#tw: arson

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

The Joker finds a little kid who looks startlingly like Jason Todd and kidnaps him before hijacking all the tv and radios to broadcast the child tied up and scared.

Joker delighted in the child crying for his daddy to come save him and made biting remarks comparing this to Jason! Robin and Batmans failure to save him.

The window nearby shattered and Joker turned around expecting Batman.

He did not get Batman.

Instead there was an enraged 20 year old Phantom, eyes blazing green as he swiftly beat the Joker to death on air. Luckily his kid (who was likely a clone of Jason) was sobbing so hard that he didn't see anything. Danny blasted the Jokers body, engulfing it in a spectral green fire. He then went over and untied his boy before lifing him up into his arms and comforting him.

Danny made sure to get the heck outta Dodge after that, thinking that the bats were gonna kill him.

Naturally when Red Hood started chasing him via motorcycle Phantom panicked.

Red Hood: Come back, I just wanna talk!

Phantom: Oh, I've heard that one before!

Red Hood: Just listen to me-

*explosion*

Red Hood: Was that a grenade?!

-----

Phantom: I'm not sorry for killing the Joker. I'm only sorry I didn't make him suffer more!

Red Robin: Uploads an audio file of what Phantom said to batfamily group chat

Red Hood: *replies with "Stop! Im already a lesbian!" meme*

-----

Just...Jason chasing around a freaking out Danny Phantom and his clone kid trying and failing to ask him out

#dp x dc #danny fenton #fanfiction prompts #prompts #danny phantom #batman #jason todd x danny fenton #dead on main #double dead #jason todd #jason todd/danny fenton #clone #tw: murder #tw: kidnapping #tw: arson #kinda?

[starleska]

If you're still taking writing requests, could you do possessive Wally headcanons?

*cracks knuckles* oh anon, i most certainly can 😈 yandere!Wally fans (me too 😳), this one's for you! (this is less headcanons and more a oneshot... kinda wanna write the whole thing 🙈)

content warnings for possessive behaviour, manipulation, threats, arson, entrapment and kidnapping!

Possessive/Yandere!Wally Darling x Reader headcanons

👁 it all started so well. Wally was a Darling both in name and behaviour, and you fell hard and fast. such an attentive sweetheart, from the moment you moved into the neighbourhood it was as if he were always at your side. anywhere else, you may have been unnerved, but Wally's simple warmth and easy smile dispelled all of your doubts. while you tried to spread your time equally between your kind new neighbours, you somehow always found yourself in Wally's presence, talking to him for hours.

👁 in time, you found yourself becoming bolder. you start returning Wally's curious glances, and soon allow your eyes to linger a touch longer than they should. curiously (and with a little bit of a thrill), you notice that Wally seems incapable of breaking eye contact - no matter how long you stare, he'll always stare right back, unperturbed.

👁 one day, you find yourself closer to Wally than usual. you're half-pressed against one another on your sofa, Wally's cheek nestled in the crook of your shoulder. he's drawing something in his sketchbook: an indistinct, wobbly shape that you can't make heads or tails of. while Wally's right hand scribbles furiously with his pencil, the fingers of his unoccupied left hand spill at your side, reflexively clenching every now and again with the automatic motions of his drawing.

👁 the closeness imbues you with a newfound confidence. you take a breath, steady yourself...and reach across, brushing your fingers lightly across Wally's own. Wally's eyes snap towards you. for a moment, his pupils blow so wide you think they might just swallow you.

👁 the next day, your house catches fire. such an incident is unheard of in this neighbourhood, and all your neighbours are horrified for you. however, Wally is strangely calm. "I'm sorry you lost so much," he says, still smiling. "Would you like to live with me?"

👁 you're shaken - but accept Wally's offer. the shock of the fire takes a few days to wear off, but nothing could be more unsettling than living in close quarters with Wally Darling. existing within the living, breathing (creaking? squeaking) walls of his Home has an atypical effect on the puppet. Wally's voice is lower, and he moves with more purpose, as if he and Home are one and the same: symbiotic entities which exist in tandem with one another.

👁 to add to your creeping sense of dread, Wally flips the script on your personal space. now he is the one letting his fingers slip easily around your waist, and fixing you with uncomfortable, impossible-to-ignore stares. you try to laugh off his behaviour, questioning him openly if he enjoys having you as a guest so much. for once, Wally doesn't smile when he replies, "I love you living with me."

👁 it isn't until a week has passed that you learn all the doors are locked, and Wally never gave you a key. you try wrestling with the door handle, but it doesn't budge. then you try the windows, but they're sealed shut. 'I'm not trapped!' you think to yourself. 'Wally is just being a good neighbour - he wants to keep me safe.' but that still doesn't stop you from panicking, scouring the house for the heaviest thing you can find and trying to smash the window. the glass does not break. Home suddenly groans with the sound of a thousand old floorboards and overloaded pipes - a dreadful, ear-rending noise - causing the glass in the window to triple in height and thickness right before your eyes.

