. Thank you, Alfred. You are too good for this world.” He smiles at your compliment and gives a small thank you. Your unsteady breathing makes him worried, but he lets you be. If you needed to talk you would have. So he lets you travel up the stairs and into the master bedroom.

——

Alfred is furious. What has Master Bruce done this time? Alfred practically stomps down to the bat cave. He storms in with fire in his eyes. 

Alfred loves you. As if you are his own. You are kind, witty, and an absolute pleasure to have around. You also care about Bruce, and he knew from the second he met you that you were going to stick around even if Master Bruce would be stubborn about it for a while.

When Bruce hears the loud steps, he perks up, hoping it’s you and that he can at least try to apologize. When he hears Alfred’s angry voice roaring throughout the cave his shoulders slump.

“Mater Bruce.” The volume of Alfred’s voice surprises him.

Bruce stays quiet. What did you say? No, he thought, she didn’t say anything. That’s not like her.

“Why have you sent your wife away in such a state? What did you say? What did you do?” Alfred never raises his voice much, but now is one of those rare occasions.

“I didn’t send her off. She left voluntarily,” Bruce responds in a gruff voice.

There is a beat of silence as Alfred gathers his thoughts and anger. Obviously you had left voluntarily. Bruce would never throw you out. Never. So, what had he done to hurt you?

“What did you do?” Alfred repeated in a firm voice. Bruce’s shoulders tighten even more than they already are. Bruce breathes out slowly, trying not to show his emotions, like always.

“I-“ Bruce starts, but his breathing gets shaky, and he stops. It feels like it hurts him just as much, if not more than you. But he would never dare say that out loud, he won’t ever try to make you think your feelings are inferior to his.

“I did something,” Bruce pauses, “And I-,” he pauses again. Alfred is so use to Bruce not sharing that the waiting doesn’t bother him anymore. Alfred lets him think about how to word it.

“I don’t think she will ever look at me the same. I don’t think she will ever forgive me.” Alfred can hear the pain in his words. He feels horrible. He wants to know what he did that was so bad.

“What did you do-“ Alfred cuts himself off when he sees Bruce switch on a screen. It’s one of the recordings he takes when goes out through his contacts. Alfred lets out an audible gasp when he sees her. Selina Kyle.

“You didn’t-“ 

“I did.” Bruce says bluntly, angry at himself. His eyes wander in a misty haze. Glazed over with regret.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred starts, but he stops mouth agape. As if he can’t put together what he wants to say. Like he doesn’t know himself. 

He loves you and he loves Bruce. And Bruce messed up big time. It’s going to be way more, incredibly difficult than usual for Bruce to fix this.

Alfred let Bruce be alone in his thoughts, but when he realizes it will take hours for him to truly have his thoughts straight, he marches down to the cave and demands he go and fix this.

“Go.” Alfred has a serious look on his face. “You can’t just leave her there to cry, Master Bruce.”

“I- I need to think,” Bruce argues but Alfred isn’t having it.

“I will let you know you’ve been ‘thinking’ for almost two hours. You’re done thinking. You need to go and confront the situation head on.” Alfred says sternly.

“No, I can’t,” Bruce says arrogantly.

“I don’t see why you are having such trouble. Facing things head on is the bat's job after all.” Alfred retorts and Bruce stays quiet.

“Now,” Alfred starts, “Go, before I burn your suit and have all the entrance to here,” He gestures to the batcave. “Sealed.”

Bruce narrows his eyes. He knows not to mess with Alfred when he threatens, even if it seems so casually, he is dead serious. Bruce has experienced it firsthand before.

“Get moving Master Bruce, before I drag you up there myself. Don’t forget you taught you everything you know.” Alfred says with a pointed look, before turning on his heel to exit. 

—-

You don’t remember a time that you have hurt as much as you do now. After brushing off Alfred successfully, at least for a bit, you moped up to the bedroom, your and Bruce’s bedroom.

After getting inside and shutting the absurdly large doors, you turn your back against the doors. Leaning all of your weight on them. Using them as a source of support. Now, finally, you let go. You let everything you have been hiding behind fall. The strong attitude to face your cheating husband. The tears pour in choked sobs. You slide down to the floor, back still against the big doors.

After a long while of sitting there you got up and got changed. If your life is falling apart your figure you might as well be comfortable. 

The tears never really stop, not really. They only slow every once in a while then come back even stronger than before. It’s getting hard to breathe. You can’t even sit on the bed, it smells like him. So you sit on the windowsill, looking out at the streets of Gathom.

You don’t know what to do. It’s not really something they make books, or guides for. Screaming at his face seems like a very appealing opinion right now. Or you could run, just for a bit, take the car you had before you moved in, and he, annoyingly at the time, felt the need to buy you a new car as one of the many welcome gifts. You had told him that you didn’t need anything, but he insisted, he always does. He’s thoughtful in that way. Always giving you things. You love him, and always will love- 

Wait. What the fuck? Why the hell are you doing? That loving husband you ‘will always love’ cheated on you. And proceeded to not tell you for almost five months. And you have only been married for a little less than a year. And what happened to taking the car and running? That thought just seemed to slip away.

You want to forgive him but at the same time you want to cry and scream at him for being a dick and hurting you. For all the time you have known Bruce he would never do something like this purposely, at least not from what you’ve seen. If someone asked you yesterday if you trust him and believe him, the answer would be an immediate yes, no questions asked. But now you aren’t sure. He has probably done so many things you don’t know about, and he has just never told you. 

The tears start to lessen, but the pain in your chest is still present. You had asked Bruce to put in a cushion on the window seat, and of course, he did. It was soft, sure, but it was always cold and isolated. You sat here when you waited for Bruce to come home from his nightly work. So the seat always reminds you of that lonely feeling. And right now the feeling is amplified.

You just want him to know what you did wrong. What is so bad about you that he has to go find someone else to be intimate with. All you can think about are the thousands of things you could have done wrong.

A soft knock sounds from the door. You can’t tell if you with its Bruce or Alfred. But either way you get up and walk over to the doors of the master bedroom.

You pull the doors open, head hung low towards the ground. You spot black dirty boots standing in front of you. It's Bruce. And somehow the sadness in the pit of your stomach enhances at the sight of the boots.

You squeeze your eyes shut, then push the door close. But something stops the satisfying sound of the door clicking closed. A boot specifically.

A growl grows from deep in your throat. 

“Go away,” The boot remains wedged in between the door frame and the door.

“Please?” It's more of a rude demand than a question. But instead of following your request a hand on the other side of the door pushes it open.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk but-“ You cut him off.

“No, I definitely don’t want to talk. That's why I came up here.” You finally look up into his hooded eyes. They’re bloodshot red, but you can’t tell if it's because he was crying or because he is sleep deprived. It's most likely the latter.

Bruce sighs sadly, he hates that he hurt you. He hates how your red puffy eyes and stuffy nose are because of him, because of what he did. He hates himself for letting Selina get to him. He knows it is and always will be his fault, but putting some blame on Selina, which she deserves, takes off some of the weight.

“Can I come in?” He asks, and you reluctantly let him in. Your body is heavy with dread. You don’t know how this will end, and thinking about leaving this room a single woman is horrifying.

Bruce walks to the windowsill you follow close behind, but keeping your distance. “What do you want to talk about?” You ask genuinely. “Are you here to tell me you had an affair with someone else? Someone other than Selina?” It comes out before you can stop it. And your breath hitches. You almost cover your mouth with your hand but stop yourself. After thinking about it alone, you realized that with Bruce, you need to let him speak before you start yelling. It never ends well when you just yell and don’t listen too.

Bruce looks hurt as he looks down at you with a frown. You sigh feeling ashamed for accusing him before he even got to speak.

“Sorry,” You mumble. “You can talk now.”

“Well, I-“ He pauses and sighs, finding it hard to put his thoughts and feelings into words. “Im sorry, and I- I know that most likely means nothing at all, and does nothing. But I just- I need you to know. Im so sorry.” His shoulders fall along with the walls that were previously up when you were down in the cave. 

You don’t say anything, you can’t. You can’t say it's okay, because it's not. So you let him continue.

“The night it happened, I wasn't in my right mind.” You scoff, and he understands that it sounds like absolute bull shit. So he re-words it. “I mean, I wasn’t focused, I was stuck somewhere else.” Your sniffle rips at his heart. That sounds stupid too.

“Fuck, I was missing you. And I needed you, but you weren’t there. She was. I regret it and always will.” It still sounds stupid and like bullshit, but he doesn’t care, it’s the truth.

“I wanted to come home early, and I was going to. I was. I was going to come home to you, but Selina- she,” He pauses, his breathing goes ragged. “She stopped me and I didn’t make it home.”

