Characters: Dick Grayson x Speedster!MALE Reader
Summary: It's been 3 weeks since Dick rutted on your thigh, humping you like it was the end of the world in your sleep. He can't even talk to you, much less look at you, but he can't ignore you forever.
Warnings: SMUT! Cursing, living vibrator, prostate play, handjob, readers a little mean, mention of killing someone in dreams.
A/N: FINE TAKE IT, part two...you dirty, dirty, smut filled minded people...LMAO. I didn't really like how this turned out, so I hope you do!! :) Also, I have grown from 83 followers to 131 in just 5 days. Thank you! <3
Part 1 -> Here!
Tag list (People who asked for P2/ made this happen): @barbare2, @emoidtee, @dullzumi, @four-horned-goat
It has been three weeks since Dick came silly on your thigh.
21 days.
39 showers.
47 patrols.
Yet he still can't get over it.
He groans, hands running down his face. Apology tiny and muffled as you just give him a strange look - that lopsided grin, that speedster charm you always seemed to carry doing more than just numbers to him.
Dicks been avoiding you for weeks.
You woke up in empty sheets, ruffled and untidied from how quickly he left when you finally let go of him. Like he was some kind of one night stand - one Dick wishes you two actually had.
He needed to leave before you woke up, before you saw the flush on his cheeks, before you saw the permanent mound in his boxers, before you saw the wet spot that had absolutely sullied his inner thighs. The skin slick with his cum and sweat alike.
You've been texting him ever since. Asking to meet up. Asking if he's okay. Asking if you did something wrong. Asking if he needed to talk.
And it's killing him.
The guilt is eating him alive, the shame is haunting him, the embarrassment is killing him.
And he feels like he can die from a mix of all three at any moment.
He can't even cum without a vibrator anymore, every silent night was spent alone physically - yet not mentally.
Because every night, every time he got even the slightest chance, every time he had those 10 extra minutes to himself? He would pull out the small bullet he had gotten for an ex.
Dick would usually feel embarrassment running up his ears, clouding his mind, yet it had nothing on the heat he would feel rushing towards his cock. His cheeks flushed in pink, mouth drawing open in tiny whimpers didn't even try to contain, toes curling like he was about to die. The tiny toy always buzzed excitedly on his tip, squelching filthily. The sensations wracking down his body as his toes curled, his body fuzzed, a familiar ache always rising in his abdomen as he imagined that night; fucking his hips up into his hand. The small opening weeping pre-cum, weeping desperate tears. Desperate to cum, cum for you. His cock head often preened red, turning angry at the amount of times he would overstimulate himself over, and over, and over.
The worst part?
He imagined it was you doing it.
Every night.
Every night, Dick would sit against his head board, legs spread, vibrator thrumming, back arching.
Every night, he imagined it was you making him reach his peak, you making him whine out in pleasure, you jerking him off until he couldn't take it anymore, you pumping your fist up and down his cock till he was doubled over in tears. Your hand vibrating so deliciously around his length.
He imagined it was you, using your thumb to trace carefully over his cock head and tease his frenulum; your digit slowly vibrating to match the thrum of his heart at the mere arousal of it all.
He imagined it was you, whispering filthy words into his ears. Praising him - telling him he was taking it so well- degration lacing your words at how much of a whore he was to just sit there, to just take it, to not push you away.
He imagined it was you edging him, bringing him close to euphoria before pulling your thumb away; kissing him down his neck with silent comfort.
In reality it was just him, his imagination, and his horribly fast hand stopping the toy before he could cum himself silly.
Wally must've sense something was off.
Why?
Because here you and Dick were, Wally bailing on Dick last minute because 'something came up' - you supposedly being here to meet him too.
Dick has been parent trapped...
And you're grinning, chattering at him like nothings wrong. Like you're about to spar, like you're about to use your speed normally, like he's not getting hard at the thought of just seeing you vibrate again - even in the heat of battle.
Dick's sure the amount of cold showers he's had to take has sky-rocketed his water bill exponentially. He'll have to ask Bruce for some rent money...
Dick jumps, actually jumps, when his foot his nudged - his head whipping over to look over at you. You're sitting on a bench -completely alone- in the middle of one of the Leagues many private gyms.
"Dick, dude hello?" You wave your hand in his face, sighing when he finally blinks at you - wide eyed, "Jesus, finally, I've been trying to talk to you for like - 2 minutes."
Dick's mouth goes dry. Not because he can't think of any words to say, no - he can think of a dozen. How he feels. Apologizes for everything. Telling you to fuck off. Telling you to stay. Telling you that you that everything's fine. No, his mouth goes dry because he physically can't move, he can only dryly swallow the lump in his throat.
Theres a pause. A silence. You're just staring at him. fuck, you're staring at him. With those gorgeous eyes, and those fanning lashes, and a look that makes him want to grab you hard and kiss you even harder right there and then. Your mouth is parted - worried- brows furrowed in a way that makes you look like some kind of sad puppy, and he's swooning.
"You doing okay?" You finally ask, finding that Dick was...less than talkative. A smirk stretches across your face, not missing a beat, "You look pretty dishelved for someone who's been deemed, 'Gotham's Sexiest Vigilante' by the Gotham Times."
Okay, that gets him.
A grin tugs at Dicks lips, his eyebrow tugging up, "Oh, didn't know you were keeping track of that." His elbow nudges yours, "You look at the newly deemed 'sexiest' vigilante every year they renew it?"
"I would, but it always ends up being you." You snort, shaking your head.
Dick scoffs, looking away and hoping to hell that the burning sensation that creeps up his neck isn't visible. The embarrassment, the arousal, the shame, he can't tell what's what now - maybe he likes it, and that thought scares him.
"Nah, but seriously man." You mutter, staring at him and trying to meet a gaze that was ever fleeting, "You doing okay?"