👁 terrified, you scramble backwards to run out of the kitchen - only to run smack into Wally. you collapse to the floor and gaze up at Wally, standing in the doorway with his hands tucked behind his back, that cat's smile of his holds some private amusement.

👁 "did you try to leave Home?" Wally asks. "Silly, silly." he takes a step towards you, and then another - slow and loping steps, his cute puppet form now moving in a way equal parts unnatural and sinister. he crouches next to you, those eyes now whirlpools of void which obscure all but the slight white rim of his scleras. "Try again," Wally whispers. "I'd like that very much."

#hoo BOY i think i received this ask blacked out and then woke up with a book 🙈🙈🙈 #this kinda stuff is my favourite so i hope you guys enjoy it too 😉 #wally darling #wally darling x reader #welcome home #welcome home arg #starleskasks #starleskawrites #tw: manipulation #tw: threats #tw: arson #tw: possessive behaviour #tw: entrapment #tw: kidnapping #wally darling x you

[cheetee]

Thank you to @redcookies-bestcookies for help with this page.

The Macondian Giftshop, Part 18 / Transcript

First / Next / Read on Webtoons

#encanto #the macondian giftshop #tw: mind control #tw: hypnosis #tw: violence #tw: fire #tw: arson #(again these are. like. super mild. i'm just consciencious of usually making things that aren't dark at all haha.)

[ithseem]

Gender Non-Conforming Fem!MC is Done with Guy's Nonsense and Burns the Dress He Got Her

@shaakyhaands this is for you

warnings: arson, not beta read, may be a little ooc

You have just about HAD IT with Guy and his utter nonsense. You've told him multiple times that you weren't interested in him or in wearing dresses. You've told him you weren't comfortable wearing dresses and you rejected his many, ah, advances but he still tries to win you over. When Guy bought you yet another dress and expected you to attend the upcoming ball with him, that was the last straw. You asked your friend Fenn to get a bottle of wine, but not just any old wine. You wanted only the best wine in all of Saligia. So he gets you the finest wine from Luxure. He understood where you were coming from. If you were this irritated, alcohol would do just the trick.

Or does he? He came back to the S-Ranks lounge where you did not really hide a smirk and Guy ordered Jasper to fetch Avari's finest alcoholic drink: Avarian Ale, "far stronger than the drek Luxure calls wine."

None of the men in the lounge saw what you were going to do next. You poured the contents of both bottles onto the dress Guy got you (was that with you the whole time?) and then got a lighter (where did you get that?) and lit the dress on fire

Guy

You did not just do that

How could you just burn a dress made by Avari's finest tailor?

And revel in this while keeping eye contact with him no less??

Guy was the first to put out the flames once he regained his composure

All that was left was but a small charred patch of the dress

"Bah"

He gets the message. If you were willing to commit arson over this he's not gonna get you dresses

Fenn

You had him fetch wine for this?

He cannot say he dislikes this display, but did you really have to pour his wine all over a dress to set it on fire? He was hoping to share it with his friends

Oh well. At least he got to see some chaos today

If you haven't already put your foot down, you've driven it down to the very core of Saligia now

Toa

Toa is glad you rejected his advances but was nearly setting the lounge on fire really necessary?

He understood your discomfort with wearing traditionally feminine clothes and as far as he knew, you told him and the others as much, so you had to put your foot down

He supposes simply saying no would not have sufficed, but setting the dress on fire? Really?

He has mixed feelings about this

Roy

He is utterly speechless

Maybe he should have talked Guy out of getting you a dress

But then again he doubts he would have listened

Lynt

"Why is it so hot all of a sudden?"

Lynt was asleep and the sudden heat spike woke him up

Fenn filled him in on what happened and Lynt was not happy with what Guy did. He was not happy with you either

Lynt hates discord and would really rather not argue but this has gone too far

He scolds Guy for making you so uncomfortable and he scolds you for nearly setting the room ablaze

If this wasn't enough an incentive to make sure that this doesn't happen again, Guy would be a unicorn's uncle

#ithseem answers #court of darkness #court of darkness x reader #court of darkness mc #guy avari #guy avari x reader #fenn luxure #fenn luxure x reader #toa qelsum #toa qelsum x reader #roy invidia #roy invidia x reader #lynt akedia #lynt akedia x reader #150 followers event #150 followers #tw: arson

[apersonwholikeslotus]

Accidents happen, don't they?

Characters: Wales, England, Scotland, Ireland

Warnings: Talk of xenophobia, colonization, arson, and intrusive thoughts

Notes: I'm ok i promise, i very rarely write truly unhinged stuff and this really isn't that bad. It is all under a cut for a reason though, and i am only posting it for @the-heaminator. I wrote this forever ago, and i don't feel like editing it so whatever it is, it is.