The room is quiet. You're thinking and Bruce is waiting for you to say something, anything. You breathe in slowly.

“So,” You start, “I didn’t do anything wrong?” Your voice cracks as your shoulders fall and you crumble into a million broken pieces.

“What?” He’s genuinely confused, in a soft voice. Why would you think you did something wrong? Bruce can’t figure it out. “Why would you think that?” Tears well up in his eyes as he watches your brave face fall right in front of him.

You laugh as tears roll down your checks. “I- I mean you’ve been distant lately, more than normal. And I guess the only explanation is that- I did something, or I didn’t do something,”

Bruce breathes out a shaky breath, trying to stop his own tears from spilling. “Y/n, you could never do anything wrong. I did the wrong thing. I’ve been distant because of this.” His words come out slowly, more than normal, like he is really trying to make a point. “And I can never make up for what I’ve done, but I need you to know that you’ve never done anything wrong.”

You look down with furrowed brows and tears running down your pink checks. It isn’t your fault. He was just being an insensitive prick, but he said he was thinking about you before it happened. You're stuck. You want to slap him and hug him at the same time. You don’t know what to say or do with what you were just given. Bruce is your husband and the love of your life, but he cheated on you, that’s something intolerable and horrible. You don’t want to walk out of his life, or make him leave yours.

You stand with him like this for what seems like an eternity. Both of you are thinking about what will happen next. Bruce thinks you will up and leave him, he knows you have the right to, but that doesn’t mean it's what he wants, he has to remind himself that this isn’t about him, it's about what he did.

You sharply look up at him and Bruce blinks in surprise at your sudden movements. You huff out an angry breath. Bruce waits for the four treacherous words to fall from your lips. He waits holding his breath.

“I want…”

A divorce. Bruce thinks as his shoulders slump and a tear slips down his check.

“I want a bit of space.” Bruce freezes. What does that mean? “I don’t want a divorce. But I need time to heal, and to gain back everything that you’ve-, ruin-” you pause not want to be straight out rude. But inevitably you decided against being nice. “messed up.” You say in a somewhat steady voice, your arms wrapping around your body to try and comfort you. Bruce knows you were going to say ruined, but he's glad you don’t, it shows that you are willing to help him mend your marriage, it gives him hope.

“Thank you,” he says with a sob almost falling over. “I- Im so sorry, I don’t deserve you. I never have.” He sobs out, finally letting the weight of his screw up show.

“You're right, you don’t.” Bruce's eyes fall to the ground in shame. He tries to compose himself. “But in time, hopefully you will again.” You state bluntly as you try to keep your voice steady and strong, while also keeping more tears from falling in a downpour.

“And I- I need you to just hold me.” You say softly grabbing his hand and leading him to your king bed. You’re still angry, but you need him to be here for you right now. 

He follows you to the edge of the bed and pulls off his boots as you slide under the comforter. You still look so hurt, because you are. Bruce knows this isn’t you forgiving him, this is you giving him his first chance to mend what was broken.

Bruce climbs in much less gracefully under the blanket, he waits for you to come to him. And you do. You wrap your arms around his waist and rest your head on his chest. His shirt smells like him and it makes you much more tired than you were five minutes ago. 

“I will always be here to hold you.” He whispers into your ear as he kisses the top of your head. He feels a wet spot forming on his shirt and guilt overtakes him for the millionth time in weeks. But Bruce just shuts his eyes tight and pulls you into him even closer. Silently letting you know that you can cry for as long as you need.

Your cries turn to sobs as you grip his black shirt tightly in your fists. After a long time of on and off sobs your tears turn into whimpers and sniffles. Bruce rubs your back in soothing circles, it's what he does when he wants you to sleep. You do just that. You drift off in his arms, and without any more words he knows, as he holds you in his arms that he will have to make it up to you and gain back your trust. And he will. Starting now, he will do anything and everything in his power to repair, patch up, restore, and piece back together what he ruptured.

[pikahlua]

Fourteen Days of MHA: Day 1

Home

WARNING: Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood spoilers (seasons 1 and 2)

You: Huh!?!?!?!?

Oh yeah, it's time for a little mini-meta.

Okay, well, we're not going to get into the ENDING yet, but there's actually a lot going on in MHA that looks eerily familiar if you're an FMA fan. MHA itself is in many ways a referential work, and I don't think all of these parallels are coincidences (though surely some are).

Let's talk about the symbolism of the home.

My Hero Academia has three major examples of "home" that it highlights as symbols: those of the villains Tomura Shigaraki, Himiko Toga, and Touya Todoroki. The villains view their homes as symbols of oppression and pain. We know the home is seen as the image of all that oppression based on how various characters treat the houses themselves.

When Touya returned home after his miraculous survival, he found the home hadn't changed as a result of his death. The "scene" there always looks the same.

And when Endeavor tries to atone, Endeavor acknowledges that the "house" he raised his children in is full of bad memories to the extent that he decides to build his family a new home where they can live without him.

Touya's opportunity to demonstrate his feelings about his home arises with Himiko Toga. She returns to her abandoned childhood home out of curiosity and finds it full of hatred and derision, symbolizing her experiences there.

Touya does her a "kindness" by destroying the house.

Then he reveals that doing so, to him, is a way to get back at Endeavor--at the man who created Touya's own broken childhood home.

This scene in particular evokes the famous imagery of Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood of the Elric Brothers burning down their own childhood home.

The act of destroying their own home is so important to them that Edward chooses to commemorate the date by engraving it inside his pocketwatch, "Don't Forget 3.Oct.11." To the brothers, this act is a symbol of their resolve--of their chosen path to atone for their sins and restore their bodies. There can be no going back home if there is no home to return to.

In other words, the purposeful destruction of one's home represents a threshold, a point of no return. By destroying their homes, the villains of MHA demonstrate their conviction for the paths they've chosen.

The problem is, there's another reason one might destroy their own home.

To run away. To hide. To forget.

Why does Himiko call Touya's act of destruction a kindness, even if Touya denies it? Because he has destroyed the largest reminder of the pain of her childhood.

The League of Villains seek to destroy the world because they were rejected by the world and wish to reject it back. Those homes were the world to them at one point, when they were children. To them, the world is just an extension of the suffering they experienced.

Tomura wants to destroy the world to justify his existence as a destroyer, but in reality he doesn't want to face the fact that he killed his family by accident.

The tragedy of his childhood was so traumatic he repressed the memory and only found his concrete motivation to destroy the world once he remembered his past in Deika City. As soon as he remembers that house, he wishes to destroy it again. It's already been destroyed, but the memory of it continues to hurt him long after. By destroying the world, maybe he can forget it again. Maybe the pain will make sense and he won't have to think about it anymore. Maybe he'll stop being a crying child deep down.

The villains seek to destroy their own origins, which is by nature a self-destructive cause. Paradoxically, they will end up destroyed in the end no matter if they succeed or fail in their goals. Either the world will be destroyed and they along with it, or they will die trying.

To save Tenko's heart, Izuku has to bring that memory of the house to the surface. He has to recontextualize it to validate Tenko as he is.

And the recontexualization is All For One.

By contextualizing Tenko's life as a product of All For One's machinations, it gives Tomura a new reason to destroy that memory and that house: to destroy All For One.

And with that comes a new justification for Tomura's existence.

The destruction of All For One.

[redislazy]

Deadly Attachments, Chapter 01

Chapter 02 >>

[EVENTUAL SMUT] - Minors DNI

> ao3 <

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x female!Reader

Word Count: 5,892

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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 few chapters, 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!

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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 British 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 raise an eyebrow, smirking up at him, not budging an inch as he closes in. “Oh, please,” you say, folding your arms, mimicking his stance. “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, huh?”

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!

[warping-realities]

Building an Empire Part I

Okay, I know I said I didn't plan on writing anything new, but it seems that just by making the new images for Making

Amends the desire to try something new appeared. In reality, it's not that new because I'm not writing anything different from what I've written before and even the way the transformation occurs is derived from another story, albeit with some twists. And yes, as the title makes clear we are talking about a series, but I have no idea when the next part will be ready. Finally, this one is a little darker than my usual, so be warned. Hope you like it!