"Don't tell me my crunches looked that bad." Dick joked, not even sparing you a glance.
"Dick."
He pauses, he knows that tone. The 'I'm not taking your shit tone' you've used it since you both were in middle school, and some kid was bullying him about being an orphan.
Taking a deep breathe, he sighs, groaning gingerly, "Yes..?"
"You look more tired than Tim. You get in a fight with one of your brothers again?" A pause, "Bruce?" You lean forwards slightly to try and gain his gaze; but he looks away.
He can't look at you, he just can't.
He can't look at your arms, toned and lean, glistening and sweaty in the shitty florescent lights - each muscle flexing with every single movement. He can't look at you plush lips that pout whenever he says something teasing. He can't look you in your eyes, the same eyes that make him feel like his soul is being pulled out of his body. He can't look at you at all, your thighs especially - the way he had arched back on them, grinded on them, grinded on you? He can't look at you and not think about how he violated you. Violated your friendship.
He knows he has to say something.
"No..." Dick sighs, rubbing the back of his neck; head hanging, "No fights." A scoff leaves his lips - with it, a sad attempt at a chuckle as he waves you off, "I always look tired. It's part of my brooding, dark vigilante charm. You can take the Vigilante out of the Batcave, but not the bat out of the Vigilante. You know?"
You don't hesitate, eyes narrowing, clocking onto him faster than you could even run, "Have you been having nightmares again?"
He freezes at that, feeling his blood run cold, something frozen shooting down his spine and he feels his heart pulse. Yet, he forces his fingers to relax, forces his face to morph into something more playful, more teasing, more relaxed,
He huffs, flopping back on the bench as his arms come up to nestle onto the top of it, "Nightmares?" He waves a hand dismissively. "Pfft. Me? Nah."
Your eyebrows arch down, and he can tell you're not buying it. You're not buying it because its you.
The boy he's known since before he came Robin.
The boy he shared meals with.
The boy he'd sneak out to see every night to go on patrol, or talk shit about your mentors, or do whatever lame thing two superhero teenagers did.
The boy he's been so hopelessly in love for since 10th grade.
The boy he's been so hopelessly horny for since 11th.
And it goes the other way as well, because Dick already knows what you're thinking. The way you're eyebrows are furrowed, the way you're scanning him like he's some kind of fragile vase,
"It's-" Dick chokes up, a gutteral sigh leaving him - his body shaking slightly before he put his head in his hands, "It isn't Jason."
"It's not?" You're skeptical.
"It's not."
You quirk an eyebrow, body turned to face him now, "But it was a nightmare?"
"No, not for me at least." Dick mutters, something coiling deep in his gut and he can hear you shift in your seat; confused. And that kills him.
He doesn't want to admit how he looks forwards to sleeping every night just to have sex with you, only to wake up in a cold sweat from guilt. He doesn't want to admit how he's been hopelessly in love with you since high school, and that's why his past relationships never worked out. He doesn't want to admit that he humped your leg like it was the last act of his life, like a rapid animal that couldn't control itself.
"Dick, in case you forgot, I'm the king of nightmares. It's the reason Barry wouldn't let me officially join the Teen Titans. Because I never got enough sleep to make a full commitment." Your hand finds his shoulder, soothing, and warmth blooms throughout his whole body. For a split second Dick wants you to touch his dick, he cringes, "If you need to talk, I'm here."
Dick squeezes his eyes shut, the guilt growing in his gut with every word that flows from your mouth.
Silence.
You blinked at him for a few seconds, a small sigh leaving your lips as you don't dare pull your gaze away, "Did you dream about killing the Joker again? Dude, I told you, that's normal. Even Wally agreed." Your fingers wiggle, eyes shifting down almost reverently, "Do you know how many times I think about just taking Zoom and-"
"I've been having dreams about having sex with one of our teammates." Dick blurts out, words almost jumbling together as he feels you pause.
...
"Oh." You pause pointedly, eyes widening, "Ohhhh. Oh, holy shit..." You mutter, looking forwards blankly.
It's silent for a few moments, both of you just sitting there before you grin; nicking his shoulder with yours, "Dick...you dirty, dirty, dog."
Dick mutters curses to himself.
Oh, to hit you...or to kiss you...
"Okay so... hypothetically..." Dick mutters, elaborating, shifting nervously as his hands waggled around in front of him, "...if I said my dumb dreams were about... y'know. My teammate? Like a hot one, another guy, what would you say to that?"
Dick watches as you pinch your chin between your fingers, looking off in thought, and he geniunely thinks he stops breathing before you turn towards him.
And holy shit you look evil as fuck.
Your mouth is curled into this devious grin, your eyes hooded over with something darker than whatever prank you had planned for Garth this week.
He genuinely shudders at you with something other than arousal.
With a shit eating grin, you lean in slightly, "Is it Wally?"
Dick sputters, choking on his own spit and he coughs out; head shaking violently - like a wet dog - undignified, "Jesus- no- god, he's like my brother! How did you even get there?!"
"You guys have been spending an awful amount of time together lately." You say slowly, eyes sharp - staring at him like he's hiding some deep secret.
And he is.
And thats why he's been hanging out with Wally so much lately.
Because its better than hanging out with you.
"You have way too many friends dude, it could be an alien currently lightyears away for all I know. I'm not guessing...." Yuuko muttered, eyebrows furrowing in deep thought, - and fuck, fuck, you look so cute like that, "You did say teammate though, is it Roy? Dude is massive. Have you seen the size of his biceps?"
"It's none of the gingers." Dick deadpans.
"Not even Kory...?"
Dick wants to slam his head into a locker, "No," He sighs, staring at some random weight, "Not even Kory."
You hum in thought, fingers tapping peacefully on the bench.