Dylan's life had been hell since the Romans showed up.

It had gotten marginally better, then worse, so much worse. The damn Germanic tribes that showed up were worse than the Romans, they didn't just want to conquer the area they wanted everyone else gone. They wanted everything for themselves. The anger he felt at being called a stranger on his own land was worse than anything else, everyone he knew was gone 'England' taking their place. The first time he met William he thought maybe they could work things out, maybe they could agree to leave each other alone. That couldn't happen either though could it? The Englishman was no better than the tribes that had come, he was the same, he was worse. And he was proud of being worse, he took Wales, then Scotland, and Ireland. He took a third of the world, disposing of anyone who got in his way.

Dylan eventually decided he had to agree with William or get out of his way, agreeing and at least being seen, even if it was barely, was better then being pushed off to the side completely. That's not how it worked though? Even if you did everything in your power to corporate, he still treated you like trash. The flag of the United Kingdom, England, Scotland and Northern Ireland. No Wales in sight.

Dylan remembered Angus leaving back in 1607, he couldn't deal with William anymore. He went to Jamestown, Dylan had wanted to leave but both of them couldn't go. 'Go Angus, I'll be fine' Why did he tell him to go? Dylan questioned everyday why he didn't instead.

Then one day James Cook was leaving, Dylan didn't tell anyone. He didn't utter a word to a soul, he left a note. Hidden enough that it wouldn't be found immediately, clear enough that someone would find it in a few days. He sailed around the world for three years; he felt the most free he had been in over a thousand years. No one could find him, especially William. When the time came that he had to go home, he didn't want to. Three years, everyone on the voyage was exhausted and homesick. Dylan wanted to stay out there, he wanted to keep sailing and never have to return to London; never have to return to the beck and call of England. He seriously considered hopping off at a random port, far away from Europe. If he hid well enough it would take decades for anyone to find him, the empire was expanding though. The crown would find him eventually, and the punishment would not be something that made it worth it.

Angus had gotten too close to Alfred, enough that the small boy called him dad, William found a way to have him locked up for seven years. Seven years because a colony called someone besides England dad. Seven years in prison, on top of being suddenly separated from... from his own child, then the Darien Scheme failing: Angus hadn't always been an alcoholic. Don't believe anyone who tells you otherwise. Dylan didn't want to imagine what decades of disappearing would be punished with, if a three letter word from a toddler meant that much.

Three years was bad enough, he got back to a scolding from someone half his age. Then the King was mad at him, Dylan swore this many people had never even paid attention to him before. William was snappier at him after all of that, he never gave him a break. Said he had to make up for galavanting across the world instead of tending to his duties as an independent nation. Dylan had to stop himself from laughing in his half-brother's face; Wales? An independent nation? Why had no one informed him that he was one?

"You're lucky, Dylan"

He could hear Molly's voice in his head. She had told him that during the great hunger, she had shown up in London solely because Angus had promised to lend her some money so she could go to the US to stay with their nephew until things got better–if they even did–. Why? He had thought to himself, because he wasn't currently starving? Because he wasn't having to flee his home? He wasn't living in his own land though was he? London wasn't his. He had been mad at her for saying that for far too long.

Dylan knew most people didn't wish for bad things to befall other people, he wasn't even sure where the idea came from. He just knew one night he was sitting in bed, the window was open blowing the curtains a little too close to a candle that sat on a table. The first thought was rational,

"I need to either blow out the candle, or close the window, or the house might burn down"

The second thought, the small voice in the back said

'Or Angus isn't home, he won't be for a long time' Dylan was almost confused himself as to where the thought might be going. 'You could get Fiachra and go on an errand, William is sleeping, if the house happened to catch on fire and he didn't get out in time, what could be done?'

Dylan wanted to say terribly that he didn't consider the thought, he wanted to say that he almost didn't get up to get his shoes and coat. He wanted to say that he wasn't in the doorway, shoes on and coat tucked under his arm; about to go get Fiachra and make something up about a late night grocery store run: before finally realizing he was insane. Half-running across the room and blowing out the candle quickly.

You can't do that. He had to say it to himself over and over and over while putting his shoes and coat back in his closet.

He had to repeat it to himself the next morning when he turned on the stove.

He had to tell it to himself the next week when they lit the fireplace for the first time in the season.

He had to remind himself whenever he lit a cigarette, and stared at the flame on the lighter a little too long.

Something in the back of his mind always said though; "accidents happen? Don't they?" 

and if a candle was forgotten, and William was asleep in his room, Alone in the house, it would be counted as an accident.

Wouldn't it?