The Partner

Javier stared at the prison cell wall with hatred so deep in his eyes that it could burn a hole in the concrete in front of him. He had been very stupid to let himself get caught in something as stupid as tax evasion. The police had been looking for years for a reason to place him in that exact place without ever having come close to him engaging in any of the criminal activities that formed the basis of the small fortune acquired through his life of crime. At almost forty years of age he had acquired a reputation in the criminal underworld, several gangs and cartels hired his services with the guarantee of a quick and effective solution to any possible problem. An arrest would irreparably tarnish that reputation. And in his field, a man's reputation was his greatest asset, even more so when he had another reputation, that of an insatiable man-eater, who had only gotten away with his actions and the blatant homophobia in his midst due to his impeccable record. In fact, if a look could tear down a wall, Javier's cell would have been open to the outside world for a long time.

….

"Javier Ruiz, suspect in several cases of extortion, drug trafficking and possible involvement in homicides that have never been clarified. Raised by his maternal great-aunt Isabela Ruiz, his father was a member of a cartel killed in an exchange of gunfire with a rival gang before his birth and his heroin-addicted mother died with him in her arms at the age of 3 in the small apartment where they lived, where he would be found 4 days after the incident, dehydrated but still resisting.

Since he was a child, he was known for his enormous size, which earned him his nickname, Golias, Goliath, a name he adopted in the criminal underworld. We have had reports of his activities for more than two decades but without ever being able to link the nickname to the person. Until now.

Thanks to a rookie mistake we finally have him in custody, an opportunity. " Explained to the room a young dark haired cop.

"Indeed, he has precious information, but it seems no one in here is capable to get him to say anything." Police Lieutenant Patrick Walsh spoke in response, with a hard look at his subordinates.

"An opportunity we just missed. His bail was just paid, he's free." Interjected one of the police officers present, Sergeant Adams, a portly black man in his fifties.

"Shit, a completely wasted golden opportunity." Exclaimed the young dar haired and fresh out of the academy, Officer Anthony DiAngelo who was present there only because he was the lieutenant's wife's nephew.

"Maybe not. Sir, I have an idea." Said a strong blond man of about 35 years old with a rigid look and posture. And his idea made the lieutenant's eyes shine with excitement.

…

"Enjoying your freedom while you can Goliath?" asked the blonde detective in front of the police station when Javier was released.

"My name is Javier. And my taxes and bail have been paid, there's no need to bother me detective...?"

"Fischer. Michael Fischer. And I didn't want to bother you Golias, just warn you."

"Warn me, of what?"

"Unfortunately, it seems that the information that you spent the night at the police station has leaked . The rumor going around the city is that you handed over very important people to save your skin."

"Save me from what, a stupid accusation of tax evasion?"

"Ah, but they don't know that, do they?"

"Son of a bitch!"

"Goliath, this son of a bitch here is your best friend right now."

"I have no friends, let alone a pig like you. And if you think I'm going to fall for that stupid move and turn someone in, you're sorely mistaken."

"Well, I'm sure a lot of people have seen you talking to me in the last few minutes, friend." Detective Fischer concluded as he placed a card in Javier's pocket. While Javier, being in front of the police station, could not react the way he wanted and risk being arrested again.

"For when you realize the value of my friendship, Goliath."

…..

Javier was foaming at the mouth, with the money he had accumulated he knew he could live reasonably well in some forgotten third world country. Still, he needed to take Tia Isabel with him and that would be a big problem. How would he go out the country with an elderly illegal woman with the police and the city's biggest criminals on his tail?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! You bastards." He shouted at the roof of the car as he headed to the comfortable apartment he had rented for the aunt who had raised him spend the last years of her life.

"Tia sabel, it's Javi, I'm sorry I didn't come to see you yesterday, I had an unforeseen event and we need to talk about... Tia? Tia?" Said Javier, touching the cold corpse of the woman who had created him and feeling a wave of pain, sadness and already the familiar hate and anger invade him."

"They're going to pay, they're going to pay...damn pigs." He said between tears, hugging his aunt's body. And so he continued for a long time. Until a strange buzzing sound caught his attention. Following the source of the sound he came across a shelf full of trinkets. The buzzing came from a small round golden box. He picked it up and felt it vibrate in his huge hand. Opening it he found a coin made of pure gold that when he picked it up dissolved in his hands, and just like that a whole new range of possibilities opened up to him and despite all the sadness of that moment he couldn't help but smile.

……

"Are you sure it's okay to you take care of Jamie, Will?"

"Yes, Mr. Fischer, you know I've been doing this for years."

"Still, I'd imagine you'd want to enjoy your last few days of spring break before returning to college."

"Ah, you know I've never had the most lively social life. And it's a pleasure to spend some time with him, it's like he's a little brother."

"Thank you very much Will, you know I see you as a nephew too. And I'm sorry again, but Lauren is on night shift at the hospital and this urgent appointment came up."

"Like I said, Mr. Fischer. No problem, it's a pleasure." Replied the twenty-year-old boy standing at the door of Detective Fischer's comfortable suburban home, with a smile on his face.

After giving his eight-year-old son a hug and apologizing for his absence, Michael got into his SUV and responded to the message from the unknown number but which belonged to a person he would probably know very well. He just couldn't imagine how much.

….

Michael Fischer was a tough man, with few smiles, shaped by the service to his country, he had served in Afghanistan and seen the horrors of war firsthand. Upon returning he enrolled in the police academy and at the age of 35 he was a detective in one of the busiest police stations in the large metropolis in which he lived. His reputation for being harsh had spread quickly among his colleagues and the criminal population, earning him admirers but also many enemies, even among his colleagues, as everyone knew that he could become ruthless in his endeavor for what he thought was fair.

For him there was no such thing as the spirit of the law, the law was the law and had to be followed, which did not prevent him from using its obscure margins, often bringing him closer to the behavior of the same subjects he sought with so much to penalize. Something that many of his detractors loved to use against him. Mainly old Sergeant Adams, a member of the union and activist for racial equality, who seemed to see some of the positions adopted by him as racist. Which wasn't true, because for him a criminal was a criminal, regardless of social class or color and they all deserved punishment and if Michael was the one to lead them to it, so much the better.

Anyone who knew Michael from work could never imagine that the rigid and tough guy was a loving father and husband, a helpful neighbor and an active member of the Lutheran church where he was loved by everyone and recognized for carrying out social works. The church was indeed a very important place for him, as it had been his home for years and was deeply related to why he acted so stoically.

Michael had been orphaned at a very young age and had known the reality of the streets, he himself had almost been one of the strays he hated so much if it hadn't been for the shelter of religion and maybe that was the reason he persecuted social misfits so much, the notion that he had almost been one of them. And if there was one thing he knew from the bottom of his heart, it was that he would do everything to make sure Jamie didn't have to go through the same thing.

It was this responsibility with his son, the result of his relationship with Lauren, the nurse who had taken care of him after the accident that ended his short military career, that he thought about while looking at the photo that served as the wallpaper on his cell phone, showing him and his son on a summer afternoon.

Michael sighed when he saw his son's face being covered by a message notification on his cell phone screen saying simply: Apartment 416. He knew it was imprudent of him to go alone and talk to Javier, but the criminal represented a great chance of incapacitate several of the city's gangs. An opportunity he couldn't pass up. Resigned, he got out of the car and entered the building, not knowing that the man who entered would be very different from the one who would leave.

….

The first thing Michael felt when entering the apartment was cold, the temperature inside was many degrees lower than expected, as if it were the height of winter. Adjusting his coat to his body, he observed the simple but comfortable living room with attentive eyes, but the room was completely empty. The second thing to hit his senses was the smell of flowers, so intense that it seemed as if he had entered a flower shop. Guided by that aroma, he arrived at one of the apartment's bedrooms and there he found Isabel Ruiz's corpse lying on a bed of flowers.

"Shit..." He exclaimed as he ran out of the room and grabbed his cell phone to call reinforcements, realizing what a mistake it was to go to that place alone. Javier Ruiz was a dangerous man and would certainly be distraught over the death of the only family figure he had ever known, even if he was a total psychopath as Michael was sure he actually was. Which only made things worse, only God knew what that kind of monster would do in that situation, although Michael was about to find out.

Upon returning to the previously empty room he found himself face to face with the man known as Goliath, and at that moment two things became clear to him. The first was that Javier's nickname was justified, sitting in an armchair that could barely contain all of his enormous muscles, he actually resembled the image of the biblical giant. And the second thing was that he had fucked everything up.

Staring at the gargantuan figure in front of him, Michael, without realizing it, let slip the thought that occupied his mind.

"Fuck!"

"Not yet." Was Javier's enigmatic response. As his serious face broke into a terrifying smile.

"Look, Javier, I'm sorry about your aunt, but I had nothing to do with..."

"Spare your words. There is nothing you can say that will change your destiny." Javier interrupted. While Michael faced him while realizing that there would in fact be no chance of dialogue. So Michael tried to take his pistol from his holster, only to realize that he was completely paralyzed. Which led him to be dominated by a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time: fear.