And thats when it hits Dick.
You're way too calm.
You're not energetically buzzing.
You're not poking him the side.
You're not even teasing him.
His eyes slowly turn, eyebrows furrowed, eyes laced with suspicion as he looked over at you.
You've always been mischievous, tricky, finding yourself in more trouble than Wally ever could - if possible...
But more than that you were...
He can't stop himself from saying it,
"You know."
Shut up Dick.
Your eyes wander over to his, gaze all to lazy when you grin, and something churns deep in his gut.
Shut. Up. Dick.
He stands up, fast, unthinking, knocking his water bottle over by accident - not giving it a second glance. "You know." He can't look away from you, he can't.
Dick can still stop this, save this, say you saw him having a nightmare; not him rutting against you like some kind of filthy animal.
His fingers curl into fists.
"You were awake."
Dick can't breathe, he can't- he just can't.
Because you're sitting there. Knowing. Watching. Smiling.
And he doesn't even know what he's feeling.
Relief, anger, arousal, shame, embarrassment, sadness, anxiety, worry, a feeling that everythings crashing down on him? You don't look angry, are you angry? You were always so chill, even when doing something grueling and emotionally draining. He can't tell. His breathes come out in heavy pants as you stand up, mind reeling a hundred miles per a minute as you stretch. He hasn't felt like this since Jason died, since he didn't know what was coming next, since he didn't know how to move, since he didn't know what to do.
What should he do?
Walk away? Yell at you? Cry? Beg for forgiveness? Beg you to-
To do it again?
He wants to do it again.
...
He feels a hand on his shoulder and he swallows dryly, eyes wide as he can't even look at you.
"Lets go somewhere more..." You mutter, head jerking towards the door slowly despite your usual speed. Like you're going slow for him, letting him take his time. The hand that laces behind the small of his back - more guiding that pushing. More comforting than forceful, "Private."
Dick cries out, sobbing, begging - clenching on your fingers as they nuzzle against his prostate, clenching like they're the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. And fuck, even if this isn't his reality, he wants to stay here. Forever.
He wheezes, eyes tearing up as your thighs hold him open; knees hooked under his and keeping him splayed. Your chest warmth seeping into his back.
The squelching sounds are filthy.
The smell that wafts in the air is thick with sweat is disgusting.
The way his eyes roll back makes him sob in embarrassment.
The stupid storage closet your both huddled in smells of must and bleach.
It's disgusting
It's filthy.
Its so fucking good.
He whimpers, the sound ripping from his lips as your fingers start to vibrate inside of him; pulsing into each and every nerve of his prostate as he pulses around you. His muscles tensing at the foreign intrusion, pleasure running through his veins and coming out of him in drops as you practically milk him. His cock weeping in pure pleasure, and fuck- fuck he thinks he's gonna cum.
Your free hand is stroking him reverently, and no matter how much he wiggles, no matter how much he cries out, your thumb doesn't cease the vibrating pressure that you have his cockhead jailed in; his body arching when you breathe into his ear,
"Like this? Right Dicky?" You grin, all too knowing from when he cried out his little fantasies - suddenly being all too loud about all his filthy little thoughts when you started to rim him earlier- his pleads for pleasure balancing with all his dirty confessions.
All the nights he spent jerking his cock to you? All the nights he spent teasing his ever weeping head with his thumb, with his vibrator? He realizes now a toy could never replace you, fuck not ever, and he thinks you're trying extra hard to prove it.
"You're being loud," You murmur, fingers picking up their speed against his bundle of nerves - and he genuinely sees the light itself as he mews, eyes rolling back into his head. Body convulsing. A breathy chuckle hits his ears, amused, "Thought you were quiet in bed from how silent your whimpers were when you were fucking my thigh. You didn't think I wasn't awake? Didn't think I wanted to hear your pretty little noises?"
A loud moan rips from him in return, long, knowing - his head tipping back into your shoulder and his eyes roll back into his head. It feels like your pulverizing him, and your just using your fingers; the two digits pumping out of him, buzzing, vibrating, bullying that one bundle of nerves that has him reeling.
Dick's dick twitches when you run a buzzing lick up the side of his jawline , and fuck- he clenches, eyes squeezing shut at the thought of your vibrating tongue sitting so perfectly on his cock. Controlling. Teasing. Your face looking up at him with those big eyes of yours, grinning like the smug bastard you were as you had him cumming silly. Had him crying out as you prepped him to take your cock.
Shit, could your dick vibrate too?
He clenches even harder at the thought, and you groan.
"You're so pretty Dick." You pant, forehead hitting his shoulder, and he becomes acutely aware of just how hard you are. How big you are. The soft feeling of your sweats barely doing anything to hide the feeling of your steel hard cock pressing into his bare ass; he groans when his own cock throbs, "You should've just confessed faster, I could've had you like this soooo much sooner. Could've been fucking you silly since last Sunday."
Dick can barely think coherently in his haze, back arching as his hips began rolling back. A guttural groan resonating deep in his chest as you moan from the mere action, turned on that much more. His head began growing fuzzy as he began to fuck himself both ways. Down into your hand, his prostate chasing the frantic buzz of your two digits. Before fucking his hips up into your hand, your thumb, chasing its own buzz. The vibrations being sent down each pulsing vein of his weeping and throbbing cock.
Dick opens his mouth, spit drooling down his face. He barely recognizes his own voice, whimpering, whiny, "H-Hah- y-you-"
Then, you curl your fingers in.
And he looses it.
Dick can barely register the choked moan that falls from his lips.
Mouth dropping in pleasure, he can only cry out - hips juttering- and he doesn't have to stay quiet this time. He fucks himself on your fingers -fucks himself on you- practically riding them in his haze. Bliss shooting up his spine, vibrations revibrating throughout his chest and down to his curling toes, and he cries out as his eyes roll back in his head.