#aph wales #hws wales #aph scotland #hws scotland #aph england #hws england #aph ireland #hws ireland #hetalia #british isles siblings #uk bros #tw: arson #tw: intrusive thoughts #tw: alchohol mention #tw: xenophobia #tw: colonialism #my gosh so many tws #apersonwhowrites

[virtueisdead]

posts that would go hard on tumblr

#kingvirtueisdead #acab #all cops are bastards #all cops are bad #police #arson <3 #arson mention #arson #tw: violence #tw: arson #tw: fire #police brutality #reverse police brutality #crime

[aelinstrand]

TYPE: Self Para. WHEN: October, 2023. WHERE: Warehouses, Tonopah. MENTIONS: @rio-romero ( 2 npcs: Ash Lakefield & Kameron Espinoza) TRIGGER WARNINGS: criminal activity, grand theft auto, arson.

Aelin stood at the edge of the crumbling building, her hands trembling, not with fear but with adrenaline that pulsed through her veins like wildfire. She'd never been one to offer solutions, to find a way out of the most tangled of situations because she'd never had the status. Aelin still had someone to answer too now, but this was different, because while Rio had set the plan in motion, it'd been her idea that had brought her here, to this moment. Now, facing the aftermath of the ambush that had been perpetrated by those she'd brought under her wing, she knew there was only one way to make them understand the gravity of their mistake. Or Rio would.

This, this was the least volatile way.

She was a solider; she was built to follow. And that was exactly what she'd do. Every single thing that was asked of her, she wasn't ashamed to admit it, but she had her own pride. The girl had never had more than a few pennies to rub together, to have lost $10,000, which had been her entire savings...it'd been a bigger kick in the teeth than she'd ever admit to anyone. Once she'd smoothed the details out with Rio, it'd been simple. Send a message, so she had. She'd taken both of their cars, Ash Lakefield and Kameron Espinoza. Left a note, typed, of course. They knew what they'd done, and they might have been kids, but they'd known the risks.

The sky was painted a blood-red glow over the city. Aelin's gaze fell upon the sleek, meticulously polished cars lined up near the entrance of the abandoned warehouse. She'd stolen them around an hour ago, and she knew she had little time before the cops were out looking for them, her lips pursing together. These, for just a moment, were trophies, symbolising the power that the Los Santos had in Tonopah. And what happened when someone toyed with that? Thought they could pull a quick one.

They were very wrong.

"Oh boys," Aelin mused to herself. "Mommy and Daddy are not going to be happy," and she sighed.

Without a second thought, Aelin moved forward, footsteps silent against the gritty concrete. She slid past the shadows of the alleyways and warehouses, her heart pounding in rhythm with her steps. She knew she had to move swiftly, to execute her plan with precision and what little grace she possessed. There was no room for errors; every detail had to be flawlessly choreographed.

With deft fingers, she extracted a small, nondescript bottle from the depths of her backpack, the contents shimmering faintly in the dim light. Her lips curved into a steely smile as she doused each car with the incendiary liquid, the acrid scent of fuel seeping into the air. Aelin wouldn't lie, she was absolutely shitting herself. Who the fuck wouldn't? She sold drugs. That was one thing? But this...this was the next level. This was what she had wanted to be noticed. And so with a grit of her teeth, she pulled out a box — goddamn it, she could use a car like this, she thought. Her pulse quickened when she struck the match, igniting a blaze that roared to life with a voracious hunger.

"Shame, you both look so pretty," she murmured, her bottom lip jutting, and without a second thought, she let it drop, taking three large steps backwards. Flames licked at the metal frames, consuming that symbol she'd thought of only minutes ago. Of the cartel's dominance that grew with each day. Aelin watched as the inferno danced with a ferocity, only a minute had passed before she looked once again at her watch and nodded.

She shouldn't stick around, not so close, so she simply turned and walked away as she pulled her phone out and sent one word to Rio.

Done.

#self paragraph #self para #rio #rio & aelin #tw: arson #tw: gta

[general-kalani]

Drabbled mini fic about the extermination event of werewolves in Hope County

Prompt: None

Viewpoint is from a camera so if it's fucky dw about it LMFAO first time doing this kinda viewpoint-

"Jerome the fuck you got a camcorder for?"

"Hey I got this for my birthday lemme use it without some dipshit responses from you Barry."

"Keep it down the pair'a ya. Barry, let him record. Jerome make sure ye get my good side."

A jostling on the cameras holding had it point away from the man who was holding it to down the back of the truck to the last person who spoke.

That was Jacob, who was grinning as soon as it got turned to him.

"Ey I said good side. The fuck's this?"

"All due respect, you don't have any!"

Laughter from, surprisingly, everyone. Even a chuckle from Jacob with a shake of the head.

And then a sudden fake seriousness. "Yer on washing duties fer a month."

"WHAT! Aw man."