Noticing this, the giant stood up, with the maniacal smile back on his face.

"You're trapped in my net, detective. And because of your own choices. Isn't it curious? How do our choices seal our destinies? My parents' choices brought me to Tia Isabel. My choices led me to your police station and yours choices took her away from me, but they also gave me the opportunity to have everything I ever wanted, to take revenge on everyone who got in my way and finally occupy the place I deserve."

"What are you doing to me, you psychopath?"

"Shut up, I already said you don't need to talk, not yet." Javier replied, while a strip of golden metal closed Michael's mouth, making his eyes widen in surprise.

"Interesting, isn't it? Who would have thought that my poor aunt had in her hands the power to shape the universe at will and never used it. I wonder how many years this power was there on that shelf begging to be used while she resisted. If it weren't for the idiotic work from your team perhaps this power would never have reached me. So for that I am grateful to you... friend. No, no friend, I told you this before, we will never be friends, which doesn't stop us from being other things. " Javier whispered in Michael's ears, who in turn tried desperately to escape, only to realize that his feet were surrounded by the same metallic substance.

"Let's see what you have to offer, Detective." Javier added as the metallic substance liquefied and encompassed Michael's body.

"Interesting." Javier muttered as the substance solidified, forming what looked like a metal statue that vaguely resembled the naked image of the man inside it.

Earlier that day when Javier touched the coin, which was actually much more than that, a wave of information invaded his mind. That simple coin was in reality one of the most powerful artifacts known in the universe, a Reality Warper that transferred into the man's mind everything he needed to know. There were a few more models on our planet, one of the silver ones was even located in a city a few hundred miles away from where they were. But silver mattered little when you had gold. And Javier's gold would allow detective Michael Fischer to be reshaped in any way he wanted, from his personal history, through genetics to the deepest of thoughts. Know that gave Javier the greatest excitement of his life, which was manifested through the immense erection that almost burst his jeans and that would have been very visible to poor Michael if he hadn't been trapped inside his golden cocoon.

"Let's start." Javier said out loud as if Michael could hear him, while he placed his huge hand on the golden figure's chest, causing waves of energy to spread and its face to lose any defining features. At the same time, the figure's body increased in muscle, reacting to one of Goliath's great fetishes, men as big as himself, that he could subdue. and use.

While that transformation was taking place, Michael Fischer's mind and story opened up to Javier like a file that he could alter at will. He saw the orphanhood, the importance of the church, the desire to serve the country, the injury during his time serving abroad, the loving relationship with his wife and the concern for his son. But also the harsh and cruel treatment given to those he considered outcasts and the dubious selectivity with which he treated people of color, although he denied it even to himself. He also saw how the police officer prided himself on rectitude and incorruptibility and did not tolerate colleagues who did not act with the politeness, rectitude and severity that he expected from a police officer. Upon seeing all that, Javier smiled and started working.

He knew that what he was doing would not only alter the man trapped in the cocoon, but all of reality, including his own, and so he took care to create the reality that best benefited him. When he was satisfied with his work he secured another revenge, he will left the police officer consciousness last a few minutes after the work is completed and a completely different person takes that place.

Javier removed his hand from the figure's chest and watched the waves of energy spread through it, reconfiguring it into a very different form. After a few seconds he found himself in front of the image of an enormous man, of clearly Latin descent like his own, of approximately his age and size as large, if not larger.

The smile remained on his face as the golden coating dissolved and revealed the image of the man inside.

"Hello Detective Flores." Javier said, looking at the huge man still disoriented in front of him, but who quickly frowned and looked at him with irritation.

"Ruiz you son of..." Michael started to say only to hear his own deep voice and stop, as he didn't recognize it, just as he didn't recognize the weight of his own body or the hands at which he looked next.

"What did you do to me?"

"Don't worry Miguel, everything will make sense soon."

"Miguel? What?..." Michael began to say until he was invaded by a wave of memories that weren't his but were undoubtedly real.

He saw a Latino boy walking alone through the city streets, until he stopped in front of a church and sat down, only to be chased away by a blond pastor.

"This is no place for people like you!" Said the man.

A new memory, the boy, now around 13 years old, very tall but very thin, wandering down the street and being chased by older boys under the gaze of a police patrol who did nothing to help him.

The boy at 18 enlisting not because he had any patriotic desire within him, but because it was a way to get food and money.

The young man at 21 years old, very different from what he had been until then, now strong and muscular due to finally receiving an adequate diet and military training, not to mention the exorbitant use of anabolic steroids.

The same young man a few months later took advantage of an accident to injure himself and avoid being sent to a mission to the country. After having spent the last few years exchanging sexual favors with superiors to avoid more dangerous missions.

The young man being cared for by a young nurse for whom he pretended to be interested only to guarantee his livelihood. Then a visit of an acquaintance from his orphanage days who sold him the idea of ​​joining the police and acting as an informant in exchange for money.

The man looking at the son he had with the nurse with slightly interest. The intense sexual encounters with random men while he maintained the sham marriage because it guaranteed him a good image.

The man charging the same pastor who had kicked him off the church's sidewalk a monthly fee to ensure that criminals did not vandalize the property. Criminals he had hired himself.

The man being all smiles and jokes, to be seen as a man of warm and pleasant behavior, well-liked by those who didn't know what he was hiding and feared by those who saw what was beneath the facade that hid the selfishness and ambition within him. Climbing the career ladder in the police, demanding favors, blackmailing and cheating. Building an external image of a respectable family man while getting rich with bribes and providing information to his former acquaintance, with whom he had constant and animalistic sexual relations, with both constantly disputing who would dominate the other.

Michael initially observed those images with detachment because they were so foreign to the life he knew and the image he had of himself that there was no possibility of him associating himself with them.

However, he couldn't help but place himself little by little in the moonlight of that other man, in that other life, it was as if an immense force was pushing him in the direction of that life so foreign to him. Little by little he began to feel that boy's pain, loneliness and anger to the point where he was able to justify to himself some of the attitudes of the man he had become, no matter how alien and distant such attitudes were from his way of thinking.

"But were they really that distant?" He thought with the heat of burning anger in his chest, the bitterness of humiliation in his mouth, the joy of victory, of making others feel what it was like to be on the losing side and the pleasure, the immense pleasure in manipulating, conquering, dominating. ...

"No, no... what about Lauren?" A woman to be by his side, support him and meet his needs.

"No, he loved her!" Well, he loved what she had given him, and that was, in a way, a kind of love.

"No, no, no! And Jamie! Jamie!" When he thought of his son, Michael felt that expanding force slow its inexorable advance. But at that moment another thought took hold. It's obvious that he loved the boy, after all he was a continuation of himself and when the time came he would teach the kid everything he needed to do well in life and he would make sure that his son knew his rightful place, above all others. But until then he didn't have much to do for the kid, other than paying the minimum attention to him so that he felt happy until the moment he was ready. With the childhood he had himself, he knew how necessary this was. As well to maintain the appearance of a responsible family father. So if every now and then he had to take the kid to play ball or ride a bike in the park, it would be a small price to pay.

Even more so because those walks had been the perfect excuse for some of the most interesting encounters he had ever had. Last weekend for example, one of the boring afternoons he spent with the boy turned into a memorable day in which he fucked hard a twink in the park bathroom, while Jaime played ball with Will, the neighbors' unbearably annoying son.

It was after the memory of that pleasure start to vanish that a last memory came to his mind: the man kissing his business partner and occasional lover in a familiar living room. And the man's animalistic smile as he undressed in preparation for the usual contest of strength that would culminate in one of the two being brutally fucked by the other.

"Hello Goliath" Detective Miguel Flores said to his long-time partner in crime and in bed at the same time that Michael Fischer's last shred of consciousness disappeared within that corrupted mind.

.....

After the wild sex Miguel watched amazed the dancing golden metal ran through Javier's hand, unable to believe the other man's story. Neither of them seeming the least bit concerned about the fact that they had sex with a corpse in the next room.

"It's impossible for something like this to exist."

"Let me prove it to you then, I'm dying to expand the business, bring me one of your colleagues from the police station and I'll show you."

"It's very risky, Javier."

"You do not trust me."

"Of course not."

"Fine, then let's think of someone. As soon as you arrest some of the smaller members of the Maldonado and Deshaun gangs there will be a drop in the distribution of some places and so I will need people to take over. Let's start small. It would have to be someone whose change doesn't generate too many unforeseen ripples and who has access to potential consumers. A professor? No, perhaps a college student..."

Upon hearing that a wicked smile appeared on Miguel's face, only to be mirrored by the other man when he heard what the detective had to say.