Thick white stripes spurt blissfully from his now pulsing dick. His own drawn out moans acting as his thanks when the vibrations don't stop, carrying him, leading him, throwing him over and beyond his edge.
And it feels so good.
So fucking good.
Just like before you don't stop, you don't stop till his hips finally stutter to an exhausted stop. Limp. Tired. Content. Till he's panting and limp in your lap. Till his thighs are quaking. Till he's twitching around your fingers. Till he's weakly looking back at you, greedily accepting the kiss you bruise into him; pressing into him. Both your tongues sloshing around greedily, finally getting what they wanted after years of wanting, yearning.
Through panted breathes, Dick suddenly found himself lowered quietly onto the floor - the gesture soft and careful. Something raw settles in his chest, something heavy when he thinks you're done with him.
Were you going to leave this whole thing here? Were you going to -again- pretend this didn't happen until he made another embarrassing display of himself? Were you going to despise him for being so lewd?
Dick shudders when he feels something hard pressed against his twitching hole, arching into it. A shaky breathe leaving him from the mere grin you're shooting down at him. His own cock twitches from how you man handle him, opening him up for you so easily so you could crawl between his legs.
"You know," You grin, hooking his leg on your shoulder with ease, "Wally says us speedsters have a refraction rate of .001 seconds." Pausing, you tilt your head at his already hardening cock; his hole squeezing in anticipation, "Be a good little Detective and help me test it out."
________
A/N- YO I WENT TO POST THIS AND TUMBLR SHUT DOWN, LMAOOOOOO. They're cockblocking you, that's crazy work. You poor horn dogs </3.
tags: military inaccuracies, use of L/N, established age for when reader joined the army but current age is kept vague, maybe OOC 141, reader has an established callsign, swearing
wc: 2.6k
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series masterlist
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A soldier, that’s what you are.
Years of training shaped you into one. Discipline carved into your bones. Instincts sharpened into habit. Your life became a rhythm, the kind only soldiers understand. Early mornings, debriefings, training, repeat. Wake up between 0500 and 0600, no questions asked.
Even after all these years, your body still follows that pattern. Like clockwork.
But for the past few months, things have been… different.
Having no permanent team gave you freedom… or maybe too much of it. The higher-ups decided your skills were better suited for interrogation than deployment, so you were kept around the base more often. They said intel is gold, and you were the one digging for it.
And so, your mornings became quiet. Empty.
You still wake up early, since your body refuses not to, but your work happens mostly at night, when the halls are silent. You liked it that way. Since, at that time, people are in their bed already catching Zs. And the lesser the people are awake the lesser the chance you are found with what you do.
This resulted in your body not getting the optimal 8 hours of sleep, but it’s fine. You don’t sleep much anyways. Or so you say to yourself.
The most you get are scattered hours between assignments. You tell yourself you can catch up on rest when your brain stops running drills and reminders in the dark and just wake up not later than 0900.
So here you are again.
Lying in bed.
Staring at the ceiling.
The hum of the ventilation is the only thing keeping you company. Occasionally, the clatter of boots echoes from down the hall, the early risers starting their day. You wait for the noise to pass before beginning your own routine.
What else can you do? It’s not like there’s much to prepare for until the higher-ups drop another interrogation mission on your desk.
You’re just glad they still respect your “only at night” rule.
So, it’s just another quiet morning.
Just another-
Knock. Knock.
You freeze.
That’s… odd. No one ever comes by this early.
Your first thought is instinctive. Maybe someone got the wrong door.
I mean, Laswell always sends you digital copies first for your upcoming interrogation works rather than giving you physical copies.
Knock. Knock.
Still, something feels… off.
“Oi, newbie! Rise and shine, ye?” a loud Scottish voice booms from the other side.
You blink. That voice…
“Keep your voice down you idiot, people are still sleeping.” Another man mutters.
“What about it? They need to wake up early anyways, or their ass will get punished for being late.” The previous man laughs.
Right. New Team.
You let out a quiet sigh, dragging yourself out of bed.
“C’mon out, newbie! Your very friendly neighbors are waiting and morning briefing can’t start without ya!”
Without thinking much, you open the door and come face to face with Soap, his fist raised in a mid-knock motion, and Gaz standing just behind him with a protein bar in hand.
“Morning,” you mumble with a small smile.
Both men freeze.
Soap’s grin falters, eyes flicking down, then back up again, along with a whistle. Quick but not trying to hide it. Gaz is more composed, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him.
It takes you a second to realize why.
The cold air brushing against your bare skin finally registers, and you look down.
Right. You sleep with no shirt on.
You blink, deadpan. “…Ah.”
Soap immediately bursts out laughing, slapping your shoulder with the kind of force only someone who definitely finds this funnier than he should would use. “Bloody hell, didn’t know morning briefings came with a show!”
Gaz exhales through his nose, clearly trying, and failing, to suppress a smirk. “Put on a shirt, man. You’re not on display.”
You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “You knocked me out of bed.”
“Correction,” Soap grins, “we saved you from being late. Big difference.”
You step back and gesture toward your room. “Give me a minute.”
Soap leans against the doorway, arms crossed, still smirking. “Take your time, lad. I’ll make sure Gaz doesn’t sneak a look.”
Gaz scoffs. “Grow up, Johnny.”
“I am grown. Just appreciating the view.”
You groan under your breath as you pull on your shirt, the sound of their banter echoing faintly through the cracked door. It’s ridiculous. Childish. Annoying.
And yet…
The corner of your mouth lifts, just a little. Because as much as it was embarrassing for you, you are not put off by them or their reaction. In fact, you feel more uplifted.