"Hey Jakey, what's the mission we got out here? I hate road trips I'd rather be in the air."

A hum from Jacob as he leaned back in his seat. "Las' I heard from Joseph we're dealin' with a li'l rebellion'a sorts. All I fuckin' know."

A scoff from Barry. "Sounds so fuckin' bland sir. No offense. But I'd rather be back at base cracking open a cold one."

A shrug from Jacob but the grin on his face said the same thing without him speaking it. "I'd rather be in bed falling asleep t'the sound'a the mountainside."

"Heh, always been difficult to take you away from the mountain itself."

A glare from Jacob before another shake of the head.

The truck rolled to a stop finally. Jacob couldn't help an audible sigh of relief. "Fuckin' finally. A'right, I want trigger disciplines. Tony watch that flamethrower I don' wan' this mountainside burnin'. Y'got that?"

"Yes sir, standard shit you tell me all the time. Don't waste ammunition, don't set fire to unnecessary targets. Usual procedure."

"Anyone got questions before we leave the truck?"

Silence before Jacob nodded, opening up the back of the truck. His trusty red rifle in hand as he left.

Then stopped as he stared. Confusion written on his face.

"What's wrong, sir?"

Jerome got outside next, the recorder moved from Jacob to where the destination was.

... That wasn't a Resistance base or some kind of rebellion.

"These are fuckin' civvies. The fuck was Joseph talkin' 'bout?"

Although it was muttered from Jacob too quietly for anyone to have noticed, but the camcorder picked it up.

"Jacob what the fuck are we gon' do? I didn't join up to... Do this."

"We can't disobey Joseph but this... Maybe he got the location wrong. Stiles, scope in on 'em. Don't fuckin' fire jus'... Maybe I'm missin' somethin'. See if ye can find a weapon in one'a those homes."

"Absolutely can do!"

At least someone was happy. ~`~ Although the recording ended there for a short time as the next time it started recording again, Joseph was there with Jacob arguing. Away from the rest of the group the recorder was in the bushes hiding from sight.

"Joseph these are civilians I didn't come back here to kill innocents!"

"Jacob. Are you trying to be a disappointment to me again?"

"What- no. No... But I have fucking morals and these people don't... They don't deserve to have their life stolen from them because you talk to some fucking God-"

"Jacob." Now the tone was serious. Just barely hiding the anger as his hands clenched and unclenched. "You will do as I say. They are a plight upon this land. They are cursed just as you are. You will free their souls from their confines. And you will leave none alive. This is how you can atone for your curse given to you by the devil. That's what you want, isn't it? Now go, do as I've asked."

Jacob clearly hesitated but he turned nonetheless to leave. To follow these orders.

"Jacob, don't disappoint me."

"Of course, Joseph." ~`~ Once more the recording had been shut off before turning back on again. And the village that was once before so serene was in devastation.

Fire was nearly everywhere, blood paved the ground... The man holding the camera wasn't assisting in the destruction as it moved over the bodies. Varying ages. Some as young as babies weren't spared. It was gruesome. It was atrocious.

And the camera panned over to Jacob, who sat on the ground on his knees with his hands over his face muttering to himself. It was getting to him, he was regretting it.

And yet he wasn't stopping the destruction.

And Joseph was walking over to Jacob. Was he aware of the camera as he placed a hand on Jacob's shoulder, or did he not care when he spoke next?

"Now feast, Jacob."

"What?"

"Eating their flesh shall prevent the release of the beast within your soul. Devour these people."

Once more, Jacob didn't refuse despite how atrocious of a crime this is.

The camera closed once more and didn't record again of the incident after Jacob took the first bite.

#tw: death #tw: fire #tw: arson #tw: cannibalism #tw: violence #muse: jacob seed #verse: we must be strong ~ { jacob werewolf verse } #somebody want some fucked up shit? #fucked up shit here #I KNOW I DIDN'T DO IT JUSTICE I'M SORRY I GOT SO DISTRACTED AND WAHJKDHJKA #it's done now though one of my mutuals can probably take it a step further #BUT FOR NOW this is ok enough for me to post #my writing #tw: genocide

[gxst]

a desk covered in scattered papers. rolled up sleeves. bruised knuckles and a split lip. dark circles caused by sleepless nights. a home engulfed in flames. speaking only when spoken to. stains of red wine. dried blood underneath your fingernails. waiting patiently before you strike. a tear through an old family portrait. avoiding your own gaze in the mirror.

stats.

full name : miłowit woźniak age :  34 birthday : may 27th nationality : polish gender / pronouns:  cis man,  he / him sexual orientation :  pansexual languages spoken : polish, hungarian, english

misc.