[insane-brit]

Royalty (Ch. 3)

Muzan Kibutsuji x Soulamte!Fem!Reader

Chapter Links: Prologue, Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three

Next scheduled Royalty update (Ch 4.): July 30th, 2023.

Tags/Warnings: Enemies to lovers, semi slow burn, dark story/themes, GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE (neck snapping, spinal shock), prostitution, attempted coercion, hatred, mentions of IRL Japanese history, slight misogyny, panic attack, blood.

A/N: It's finally here!!! Yay! Thank you all for being patient with me as these last few weeks have been hectic. I just got back from a convention and classes are a lot. I'm also going back through and adding (F/N) to the first two chapters with reader in it since I didn't do that before (I like to use it sparingly). So, be on the lookout for those edits.

I do want to say that I have a schedule planned for this series. Due to my classes and the upcoming semester I will update Royalty every other week to give me time to write properly. Other works such as requests will be filled/posted as they are completed.

Therefore, the next update (Ch. 4) will be on July 30th, 2023!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: 2.6K

The stench of rot permeated through the orifices of every human that he encountered. Death walked hand in hand with them as they decayed with each passing minute. Demons were much the same but dulled. Their aging halted and cells regenerated in a never-ending cycle until their head was severed or body burned. Flaws in his creations and himself.

Muzan’s carefully crafted work, hand-picked from the hundreds and thousands of demons over the ages, the Upper and Lower moons had defects in their own ways. Dismantling the Lower ranks proved to ease the spreading desperation in his subconscious. They were worthless beings. Unfit for their stations and yet the Upper ranks manifested to be just as disappointing as the rest. Failing for centuries at annihilating the family bound to him by blood and unearthing the blossom that would grant him the ability to conquer the sun. The amaryllis.

The only reason they proved to be of use was they kept the Kisatsutai on their toes. Terminating the lives of their most powerful and stripping them of their morality. Despite him wanting to rip the ranks to shreds and gnash his teeth on their bones, they were his strongest. He would let them carry on with their lives if they served and attested themselves to be worthy of the position so graciously bestowed upon them.

Walking the various winding concrete of Yoshiwara was not Muzan’s ideal pastime. Though it was vital to remind his Jūnikizuki where they stood and to oversee the progress, they had made both for themselves and his sake. Situating himself near a wall, his eyes observed the lowly human creatures. Their affairs exhibited in the confines of the residence they were assigned to and sought out. Women and men alike with their sultry gazes swept across the bodies that passed them. Muzan was no exception. The impure burn of their eyes had him clenching his jaw. It was revolting and he would rather them be looking upon him in other ways. They were ignorant, but one day they would understand. If they were capable of such a feat. A soft gasp from behind him had him tense.

“Aren’t you pretty?” A woman brushed the side of his arm before stopping in front of him. A smirk curled on her face as she tilted her head. Eye’s tracing over his features before going lower. 

“I know just the woman who may interest you,” her nail tapped her lower lip. “And she may be interested in return.” 

Muzan glared at her, expression stoic and lips in a tight line. “No, thank you.” 

She pouted, sticking her bottom lip out in a display that left him with a foul taste in his mouth. “Oh, come on. I promise we’re not that bad, and besides,” she drawled, smoothing out the front of her layered kimono. “I can show you a good time if the others don’t meet your expecta-.”

Her skull cracked against the building. Stone dug into her scalp as little pieces opened the skin, blood streamed from the wound. A choked sound bubbled up from her throat as Muzan tightened his grip. 

His face was mere inches from hers. “Courtesans just don’t know when to quit.” Her throat bobbed as she clawed at his wrist. Pupils blown and eyes swelled, she sounded pitiable. “Know your place.” 

His expression was callous. Complete disregard for the woman’s life. In one swift motion, her vertebrae splintered underneath the skin. The crack reverberated under his fingers as she paled. Sweat beaded near her hairline and her pulse dropped. The thrum lagged in intensity compared to moments ago. Practically tossing her against the wall, he stared down at the nearly unconscious body. The rise and fall of her chest ceased at the loss of function and urine trailed from under the slightly hoisted garments. 

Muzan stepped away from the body. A look of repugnance danced in his eyes as his shoes clicked against the alley. The sheer commotion of the streets and people engrossed in their activities served to cover the deed. No eyes to behold the barbaric and heinous force that now lay with the crumpled cadaver. Not that it made any difference to him if someone bore witness or not. The action wouldn’t beget any kind of repercussion. He had killed thousands and the sole individual who could strike him down for his immorality was long gone. 

Rounding the corner of the brothel yielded another side road. Livelier than the alleyway, but not as bustling as the main street. Muzan’s gaze swept over the scene. The mix of Chouchin and modern cast bronze lanterns emitted a golden tint. Shadowing the timber structures inlaid with ornate decor and carefully crafted sliding doors. In the time since his birth in the Heian Era, Muzan had seen the rise and fall of many and their attempts at jurisdiction. From the brutal Onin War between the Daimyō and Ashikaga shogunate to the collapse of the Tokugawa shôgun. Modernizing and progressing the country into the complex order it is today. 

He wouldn't normally immerse himself in the trivial matters of the government, especially with them being substandard compared to himself, however, it was vital to his continuity. Being knowledgeable in the ever-changing systems, inventions, and styles granted him more expertise in the art of blending in. Offsetting the swordsmen intent on his demise for over a thousand years.

Observing the bleary silhouettes of people through the translucent paper on the shoji windows, he tipped the edge of his white fedora to the side. Eyeing the Kyogoku House, where Upper moon six, Gyutaro, resided. Daki may be the outward appearance and has some finesse in fighting, but that is all she’ll ever amount to. A mere child whose sole purpose is to keep her brother under control. A pitiful feat that she thinks her lord cares for and believes in her. On her knees and practically drooling over his approval. It's pathetic.

Narrowing his eyes, Muzan strode down the street. He had more pivotal things to execute rather than linger in these vulgar places. A puddle splashed as his shoe struck it. The ripples reflected molten gold from the lanterns. He looked down at the undulating liquid before his eyes sharpened. The tightness in his wrist and the scintillating flicker of the cursed filament did not go unnoticed. Muzan felt the cavity of choler dig itself further as eyes burrowed into his stature. Halting his movements, he could feel the emotions coming off the person like waves. Kismet had its way of interfering with his aspirations as of late, and it appears no matter how hard he disregarded the incident many nights ago, resilience persevered. Nails sharpening, he turned and eyed the human ogling at him.

Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes wide. Skin pale as if she had seen a ghost. His gaze dragged over her body, and he glowered in realization. The all-too-familiar black uniform with white accents stood out like a sore thumb. The haori that encapsulated the kanji on the back of the uniform was a mix of snow and sable. Swirls of what looked to be smoke and other intricate designs littered the bottom, but Muzan didn’t put much care into what the woman was wearing. His sole focus was on what she was. A Sureiyā. A Hashira.

If there were any gods or Buddha in his thousand years of existence, they were surely trying his patience.  

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

(F/N) felt like her blood had been turned to ice. The glassy veins froze her in place as she owlishly stared into the eyes of her supposed soulmate. Hearing shot, ringing reverberated in her ears and the thronging behind her sounded muffled. As if she had been pulled into the unforgiving deep as her lungs screamed and begged for an end. 

He did not move, and from where she stood, she could not discern an emotion on his face. It was phlegmatic. Unwavering, constant. It unnerved (F/N) as her feelings swirled and compacted into what felt like a ticking bomb. Fury, horror, uncertainty…. contentment? It was all too much and didn't do anything to ease her palpitating heart. Eyes darted down to the thread, soaking up every single fiber and shine it emitted as she stalked its trail. It ended at his alabaster skin. Gouging itself into the flesh, and if his eyes weren't enough evidence, that's when she noticed his nails. They tapered into an acute point where deep indigo melted into pale blue. 

Breathing ragged, she took a few shaky steps back. Gaze never leaving him. (F/N) was jolted out of her stupor as a body rammed into her hard. The force sent them both tumbling to the ground. Her head and elbow cracked against the pavement. Grit dug into her flesh and tore it open as her vision doubled. Groaning softly, (F/N) brought her other hand up to cradle her head. A weight was pressed onto her torso, and it felt suffocating as it moved around. Muffled voices resonated around her, and as her vision cleared, she observed the multitude of bodies surveying the scene. Beady eyes pierced her soul, and some looked on with pity. Others glared and whispered in hushed voices like secrets carried by the wind, and she felt her face flush in embarrassment.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” A voice hissed and handfuls of her uniform were jerked forward. A man hovered over her dazed form and shook her harshly. “How dare you wench! Where is your procurer? You should be punished for your insolence.”