This feels… nice…
Casual banter, laughing together… you find it… peaceful
When you step out again, Soap gives a mock salute. “Looking sharp, soldier.”
“Finally decent,” Gaz mutters, shaking his head. “C’mon, briefing’s about to start.”
As you fall into step beside them, you catch Soap whispering something about “a good start to the morning,” and Gaz lightly smacking the back of his head for it.
You don’t say anything. You just breathe. For once, the silence in your chest doesn’t feel heavy.
-
Arriving at the briefing room, that light feeling you had on the way there dies the moment you step through the door.
Standing by the table is a man who you could only described as a wall of muscle and silence. That black balaclava leaves little to the imagination, just enough to see the pale skin around his eyes, and the way those eyes narrow when they land on you.
“Morning… Lieutenant Ghost,” you manage, voice cracking slightly. Your throat feels dry, the name catching slightly as it leaves your lips under that piercing stare.
That stare alone feels like it cuts through every layer you’ve ever built… the kind that weighs, measures, judges. The kind that makes even seasoned soldiers shift their stance without realizing it.
You can see his pupils tracking you through the sockets of the mask. Calculating. Assessing. And for a moment, you forget to breathe.
The tension was then cut off, thanks to the Scottish man greeting the staring man.
“Oi, Ghost. Quit giving the new lad that creepy stare of yours.” Soap’s grin is effortless, disarming. Then his gaze flicks to you. “Relax, newbie. He’s just saying hello in his own spooky way.” You swear you see the masked man roll his eyes.
“More like it’s his way of acknowledging you.” Gaz whispers, leaning closer “He’s not bad.”
“New recruit.” You straighten instinctively as Ghost steps closer, towering over you. While Gaz slips away. So much for moral support.
“Yes, sir?” you answer, swallowing hard.
“Try not to cut it so close next time. I don’t like tardiness.” His tone is calm and even but heavy enough to press into your chest before he walks past and takes his seat.
What. You’re left standing there, dumbfounded. Which was cut short by the arrival of your new Captain. Setting a stack of papers down at the end of the table and gives the room a quick once-over before his gaze settles on you.
“Alright. Seeing as were all here. We can get started but first-” Now it was Price’s turn to stare at you. Seriously what’s with these men and them staring at you. “I know we did introductions yesterday, but let’s make it official. Sergeant, introduce yourself more thoroughly this time.”
Clearing your throat and squaring your shoulders. “Sergeant [L/N], interrogation specialist. Been serving the army since I was twenty-one. Spent the last fifteen months in intel ops, both field and facility work. Focused on human-sourced intel and information gathering.”
You hesitate briefly, then add, “I usually operate at night. The atmosphere… helps. People talk more when it’s quiet.” Your gaze flicks briefly to Price. “And I prefer to conduct sessions alone, Captain. Fewer distractions that way.”
Price nods approvingly clearing his throat to get the briefing going only to be interrupted by the Scotsman. “What about it?” Soap asks suddenly, leaning forward against the table with the telltale grin.
You blink. “What about what?” Confusion clear in your tone.
“Y’know,” he says, gesturing loosely. “Your callsign. So, we know how to shout at you on the field without yelling ‘oi, new guy!’ every time. You already know ours. Bet you’ve got one from your private days or something.”
You hesitate for a second, long enough for Soap to grin wider. “…Yeah. I have one.”
Gaz perks up. “Oh? Don’t keep us waiting, then.”
You sigh, scratching the back of your neck. “They called me Shrink.”
Soap snorts immediately. “Shrink? What, like tiny or something?”
“Haha… yeah… private years,” you start, forcing a laugh. “Grenade assault course. Threw one that bounced right back off the wall, right where I was crouching. Didn’t know they were practice grenades. So, I just froze up. Ever since then, they’ve been calling me ‘Shrink,’ as in, ‘shrinking away from grenades.’ Haha… Real funny guys.”
You try to laugh it off. Hopefully, they’ll buy it. But the truth is, that wasn’t how you got it.
It was a cover up you made.
You were caught once. Thankfully, they kept their mouths shut, but they never let you forget it. Every so often, they’d throw the name at you like a reminder… soft, almost playful… but you always felt the weight behind it.
Everyone else picked it up too, not knowing why or how. It just stuck.
It clung to you like smoke after a fire. Light enough to seem harmless, but it always left the faintest burn when you heard it.
You blink, realizing you’d spaced out, your mind wandering too deep again. When your eyes refocus, the briefing was continuing, with Price already turning the page of the papers. But Ghost… Ghost’s gaze is still on you.
That sharp, unreadable stare cuts clean through you, and a shiver runs down your spine as you sat down.
Hopefully, he didn’t caught that you were lying.
He used to handle information gathering and interrogation for the team, after all.
-
The briefing was short, mercifully so. Price must have taken pity on all of you this early in the morning.
You, Soap, and Gaz. What Price started to call your trio the “Three Idiots”, you were mildly offended at first. You? An Idiot?
But the more you thought about it, the less it bothered you. If being called that meant you were part of something again… meant belonging somewhere again… you’d gladly take it.
As much as you feared getting close to people, you wanted to try again. You wanted to be friends… with your team… like before.
Before things changed.
...You stop yourself there. No. Not going down that road again.
You’re pulled out of your thoughts by a sudden weight pressing against your back, making you almost stumble forward. Soap’s chest presses against you, his chin brushing your shoulder, breath ghosting against your neck.
“Soap… come on man,” you grunt, trying to pry him off. “Let me go. I’m starving, and the mess hall’s going to get flooded any second now.” He only laughs, tightening his hold for a second. Your mind freezes when you swear you hear him sniff.
Then he’s gone, stepping back with that same cocky grin he had when he’d knocked on your door earlier… right before realizing you weren’t wearing a shirt.
Your face heats. Nope. Not thinking about that right now.