scars : burn marks on his right arm sleeping habits : irregular, frequently experiences night terrors emotional stability : what emotions alcohol use : regular but not excessive zodiac sign : gemini alignment :  neutral evil positive traits :  charismatic when need be, disciplined, hardworking negative traits :  self-serving, dishonest, secretive, manipulative hobbies : none habits : doesn't speak much, prefers to keep to himself, clenches his jaw, can't sit with his back turned towards a room fears : being alone favourite weather : sunshine after rain favourite colour : red favourite food : tomato soup with bread favourite beverage : wine favourite animal : cat tracklist : waiting room ( phoebe bridgers ), moment's silence ( hozier ), not strong enough ( boygenius )

biography.

cw: murder, arson

you’re  born  unwanted.  it’s  unfortunate,  but  there’s  not  much  to  do  about  it.  you’re  an  accident,  never  meant  to  exist,  yet  you  do.  throughout  your  childhood  it’s  an  unspoken  thing,  the  error  of  your  existence,  but  it’s  undeniable  and  it  affects  your  life  more  than  your  parents  would  ever  care  to  admit.  their  lack  of  love  is  most  tangible,  and  their  raising  of  you  is  ruthless.  for  if  they  are  to  raise  a  child,  he  will  be  a  good  one.  

this  is  what  they  say,  yet  you  are  not.  may  it  be  their  expectations  being  unreasonable  or  that  misfortune  is  written  in  your  stars  and  therefore  out  of  your  control  before  you  even  get  a  chance  to  try,  but  you  cannot  live  up  to  their  demands.  they  grow  to  resent  you,  and  as  a  result:  you,  them.  

you’re  sixteen.  you  hadn’t  done  much  planning  leading  up  to  that  night.  all  you  knew  was  that  you  had  an  overwhelming  sense  that  it  was  either  them,  or  you.  no  one  knows  what  started  the  fire,  nor  why  your  parents  did  not  wake  as  the  flames  engulfed  your  home.  you’re  assured  that  they  passed  sleeping.  you  know  it  not  to  be  true,  what  with  how  difficult  it  is  to  rid  your  hands  of  the  dried  blood  hiding  underneath  your  fingernails;  but  you  bury  this  secret  as  you  bury  what’s  left  of  your  parents,  never  to  speak  of  it,  or  them,  again.

there's no point in thinking too much about what you've already done, so instead, you leave it behind. you escape to hungary and by working hard and proving your worth you soon enough find yourself working for the royal family. what you hadn't expected, however, was how one of the sons somehow managed to turn your gaze soft.

you glue yourself to his side, more or less. you become friends, and then you become more. then, as life seemingly does not want to give you a good thing without later ripping it away, marius starts to distance himself from you. he is matched with a woman who he marries and who later bears his child. you are left at the sidelines, devoted as ever but now silently so.

you can tell, though, that he is unhappy. you know that she is not good enough for him. so, you see to it. with a hand covering her mouth and a knife across her throat. then, you do what you can in helping marius grieve.

you know it was for the better.

relationships.

marius halasz : employer, love of his whole life ilja bologh : co-worker

#. ✧ . * 🍷 m i ł o w i t #nomad.intro #tw: arson

[seemebaremyteethforyou]

" [...] were set of attempt to cover up something was happening. We believe that Mr. Hale was blood pounded to death," said Stilinski "

#teen wolf #teen wolf edit #tw edit #season 1 #01x12 code breaker #01x12 #code breaker #kate argent #tw: blood #tw: murder #tw: arson

[mattzerella-sticks]

you don’t get to have what you want

M, 6.2k, Soldier Boy & Stan Edgar, queer longing, queer Soldier Boy, Period-Typical Prejudices

Toxic Masculinity is a burden to those who buckle under its yoke, forced to live up to excruciating standards that warp views and demand a happiness that might not fit them.

Soldier Boy not only promotes this life style, but also suffers from it. There are moments where he can sheds the prison of his own making for a few hours, to be someone whose comfortable in their skin, but he always returns and locks himself away.

Is this a healthy way to live? Or should he fully cast off this armor that he's worn for so long? When the opportunity arises, will he take it?

For Pridewrites Challenge 2022 #3 - queer longing

           Soldier Boy sat slumped in his director’s chair after a long day on set. He cradled his coffee with both hands. He didn’t dare drink it. By the time they wrapped filming, all the ice melted and made craft services’ already suspect coffee taste even worse. It reminded him of the sludge they doled out during the war, when that was all they were given to keep from passing out in the trenches.

           Except the trenches he slogged through these days were much more glamorous and luxurious than those forty years prior.

           He shouldn’t have to put up with shitty coffee. He usually wouldn’t. Except Soldier Boy already made one production assistant cry today; another might give Vought cause to slap his wrists. Except Crimson Countess accosted him between the stage and his chair, yammering on about matters Soldier Boy didn’t particularly care to hear nor did he disguise that fact. Except any intention he may have had to hurl his lukewarm, watered-down mud at an expensive piece of equipment was derailed as his gaze caught them.