(F/N) clenched her teeth and slammed her fist into his chest, effectively shoving him off her. Blood oozed from her elbow and stained his hakama as he fell into the surrounding crowd. Women shrieked and men howled with laughter at the display. She staggered to her feet, clutching the laceration, and glared at the man seething on the ground.

“Nothing is wrong with me.” she spat at him. Her nerves were firing. The adrenaline from the collision, that she laid eyes on the progenitor, and that he was her soulmate no less had her on the verge of a breakdown. Something that she had not felt in years. The feeling of all these emotions flowing had her choking back the ball that had formed in her throat. “Watch where you're going next time.” She hissed. (F/N) knew it was her fault but at that moment she could care less. Her eyes darted back towards the side street. People’s bodies presented to be an obstacle as she tilted her head frantically to inspect the spot where he once stood.

There was nothing. No trace that he was there and that only served to make her panic more. The only verification that his presence remained was the line connecting the two of them. It was slack, but barely compared to the tautness of it mere moments ago. Pivoting around she shoved people out of her way as she bolted down the road. The man on the ground cursed her form which was swallowed by the sea of people.

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

(F/N)’s back pressed against the cool bark of a maple. She clutched the front of her uniform as choked sounds escaped her cracked lips. Her vision warped from the tears she held back; her hands shook with force and her feet tingled.

She didn’t know how far she had run from the district, but she had to get out. She ran until she couldn’t anymore and collapsed in the emerald grass and darkened trees. The thought of those eyes drilling into hers and the shifting cataclysmic ambiance that surrounded his physique had her struggling to breathe. The air came in short bursts as her chest tightened.

It was hard.

Breathing was hard.

The only relief she felt was the sight of the thread loose and gathered in ringlets on the swaying grass. He hadn’t followed her. She was out of sight of anything besides the surrounding fauna which she no doubt scared away with the distressed sounds pouring from her mouth.

Thoughts raced from Kibutsuji to her mission.

Her failed mission.

Grabbing the nearest rock, (F/N) screamed in rage and brought it down onto the blood-red tie. Beating it repeatedly into the ground. Each hit sent a shock wave of what felt like needles through her arm as a warning. Yet, it stayed constant. No fraying, no cut, no snapping. It remained in perfect condition, and she swore it glowed brighter, mocking her. Grinding her teeth together she continued to strike it until the palms of her hands bled from the grip she had on the stone.

Panting from the energy exerted, she chucked the rock at the nearest tree and watched it break into pieces and dust. Her nails dug into her slick palm as she sat there hunched over on her knees.

The thought of the pillars and her Master’s crestfallen, disgusted faces haunted her mind. If they were to see her in this state, abandoning a mission, and fleeing from their sworn enemy when she had every opportunity to launch an assault on him, well, she could only imagine the contempt that would stem from their hearts. (F/N) imagined Master Kagaya exiling her for breaking the oath she swore her life to the moment she passed Final Selection.

“I swear to battle valiantly, not show hesitation, doubt, or cowardice in the face of danger, and place the needs of the Kisatsutai before my own.”

She placed a quivering palm over her mouth as nausea threatened to overtake her. Everything she worked towards, dedicated her life to, everything, destroyed in minutes. Obliterated by her selfishness and pusillanimity. She was no valiant swordsman. The prowess she claimed to have died the moment realization sunk in. Snuffed like a flame.

A soft flutter and pitter-patter of feet landed near her as she held back the urge to purge the contents of her stomach. The crunching of leaves and soft cooing drew closer until she had no choice but to look up. Seiichi, her Kasugai crow cocked his head and ruffled his feathers at her. A small talisman was wrapped around his neck with string, engraved with designs and different Kanji. An item her grandfather gave to her before he passed that she then gave to her crow.

“Tengen, Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke are almost to Yoshiwara. You must meet them!” he cawed and made her flinch from the sudden loud noise.

“No. No Seiichi,” she took in a shaky breath before reaching out and picking him up. “I can’t. Not now.”

Setting the crow on her lap, she scratched the top of his head. Effectively making him quiet down and simultaneously began to clear the haze of panic that had been clouding her mind for hours.

“Please, don’t go to the Master. Not yet. Just stay with me for a while.” she whispered and hung her head low, hair falling in front of her face.

Seiichi didn’t make a sound. Nor did he move from his position on her lap. Indicating that he heard her plea and complied with her wish, going against his orders.

The sky steadily grew a lighter shade. A blue hue cast over the scenery before her and a few birds chirped. Beads of dew rolled off blades of grass and she shivered from the chill breeze that blew through the canopy of trees. Her body felt heavy and the wound on her elbow had dried. Pulling the skin when she would bend her arm. (F/N) observed her appearance, her haori was dirty and had a few rips in it from her fall, but for the most part, she appeared to be fine.

The sound of something being sat down had her and Seiichi whipping their heads up to look for the source. The hair on her nape prickled and she sucked in a breath. Hand reaching for her blade. The sun had not come up yet. Any demon still had the chance to strike if they so desired.

“Oh, are you alright dear?”

Taglist: @shellseys @athalahild @stxrrielle @lulu-83 @nianre @sincerely-aaronette @kathleen7i @woozzz

[utilitycaster]

Is there any like. Real lore based reasons ppl treat pelor as an analogue for the Big Honcho God or is that a false connection ppl who are already deadset on projecting their religious trauma with monotheistic Christian god onto fantasy pantheon make because something something "Father" and/or "Sun deity"

I think the fact that the people buying up the land in and around Hearthdell and putting in temples were doing so in the name of the Dawnfather is a big factor. It's quite honestly the only justified reason, but this was also extremely present before there was even a hint of that plot. Nothing with regards to his interactions with Deanna is anything untoward; he is arrogant but if you can't appreciate arrogant characters then skill issue; and this post (and OPs excellent reblog down the chain) covers his portrayal in Campaign 1 better than I could.

Otherwise? I'm not Christian and never have been, so personally Jesus Portrayals do nothing for me because that guy is way too nice, honestly, and it weirds me out. So while I suspect the hatred of Pelor is in part a projection of negative feelings about Christianity, for a number of reasons, particularly the fact that almost all the people dead set against him and other gods write arguments that sound like they learned rhetoric exclusively from fire-and-brimstone sermons, down to the presupposing their conclusions as part of the initial premise (they call it preaching to the choir for a reason) and the almost exclusive reliance on appeals to emotion in the absence of any logic, I do not want to say so definitively. I cannot say for sure why people came in to Campaign 3 deciding the gods had three strikes against them already and then proceeded to put on a Church Lady act of being Shocked and Sickened when people looked at the collapsed heap of unsupported presumptions they called an argument and said "no thanks" but they do. It is rather tedious.

I don't want to attribute to disingenuousness and a secret taste for the boot provided the "correct" people are wearing it what I think (and hope) is just being really, really, really stupid and incapable of considering perspectives other than one's own (though both of those can very easily be swayed towards dangerous beliefs), but there's one "argument" against the gods that I've mulled over since I first saw it. It boiled down to the idea that it was unjust for some people to have powers and some to not, and was phrased something like "if my friend got spells from their god and I didn't, I'd want to kill the gods" and that sounds like an abjectly miserable experience. I don't want to rest my argument entirely on emotion, though I'm trying to counter one resting entirely on emotion and it's pretty difficult, but man. To see your friend put in effort (perhaps not as concrete and material an effort as that of a wizard, but still an effort) and get something for it and feel only jealousy because you didn't get the same? Like not just a twinge of jealousy, which we all get, but to be so full of it as to be moved to violence? To have no joy for one's friends? That sounds like a life that would suck ass.

I think a lot of the Prime Deities in Exandrian lore, Pelor very much included (and he is perhaps the like...least nice about it, and some people get REALLY weird about a Lack of Uwu Soft Gentle Niceness even though as previously discussed I find it a turn-off) are very much about hope, and making good faith attempts, and responsibility and obligation to others, and keeping one's promises and I think that message sits very ill with people who would prefer a narrative of despair and nihilism. Ultimately that's kind of the split between the Primes and Betrayers that we see in Downfall. I think that while much of the Pelor hate is just a convenient scapegoat for a general hatred of all the gods (which is why I get general in the above paragraphs), some people hate Pelor, essentially, the way one hates sunny days when one is extremely depressed, and see them as a deliberate, cruel, and targeted affront when the sun is simply a thing that shines independently of one's mood.