You quicken your pace toward the hall going past Soap, pretending not to notice the way he jogs after you, calling out teasingly for you to “keep up, Shrink!”
Behind you, Gaz’s laugh echoes down the corridor.
And for the first time in a while… it feels normal.
It feels good.
-
What doesn’t feel good, though, is seeing the packed mess hall. The line is short, but the tables and chairs are already filling fast.
You line up behind Soap and Gaz, scanning for empty seats when Gaz nudges you.
“Don’t get too stressed about the seats, Shrink.” He chuckles. “Look over there.”
You follow his gesture and freeze. Is that Ghost?!
“How- how the fuck did he got in here so fast.” You mutter, disbelief creeping into your voice.
Gaz laughs. “Our team’s got a designated table and seats. Perks of being in 141”
You blink, impressed. “Wow, didn’t know this team comes with special privileges.”
“Tell me about it,” he says with a grin. “We’re a ‘special’ operations unit for a reason.” He explains further.
You hum, the thought sparking something in your head. Speaking of privileges… this means more privacy for your work, doesn’t it? Holy shit—Laswell really did have your best interests at heart when she pushed for your transfer.
Not only did she lighten your workload, she put you in a team with perks and autonomy? Oh, you’re definitely thanking her when you see her. Maybe with coffee. Maybe a medal.
“Oi, quit daydreaming and get to y’know… actually getting food, Shrink.” Soap calls you out as you reach the counter, tray in hand. “Seriously, you need stop getting in your head sometimes… we already got a brooding Ghost and an overworked Captain”
“Geez, man. Let me at least take a moment to appreciate the new place I’ll be stuck in, in peace,” you shoot back.
The three of you laugh, trays now full, as you make your way to the far corner, towards the ever-silent Ghost sitting alone.
Being behind the two is a curse in disguise. Since Soap and Gaz immediately take the seats beside each other, that leaves the one free spot right next to Ghost.
Fuck.
Nevertheless, you sit down beside him. So much for eating in peace because the moment you do, you can feel his stare on you. C’mon, man. Can I at least eat my meal without feeling like I’m under surveillance?
The two across from you aren’t helping either, already deep in some chaotic conversation of their own. You focus on your tray instead, awkwardly trying to eat next to a man who somehow makes silence feel loud.
But then a thought hits you.
Wait… how the hell does he even eat with that mask on?
You try not to look. You really try. But curiosity wins. You turn your head… slowly…. and catch a glimpse just as he lifts his mask up to his nose.
You snap your gaze forward, heat crawling up your neck.
Oh my god. You’re an idiot. Of course he lifts the damn mask. What were you expecting… some tactical straw?
As you eat, Ghost is still very much staring at you, while the other two’s conversation died down as they busy themselves stuffing their faces with grub.
You finally give up and face your fears. “Uh… do I have something on my face Lieutenant Ghost? Or am I invading some personal space?”
“Ghost,” he says simply.
“What?” you blink, puzzled with his answer.
“Just call me Ghost. Or Lt.”
“Okay? Question still stands Lt, am I, like, invading personal space or something?” you ask, gesturing loosely.
“Oh, nah,” he replies, tone casual but somehow not reassuring. “Just thinking about what to do with you this training.”
Soap nearly chokes trying not to laugh, and Gaz isn’t doing much better.
Ghost’s eyes flick toward them, and they instantly shut up. Soap swallows his food, coughing. “Oh man… Ghost, you still suck at first impressions.”
Ghost just grumbles in response.
“Just be ready after this Shrink. I expect things from you” he says finally, voice low but clear. You swallow, unsure if it’s a warning or a challenge. Maybe both.
“Special forces, special privileges, special training sessions” Gaz adds, pointing his spoon at you with a grin.
Right.
Special everything.
And somehow, you already know whatever comes after this meal… won’t be easy.
With a resigned sigh, you keep eating. Aware that this might be the last peaceful, physically stress-free meal you’ll get for a while.
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series masterlist
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a/n: Things got out of hand real quick when I made this one... just sat down and started and BOOM... 2.6k words in I had to stop and move some stuff for the next chapter.
In the shadows of a fractured world, a lone agent bleeds through the ruins of a failed mission. Hunted, injured, and out of contact, Cypher must navigate the decaying streets of a radianite-ravaged town where reality itself teeters on the edge. When escape leads him to the last place he ever wanted to return, a black market clinic run by someone from his past.
Brimstone’s gruff voice echoed through the earpiece, distorted by static. The line cut out just as ragged breaths broke through, his lungs straining to catch up to his pounding heart. Each step sent a jolt of pain up his leg, heavy boots slamming into the wet, uneven soil as he ran. Rain from earlier had turned the ground to sludge, clinging to his coat and splashing against the blood-soaked hands that tightly clutched his bleeding thigh.
Behind him, faint footsteps echoed. another set. Fast. Close. But unaware. He could hear the rhythm of their chase, a hunter following noise, not sight, He knows the owl could see well into the night, but the light pitter patter of rain and time was not on his side, they would need to leave soon. A pattern all too familiar to him. The night worked in his favor, wrapping the landscape in darkness thick enough to hide his presence.
He darted into a crumbling, abandoned house, nearly stumbling as he forced the door shut behind him. He pressed his back against it, frozen, breath held tight in his chest. Time stretched as the footsteps neared, then passed, fading down the deserted street. He waited, straining to hear, only releasing his breath when silence returned, punctuated only by the faint chirping of crickets in the shadows.
Wasting no time, he dropped to the floor with a grunt, tore his sleeve off at the seam, and wrapped it tightly around the gash in his leg. The fabric darkened quickly, but the pressure would buy him time. With a pained wince, he reached into his coat and retrieved his communicator. The screen was fractured, blackened in places, the device short-circuited from damage sustained during the chase. He tried to power it on. nothing. Just a flicker, then silence. With a quiet curse under his breath, he tucked it back into his coat and stood.