           They were shameless.

           Reckless, to do what they did in such a public space. But if he learned anything over the course of his career, it’s how the arts so easily attracted their type.

           Those fucking fairy types.

           He watched one of his solid gold dancers giggle and gingerly slap the chest of some no-name grip working on today’s crew. Except he didn’t immediately withdraw his hand. The dancer slowly trailed it lower, in some absurd caress, until his fingers played with the grip’s belt buckle. Even at a distance, he could see the blush rippling across his cheeks and his overinflated pupils like some coked-up whore. Worse, instead of reacting like any sane man and knocking the dancer with enough force to crack a brick wall, the grip leaned in. He curled his hand over the dancer’s on his belt buckle and said something else that stirred a second bout of laughter from the dancer.

           Dancers were one thing; it was an open secret anyone willing to prance around in tights must cram as much dick in their mouths as possible. But this grip? He’s a certified pussy killer. Biceps toned from work, of constructing and deconstructing the complicated cameras surrounding them. A chiseled jawline that would put Rock Hudson to shame. Dark skin so dewy from sweat that it glistened under the stage lights.

           All that and he proudly chased after this dancer whose asshole was so wide he could clean the set in five seconds just by sitting on it? What a waste…

           Soldier Boy’s chest tightened. His vision tunneled, and Crimson Countess’s chatter was replaced by a low-pitch ringing that drove him crazier than the scene playing out before him. It contended with the nauseous warmth brewing below his stomach that oozed uncomfortably into other parts of his body. His lip began twitching like crazy the closer the two men became, enough that a simple tilt of the head would be enough to have them kissing. Kissing for everyone in the room. Kissing like it didn’t matter people would know they’re –

           He spilt coffee all over himself. Soldier Boy effortlessly punctured the cheap Styrofoam shell; because of that tear Soldier Boy’s drink flooded his lap and brought him back from the edge.

           It also got Crimson Countess to finally shut up about whatever she was blathering about. “Oh no, your suit!” Her hands hovered over his groin as she barked to the nearest gopher to grab napkins. Even then, she didn’t rush to take them from the gopher once he brought them a fistful.

           “I’ll take it from here.” Soldier Boy exchanged his ruined coffee for the napkins, dabbing at his lap. No way in hell another man was getting that close to his junk in public. He glanced at Crimson Countess, who’s hands were still floating there doing nothing. She stared at his crotch while he cleaned. “What? You want me to drop trousers right here or something?”

           “Are you okay?”

           “Am I okay? Seriously, what the fuck kind of question is that.”

           “You spilled coffee on yourself.”

           “Yeah, that coffee couldn’t melt a popsicle stick let alone my pole.” Soldier Boy smirked, discarding the napkins to the side that someone else would deal with later. “Even if it were, a little hot coffee wouldn’t get in the way of my ability to… hoist a flag.” He grinned, stroking his groin again. Without the napkins, he was able to feel the stiffness of his dick that persisted despite the shock of getting wet. In truth, it made him harder than he was earlier. The damp fabric deliciously rubbed against him, made better because of his decision to forgo underwear that day, like every day. “Should we maybe find ourselves a closet somewhere for a quick fuck?”

           Crimson Countess didn’t seem keen on his plan. “I’m don’t want a quick fuck, especially here,” she purred, tiptoeing her way up his arm. “Why don’t we get dinner once we we’ve wrapped for the night… go back to my place and, well, take advantage of the hot tub the cash my work with the chimps bought me?”

           The hot tub was tempting. However, her plans involved a whole lot more time than Soldier Boy cared to spend in her presence.

           Not to mention he already made plans for later in the evening.

           “You know what?” Soldier Boy matched her grin as he casually brushed her hand off his shoulder. “I’m good.”

           She hadn’t expected that, nor liked it. “What?”

           “You got monkey splooge in your ears or something? I said I’m good. Totally cool.” Soldier Boy slid off his seat, saluting his teammate as he began stomping off. “I’m tired anyway.”

           “Where are you going?”

           “God, you’re awfully clingy today.” He spun on his heel to face her. “I’m done here, so I’m leaving.”

           “But we have a whole skit to do.”

           “What part of ‘I’m done’ are you having trouble getting?”

           It was louder than he intended, though that worked to his favor. He shut her, and everyone in their vicinity, down with his outburst. Crimson Countess’s lips pursed as she adjusted herself in her seat, crossing her legs in a manner that meant she’d be even more annoying the next time he saw her. Camera operators stopped checking their lenses and executives paused their conversations on those big, cancerous cell phones to see what the fuss was about. He even caused the powder puffs some discomfort, both men at a more appropriate distance when he chanced a peek in their direction.

           Good.