[bao-dur]

Out of pure curiosity, what do you think is missing from Halsin's story?

after writing it all down, i realized it's not just what's missing but also what's broken, inconsistent and shallow about Halsin, hopefully that still answers your question :)

his backstory in the underdark comes out of nowhere and is never again brought up!! it is, in fact, brushed off as just some silly goofy thing that happened to him once!! hihi haha i was a sex slave for two years. im so embarrased to tell you this, tav haha anyways how about round two with the twins ??? while im standing speechless mouth agape struggling to process the story he just told me. to say it was written and handled poorly is putting it mildly

he is shown to be a shrewd person (with his francesca choice for the new archdruid back in emerald grove) so expand on that! show that he's more than just a pile of muscles! show me he's cunning and has bite! there's so much political intrigue in act 3, have him comment on it, on gortash's plan, have Halsin compare it to some other people/events that happened in the past and how they mirror what's currently happening in baldur's gate, my dude is 3 50, he's seen some shit im sure, even living in the forest the news would reach him so no excuses

he's so closely tied to act 2 i have no clue why he's locked off as a companion till you find daniel (which on my first playthrough was just before attack on moonrise, that almost made my blood boil bc not even 2 hours later orin snatched him up??? and i was like?? ok?? she took who? i barely know the guy?). i think he's too tight-lipped about what happened all those years ago with the shadowcurse and i would have loved to hear more about it (like the implication of him killing isobel and the conflict with the thorms)

I need him to be the biology/nature expert equivalent to Gale with his weave expertise. he should have more to say about the worms!! he should be studying you under the microscope the entire game!!!! literally bring back all the missing EA halsin dialogue!! i should be able to drag his ass into the underdark!!! I WANT HIS KNOWLEDGE! I WANT IT TO BRING BACK BAD MEMORIES! expand on drows and their culture in this game by using halsin as the conduit that tells you everything he learned from spending his time here!! so maybe that info dump in act 3 about him being a slave wouldn't come out of nowhere

i refuse to believe he'd have nothing to say about the elder brain after seeing it. i want him to be absolutely repulsed, terrified but also intrugied by the mindflayer colony under moonrise, i want him to cautiously study every nook and cranny there and offer his insight

absolutely baffled he won't say anything to that one dragonborn druid back in baldur's gate that is trying to keep a tree alive???? for all his distain for the cities he sure is quiet here, seeing nature failing in the middle of it while a guy is desprately trying to keep it alive. maybe make it so these two actually manage to turn this spot into something more beautiful, a lush tree in the middle of a concrete road that attracts people who come over to relax in its shade

if they bring up his hatred of the city life, why not let me turn him into a full on shadow druid (which is already hinted on during one of the conversations with him in act 3), kind of how you can keep shadowheart a shar worshipper or steer her toward selune. plant some seeds of his loathing back in act 2, how nature had to be sacrificed because people had delusions of grandure (the elder brain plot and the thorms) etc

besides wanting to cure the shadowcurse and enjoying whittling there's nothing more to this guy. after the curse is lifted all he's got are the ducks.............. once he'll mention he doesn't like the city life. okay, you've been on this earth good 350 years, my guy, you know how cities are don't act surprised

an alternative ending is missing, you should be able to go with him

personally, i think his personality is missing because he is too flat and frankly, boring. he is too agreeable even if you're a meanie to others. just as long as you don't kill innocents he's a ride or die. it's not his fault of course, he's just badly written, too surface level. which is a terrible shame bc i'm so in love with him but i'd like to fall for his personality too. once there's a fleshed out one. so it's quite hard to speculate on what's missing about a guy there's barely any information on in-game tho :'(

[raineandsky]

The Villain's Housekeeper

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

tw: implied torture

“[Hero], I– I’m so sorry…”

The hero doesn’t even look at the villain. Their head is bent, staring distantly at a crack in the concrete floor. “It’s okay.”

The villain had called the superhero’s bluff. Tried to, at least. They never thought a superhero could be so cruel to one of their own. But the superhero had been more than happy to prove them wrong, to make the villain watch him inflict nothing but agony on the hero until they’d finally spat out exactly what the superhero wanted.

The supervillain probably doesn't stand a chance now. They don’t care.

Even from their own dingy cell the villain can see the blood seeping mockingly through the hero’s shirt. Their palms rub together mindlessly like that’ll erase the crimson nightmare from their hands. They seem like they’re barely conscious, blankly honed into the tiny blemish on the floor like it’s a portal they’re waiting to open.

None of this is okay. The hero’s just saying that. The villain kind of wishes they’d just gone and died in the street like the supervillain had intended. At least that would’ve saved them both from this.

The hero is sitting on the floor, not moving except to scrub at their hands, but the villain is restlessly pacing back and forth. They have so much pent up energy from the last hour—it has to go somewhere.

“We’re gonna get out,” they say into the silence.

“We’re not.”

The villain turns to the hero a little harsher than they meant to. The hero flinches even from several metres away, and the villain’s heart crushes just that little bit more. “We are, [Hero]. We’re gonna get out and [Superhero] is never gonna touch you again.”

The hero makes some noise that is clearly meant to be a scoff but comes out as more of a broken sob. “Big dreams.”

The villain doesn’t bother commenting on that. “No window, no lockpicking.” They glance around for ideas. “No bribery, I’d assume. No help.”

“How long were you here before… we spoke?”

The villain pauses. “In prison? I don’t know, a few days.”

The hero frowns. The villain doesn’t like it. “Have you not tried breaking out before?”

“I didn’t think I had anything to live for before.” The villain carries on glancing around to avoid looking at the way the hero’s face twists like they don’t believe them.

-

“There you are, you little shit,” is the greeting the superhero gives the villain. “Your codes were bullshit, weren’t they?”

He glares at them expectantly. There’s a lump in the villain’s throat that words seem to be stuck behind. “I– I gave you what you wanted.”

“Like hell you did.” The superhero throws an aimless hand over his desk. The villain’s papers are all over the place, various scrawls across their pages in a clear attempt to figure them out. “Your so-called codes didn’t work.”

The villain’s mind is blank. That can’t be right. They gave him the fucking codes. He should be descending on the supervillain this very moment, but instead he’s here, claiming they don’t work—

“Wouldn’t want your special sweetheart to feel the consequences of this, would we?”

The villain’s gaze snaps back to where the superhero’s smirking at them knowingly. They want to smack that look clean off his face. He knows too much, and now he’s using it all against them. The hero is back here, suffering the fate they fell into the villain’s grasp trying to escape, and they’re back here because of them. The villain feels sick at the thought.

“I gave you the fucking codes,” the villain spits. “It’s not my fault if you’re too thick to use them.”

The superhero’s face momentarily twitches in hatred, but it doesn’t last long. “Not to worry,” he says smoothly. He waves a hand for the security guard at the door to step forward. “I’m sure I can get an answer out of you pretty easily, hm?”

For a moment the villain can feel the burn of rope on their wrists, their throat sore, their eyes hot with tears of sickness and horror and guilt.

The security guard touches a hand to their arm, and before they can think about what they’re doing they turn around and punch him in the face.

The superhero’s on his feet immediately but the villain’s already moving. A quick boot to the middle keeps the security guard on the floor, and they meet the superhero at the desk without a thought. He tries to point a pistol at them but they butt it out of his hand, kicking it across the floor for good measure.

The superhero throws a fist at them and connects with their shoulder with the fury of the sun. The villain stumbles and the superhero’s confidence throws him in for a second blow. They dodge back, just, jabbing an elbow into the side of his face. The superhero staggers with an enraged cry and the villain leaps the desk to make for the gun.

It’s in their hand before either of the two can realise what’s happened. “Okay,” the villain says slowly. Their shoulder is throbbing but they have no time to think about it right now. “I’m gonna leave, and you’re not gonna say jackshit when I do.”

The superhero laughs, the sound wet with blood. “You won’t get far without death following you.”

“My paperwork’s still encoded. I’m not too worried.”

And with that they’re out into the corridor, more than happy to spend the superhero’s bullets on anyone stupid enough to come near them.

An alarm whirrs, drooping the halls in flashing red light. They’re lost, unaccustomed to wandering the corridors alone, but it doesn’t matter. They’ll get to where they need to be. They just have to survive first.

“Don’t worry, [Hero],” the villain whispers, like saying it outloud is a promise. “I’m coming.”

(next part)

Taglist:

@runarelle @thiefofthecrowns @morning-star-whump @epiclamer

[lilacsbeeswax]

If ur feeling up for angst. Sirius x Reader where the reader accidentally sees him put on some glamour spell to cover a black eye, so she asks him what happened and he breaks down and tells her about his parents.