Each step sent pain shooting up his side as he limped out into the forgotten streets. His eyes scanned the fractured remnants of the town, buildings torn open like old wounds, rusted steel bent inward, street signs mangled beyond recognition. Stray pulses of unstable radianite snaked through cracks in the pavement, casting faint glows and humming lowly, warping the very texture of the air around them. Time felt off here, but it was nothing new to him. He had already seen worse from other sites.
He thought back to the mission briefing: a solo recon assignment. Survey the area, build a preliminary defense map, then report back. Routine. He had history with this place, a mission long before the Protocol brought him in. They figured he'd be quick. Precise. In and out.
Then the omega earth agents showed up unannounced, unscanned, and armed. Like shadows bleeding into his world, they emerged with the same target and a much larger team. He was lucky to escape with his life. The simplicity of the mission had become a trap.
Navigating the maze of shattered alleyways, he kept to the edges, where shadows clung tight to buildings and twisted fences. Trash littered the ground, rusted tools, busted screens, skeletal remnants of drones. At last, the alleys opened to a long, downward slope leading into the underground market.
He kept his head low as he entered, hat pulled over his mask coat drawn tight. The market buzzed with life even in this forsaken place, traders hawking black-market tech, scavengers bartering weapon parts, mercs smoking in shadowed corners. Neon signs flickered above cracked stalls, bathing everything in sickly color. No one asked questions here, and that was why he came. it was familiar, it was... in a way... the closest thing he had to home, somewhere he could go back to when this protocol went belly up.
He moved through the crowd unnoticed, past the familiar smell of oil, metal, and cheap liquor. He passed old contacts he didn’t want to acknowledge, faces that once knew him, now pretending they didn’t. He ignored their sidelong glances and pressed on, heading toward a narrow hallway tucked behind a weapons vendor.
At the end stood a heavy, rusted door. The chipped paint and scorch marks hadn’t changed. He hated this place, hated the people who ran it even more, well, except for one. But survival didn't allow for pride.
He pushed it open slowly. A harsh white light poured out, burning his eyes after the dark. He blinked against it, trying to adjust, until the silhouette of a woman behind a table came into view. Her expression was unreadable, her hands calmly sorting vials and bandages.
“He’s just finishing up with another patient,” she said, her voice flat, practiced. “The doctor will be right with you. Please, take a seat.”
He nodded without speaking, dragging himself toward a creaky metal bench in the corner. It groaned under his weight as he sat. The pain in his leg pulsed now. hot and insistent. He leaned forward, forearms on knees, fiddling with the torn seams of his gloves to distract from the sting of every movement. He didn't like being still for long. Too many memories came crawling in when he stopped moving.
Time passed, uncertain. Then the creak of a door echoed from the back of the room, followed by voices.
“Thanks, doc,” someone said with a relieved sigh.
“Just remember to clean the wound and change the bandages regularly,” came the reply. calm, composed, with a voice that stirred something old in his memory.
The footsteps approached the lobby.
“Next?”
Cypher slowly stood, steadying himself on the armrest before limping toward the open door. Pain lanced through his leg, and he clenched his jaw, refusing to let it show. Before he could reach the threshold, a pair of arms caught him. firm, but careful, and helped guide him inside.
The doctor. Familiar hands. Familiar voice. It's been years but it feels just as he remembers them.
Cypher’s gaze met his briefly just for a moment. Recognition sparked, unspoken, in both their eyes before Cypher looked away, allowing himself to be lowered gently into the hospital chair.
“Mask on or off?” the doctor asked, his voice gentle yet edged with the stern professionalism of someone who had seen too much.
Cypher let out a breath of dry laughter. “I’m sure you already know what I look like, M/N.”
The air tensed—heavy, like a wound reopening. Then suddenly, wordlessly, he was pulled into a crushing embrace.
“Am—” M/N began, the name on his lips, then stopped himself short.
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Take me to Church (Sunday X Male Reader) CH.1
"The First Judgement"
Content warnings: Implied child abuse, death of an animal
//Charmony dove time//
The heavenly choir sang as the cries of a woman tore through the wind, pained screams echoing across the manor halls as doctors around her told and encouraged her to push. And it wasn't long before he was born: Y/N Wood.
Children were known for one thing—chaos. But not Y/N; even as a small baby, he never made a fuss. He never cried out for milk or screamed for attention. He just sat there, staring. Striking eyes looked around, never showing much aside from a few smiles, frowns, and the little twitch the wings behind his ears would do. His father, Gopher Wood, could always be seen around his son, along with the ravens that accompanied him. His watchful eye never left the vicinity of his son.
Soon, he grew up to become a toddler, though not much had changed. He was still quiet as ever and still as proper as could be. His posture was always straight, and his voice was always calm. Some family members, however, had also noticed small scars peeking from underneath the boy’s clothes, his eyes looking a bit too tired for a child, and his lips were almost always at an uncomfortably tight line. Some members of the family said that you could hear muffled screaming when the clock hit midnight.
He roamed the halls of the manor quietly and slowly, his eyes focusing and darting from object to object, always weary and avoiding the gazes of people. But he was always watching, always listening. He heard chatter of a war going on in another world, but like the idle whispers of the flapping wings of a dove, it left not even a feather.
He could mostly be seen around the gardens of the manor, trimming the bushes and tending to the flowers. Blankly staring at the Charmony doves flying around the garden walls.
When he stepped in, everything was where it should be: the bushes were trimmed, the flowers were watered and the Charmony doves were flying about. everything was the usual until he saw a small family of Charmony doves flapping towards the water fountain. the marble woman crying a river as her tears poured into the basin. He looked closer. A mother, two sisters, and three brothers. They were drinking from the water fountain, jumping around the rim to bend down and take a sip, their harmonious tweets filling the air. Then one bumped into the other, sending the dove tumbling past the edge and upside down toward the concrete. He stared.
He walked toward the fallen bird. The others, sensing his approach, flew away, leaving their fallen brother behind. The air grew still as the melody in the air slowed to a stop.
He crouched down at the bird and lifted it into one of his hands, while the other inspected its condition, mundane eyes staring, observing. A snapped wing and a broken leg. He sighed.
“Weak.”
Before raising his hand and slamming the dove straight into the marble, it gave a sudden melodic tweet before being reduced to a puddle of red and white. The feathers of purity were stained with the essence of life, the peace in the garden stilled as, mindlessly, he got up, dusted his clothes, and walked away. The harmonic air soon returned as he stepped back into the manor.
His father was waiting. And he didn't like it when people were late.
The brown-haired man behind the counter stops cleaning the glass for a moment, his eyes glancing up before speaking with a voice smooth like whiskey. “Not much,” he answers, fingers running the cloth inside the glass, moisture seeping into the fabric. “The guy’s uptight, that’s for sure, scary even.” He chuckles. “But if you ask everyone else wandering about in this dreamscape, they will surely tell you a different story.”
Y/N, The direct descendant of Gopher Wood stands tall above everyone, his posture relaxed and warm. His gentle smile speaks of nothing but humility and care. His voice, smooth like the feathers of a dove. And his closed eyes see nothing but justice.
The Penaconians see him as a symbol of justice and mercy, judgment unbiased and empathetic, actions careful and kind, his voice never once raised, and his gentle smile never faltering. With one hand to his heart and the other outstretched, he accepts and welcomes everyone to visit and experience the sweet dream of Penacony.
At least, that is what most people who have only seen him from afar think.
Only those who have witnessed his judgment behind closed doors have seen what he truly is. His relaxed posture twists into an unbreakable line. His calm smile fades into a blank expression, the charming and warm air burning into a suppressive smoke. He speaks, but his mouth does not move. He acts, but his body remains stiff. His halo glows brighter as blue and purple eyes peek from behind his eyelids.
Fanfic creators are like cows, some people think you can just milk them for content, but actually they need enrichment (comments) and a nice pasture to graze on (kudos/likes) and they secretly also like cuddles (asks about their fic/art)
“Cmon, this would be a great opportunity for you. I Know that you have always wanted to pursue music and dabble in videography” Alune spoke from across the table, her hand lazily holding her drink as she took a sip “Plus, me and Phel will be there” I sighed
“You know I aint really good with people,” I paused. “Come to think of it, who even are these guys?” she shrugged “some of Aphelios’ friends” I stared at her unimpressed “Not very reassuring” she chuckled before taking a bite out of her cupcake “It’s not gonna hurt ya” “Don't talk with your mouth full”, I interrupted, checking my watch “Seems like its time for me to hit the gym. Ill give you a call when i make up my mind” she swallowed her food then smiled “I’ll be waiting”.
-------------------------------------------------
I cant really decide on who specifically since I thirst for all of them equally so it will probably be a poly.
Gore and destruction scatter around them. Their demonic bodies bathed in the blood of their enemies, standing together atop a mountain of corpses, both human and Darkin pieces lifeless beneath their feet. They revel at the casualties before them before wandering to each other. The memories. From their ascension, to their fall, to their rise, to the wars they fought side by side. And finally, it all has come to an end . . They smile, then chuckle, then laugh, elation filling their veins as he raises his sword and the other raises their shield. The two laugh one last time before striking each other, his sword piercing the other’s chest and the shield slicing off his head. Their bodies returning to the weapons they were once trapped in, now broken. The sword and his shield, in oblivion, now in peace in each other’s broken pieces.
Exploring good traits gone bad in a novel can add depth and complexity to your characters. Here are a few examples of good traits that can take a negative turn:
1. Empathy turning into manipulation: A character with a strong sense of empathy may use it to manipulate others' emotions and gain an advantage.
2. Confidence becoming arrogance: Excessive confidence can lead to arrogance, where a character belittles others and dismisses their opinions.
3. Ambition turning into obsession: A character's ambition can transform into an unhealthy obsession, causing them to prioritize success at any cost, including sacrificing relationships and moral values.
4. Loyalty becoming blind devotion: Initially loyal, a character may become blindly devoted to a cause or person, disregarding their own well-being and critical thinking.
5. Courage turning into recklessness: A character's courage can morph into reckless behavior, endangering themselves and others due to an overestimation of their abilities.
6. Determination becoming stubbornness: Excessive determination can lead to stubbornness, where a character refuses to consider alternative perspectives or change their course of action, even when it's detrimental.
7. Optimism becoming naivety: Unwavering optimism can transform into naivety, causing a character to overlook dangers or be easily deceived.
8. Protectiveness turning into possessiveness: A character's protective nature can evolve into possessiveness, where they become overly controlling and jealous in relationships.
9. Altruism becoming self-neglect: A character's selflessness may lead to neglecting their own needs and well-being, to the point of self-sacrifice and burnout.
10. Honesty becoming brutal bluntness: A character's commitment to honesty can turn into brutal bluntness, hurting others with harsh and tactless remarks.
These examples demonstrate how even admirable traits can have negative consequences when taken to extremes or used improperly. By exploring the complexities of these traits, you can create compelling and multi-dimensional characters in your novel.
Another Aphelios X M reader where he is the aspect of the eclipse where either he ends the war between the lunari and solari or breaks them further apart.
(born from the thought of "what if Diana and Leona had a lovechild)
But his lore ain't really that, he gonna do a nami and search for moon lady. While tryna get thru sun lady.