Glamour

-Sirius Black x Reader-

-Angst-

MASTERLIST

The train’s whistle rang out onto the platform 9 and 3/4 signaling 10 minutes before departure. Most people were meeting up on the concrete platform surrounding the train, chatting along to friends that they haven’t seen since summer break.

I knew exactly where to go as soon as I got there. Unlucky train compartment number 13 as me and my friends would always call it. A joke that stemmed from all of us ending up in the compartment and becoming quick friends.

Usually, I was the first one in our compartment, as I have a horrible compulsion to be incredibly early for absolutely everything. Though this time, I have a suspicion, is different.

Speeding my way through the narrow train hallway, I count the numbers all the way to our beautiful sanctuary of happiness.

Peering in through the window, I could see Sirius’ curly black head of hair, though it was distinctly shorter than normal. Just as I was about to enter, I backed up and watched from a distance. Sirius was staring into a metal hand mirror, stuffed in a corner with his wand pointed at this face. One by one, he cast spells on bruises and scrapes on his face and they quickly disappeared.

I slid the oak door open and looked over him. “Sirius?” I said his name softly.

He quickly dropped the mirror and his wand onto the floor. The metal and wood clashed against the hard floor, echoing a loud noise across the train. “Y/n!” He shouted in surprise. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I’m always early, it’s kind of odd for you on the other hand.” I said sliding the door to a close and sitting across from him. “Do you want to talk?”

“What did you see?” He asked, looking as though he had wanted to cry, something I had never seen from Sirius before.

“I saw you casting glamor charms on your face to cover your wounds. What happened, Sirius? Are you okay?”

At my words, he broke. The always charming, never serious, Sirius, broke down. “What if I don’t know?” He asked, voice cracking.

“It’s okay, Sirius. I promise, you’re okay.” I moved sit next to him. He softly laid his head on my chest and wrapped his long arms around my torso. I moved my hand to softly brush his curls with my fingers.

“My- uhh my parents. My mother particularly hasn’t been very happy with me- ever really.” He sobbed, sounding particularly upset saying mother. “She’s always so angry.”

“Oh Sirius,” I whispered.

“When I was younger and sometimes even now when Mother was angry at Regulus, I would do something to make her focus on me. I’ve taken so many beatings for him… yet I think he’s told her everything that I do while I’m at school. This whole summer- I- it’s been horrible. She chopped off my hair too. My beautiful hair…”

“You still have beautiful hair, short or not. As for Regulus, it’s an amazing thing what you’ve done for him. I know you have a whole hatred against him, but you still love him so much.”

“I do love him, so much.”

“You’re so strong, Sirius.” I said, stroking his cheek. “Please don’t hide this stuff from me. I care about you. A lot. You have no idea how much you mean to me and the rest of our friends.”

“Thank you for listening, Y/n. It means the world.”

“Of course, I’m always here.”

MASTERLIST

[moog-city2]

I love kyoko so bad it is not even funny anymore

she doesn't have too too much dialogue but I had so many hours to think while waiting for my bf and friend to be available to continue through the manor

demo 3 spoilers below the cut!!! (just in case)

OKAY so...

originally I had only intended to get screenshots of what the blackrock knight next to kyoko had said to send to a friend considering I had found it very sad and interesting

and kyoko has been one of my favorites since she was introduced so of course I decided to talk to her again!!! however I had thought the responses I could give her were piquing my interest quite a bit

and when she had mentioned Hatred in that dark red text um.

it may or may not have

sort of

sent me into a multiple hour frenzy trying to look for every instance of that dark red text in the game since I had already noticed when griefer mentioned "the voice" and when shedletsky mentions the player's name

I had gone into the chapter not expecting to get any real answers about the connection with what griefer and shedletsky said, and technically I still don't have concrete answers, but the conversation with kyoko really sparked a fire that has me itching for even more conversations with her when chapter 4 releases

I have so many more thoughts about her that I desperately want to put down, especially related to her concern for the player after speaking with her about the venomshank and ice dagger.... but it's midnight so I'll give it a rest

[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

There is some dub-con in this chapter, so please beware before reading. <3

Chapter 49

Pierce and his men were long gone, leaving me bound tightly to the chair. The restraints cut into my wrists, a constant reminder of my helplessness. I didn’t feel any different physically, but the looming threat of Pierce triggering my adrenaline at any moment gnawed at my sanity. My heart raced as I scanned the dimly lit room, seeking any possible means of escape. Shadows danced on the grimy walls, cast by the flickering overhead light. Despite my frantic efforts, the restraints held firm, unyielding, and merciless.

After what felt like an eternity of struggling, exhaustion overcame me. I slumped in the chair, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down my forehead. My mind teetered on the brink of despair when the silence was shattered by the creak of the door. My head jerked up, hope flaring briefly as Bucky stepped into the room.

"Bucky, please, get me out of here," I pleaded, my voice trembling. His face twisted with anger at the mention of his name, his eyes cold and unrecognizable. "Bucky, please," I repeated, desperation seeping into my voice as I fought against my restraints.

Without warning, he slapped me across the face, the force of the blow snapping my head to the side. The sting spread across my cheek, and I tasted blood. His eyes, once familiar, now brimmed with unrelenting hatred. I was too stunned to cry, my mind struggling to process the betrayal and pain.

He walked over to the wall and pressed the button to release me from the restraints. Even the way he moved had changed, a cold, mechanical precision replacing his former grace. I watched him silently as he approached, his expression unreadable. He yanked me out of the chair with such force that I feared he might dislocate my shoulder.

"Please, Bucky, don't you remember me?" I asked, my voice trembling with desperation as I tried to pry his iron grip off my arm.

He turned to look me in the eyes, and I braced myself for another slap. His chest heaved with each breath, and I could feel the warmth of his breath against my face, mingling with the cold sweat on my skin.

Without warning, he grabbed my chin with his metal hand, the cold steel biting into my skin. He pushed me against the wall, his body pressing threateningly close to mine. The chill of the concrete seeped through my clothes, and I shivered, both from fear and the contact with the cold surface. The flickering light above cast harsh shadows, accentuating the intensity in his eyes as he loomed over me.

He pressed his lips onto mine without warning, the kiss rough and aggressive. His other hand gripped my waist tightly, almost painfully. I froze, my body tense with fear. This didn't feel like kissing Bucky; it felt like a stranger wearing his face. The tenderness I once knew was gone, replaced by a forceful intensity that made my heart race with panic.

I closed my eyes as he tried to force his tongue into my mouth, biting my lip in the process. He moaned at the taste of my blood, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. Desperation clawed at my mind. Maybe if I gave in, he would remember who he was. Or perhaps I told myself that to make this violation feel less horrifying.

I parted my lips, and his tongue pushed into my mouth, tangling with mine. He tightened his grip on my neck, pulling me closer, while one of his legs pressed between mine, rubbing against me in an unnervingly precise motion. His other hand roamed down my arm, sending a shiver through me as it eventually rested possessively on my hip.

I moaned at the intense friction between my legs and the unmistakable press of his arousal against me. This moment felt wrong, foreign—nothing like the man I loved. Desperation to reconnect with a semblance of reality made me open my eyes, hoping to find some familiarity in his face. He had his eyes closed, lost in the moment, our tongues entwined. With a sudden movement, he lifted me and pressed me against the wall, my legs instinctively wrapping around him.

I could hear the rasp of his zipper as he fumbled with it one-handed, his other arm bracing me against the wall while he continued his relentless assault on my mouth. Without warning, he thrust into me, making me gasp as he groaned into my lips. The suddenness of his movement sent my head lolling back, exposing my neck. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and heavy. He bit and sucked at the sensitive skin, each touch intensifying the relentless rhythm of his thrusts.

His grunts grew more fervent, his hands gripping my thighs with a force that left bruising marks. Soft whimpers and moans escaped my lips as I felt myself tighten around him, his lips finding mine once more. One hand held my neck possessively, his fingers pressing into my skin. As he bit my lip again, the sharp taste of my blood mingled with the metallic tang in my mouth. With a final, guttural grunt, he climaxed inside me, his body shuddering with the intensity of the moment.

He dropped me abruptly, wiping the traces of my blood from his lips with a look of revulsion. “Bucky?” I whispered, hoping to see some flicker of recognition, but the sneer on his face was a harsh answer. His gaze shifted downward, taking in the evidence of what had just occurred, a reminder of our ordeal staining my legs. He grabbed a rag from a shelf on the wall and tossed it at me with a dismissive gesture.

"We’re leaving in fifteen minutes," he spat, his voice cold and final. He turned on his heel, slamming the door shut with a resounding clang. I sank slowly down the wall, burying my face in my hands. My sobs reverberated through the room, each cry a hollow echo in the oppressive silence.

Next Chapter