           He caused enough of a scene that no one dared follow him towards his dressing room. For those that missed his little display, buzzing about like flies in his inner space, Soldier Boy swatted them away with a glare he perfected on the battlefield that made krauts piss themselves. The door slammed shut after the last overpaid assistant scurried out.

           Secure in the emptiness of his dressing room, Soldier Boy deflated. He quickly cast off his helmet and tossed it onto the cheap couch production dragged in after he pitched a fit. Soldier Boy turned his attention to the vanity. He slammed his hands on the thin wood, causing all the grease paint and clown makeup they smothered in him to jump, scatter, and fall. A lone bottle rolled forward and tapped at his twitching fingers. Soldier Boy gazed at it, then excruciatingly dragged his eyes up to his reflection.

           Most of the makeup from that morning had been sweated off. The mascara clumped on his eyelashes. Foundation streaks revealed the bags under his eyes and the crow’s feet cracking beside them. His tan glow dulled to a sickly pale.

           He caught a glimpse of the man behind the mask, blown pupils and all. He hated what he saw.

           The gloves kept his knuckles from being cut, after he smashed the mirror. It wasn’t the first one they’d replace.

           Now, with no one watching, Soldier Boy began to shed his uniform. He started with the shield, always, dropping it in the most obscure corner of the room. It was surprisingly easy to trip over, and he stubbed many toes over the years because of it. The boots came off next, then the gloves. He unfastened the clips of his armor and belt which finally allowed Soldier Boy to peel off his costume. He dumped the carcass beneath the hanger wardrobe set aside for him.

           Soldier Boy stood there for a moment, like Michelangelo’s David made flesh. Only his dick wasn’t that embarrassingly small.

           It jutted out from his body, heavy and swinging since freed of his confining suit. Soldier Boy smiled, skimming its surface with his touch. His dick tensed at the contact. It seized once he grabbed it, pumping it slightly. Soldier Boy’s other hand tweaked his nipple. A drop of precome dribbled loose, that Soldier Boy caught with his thumb. He brought it to his lips and sucked his thumb dry.

           He didn’t go further than that. Soldier Boy didn’t want to spoil his appetite.

           He instead dragged a duffel he had hidden under the couch out and onto an accompanying table. Inside the non-descript khaki bag were the set of clothes he brought with him.

           These were much easier to put on than his suit. No fancy clasps, and they didn’t require him to dip his whole body in lube to fit into them. Slacks. A plain white shirt. Denim jacket. Sneakers. Plus a hat and sunglasses, for anonymity.

           Soldier Boy was officially gone for the meantime.

           He slid the duffle back where it was and exited his dressing room. Soldier Boy didn’t leave from the same place he entered. His dressing room had a built-in exit outside the studio. It was written into all his contracts.

           Soldier Boy skulked away from the studio with his shoulders hunched and the collar of his jacked pulled high, He tucked the baseball cap lower on his head as he bypassed security for the less frequented, less guarded gate nearer the back of the lot where they kept the rotting trash.

           He’s made this trip countless times, though each escape carried that same nerve-wracking terror of being recognized Soldier Boy could only compare to being behind enemy lines during the Second World War with the lives of countless men on his shoulders as he led the charge.

           Soldier Boy gasped once the gate creaked shut. He succeeded yet again.

           From there, Soldier Boy stalked the familiar streets to the nearest subway line and descended into its depths. Along the way his defenses were kept on full alert in case someone looked a tad too long at him for his liking.

           No one ever did. No one stopped him on the streets to ask if he was Soldier Boy. The clerk at the station didn’t ask how it felt to watch the life drain out of some Nazi scum as he paid for his token. The crowded train car didn’t gape nor treated him any differently than any other passenger. Someone stepped on his foot while they bounded off the train. Soldier Boy hadn’t snapped their neck for leaving without so much as an apology, for not realizing they disrespected the world’s greatest hero since whatever horny bastard invented the brothel.

           He was too drunk on the novelty of being a stranger to care.

           It reminded him of coming up for air after being stuck underwater for longer than your chest could hold air, whenever he slipped away from his duties and responsibilities; to be someone who didn’t have to care about his image for the next few hours.

           The train arrived at his stop and Soldier Boy joined the flood of passengers leaving alongside him.

           His destination was two blocks away. In a blink, he reached the end of his journey.

           However, as he opened the door to the third-floor apartment, Soldier Boy’s unease refused to disappear. His hackles remained raised. Trusting his instincts, he scanned the apartment for any hint of danger. Nothing looked out of the ordinary from what was visible.

           But that’s because this danger hid itself so perfectly.

           Soldier Boy dropped into a fighting stance, once past his kitchen, as he caught sight of the unrecognizable figure on his leather recliner. He warily inched towards the entertainment unit, waiting for an opportunity where he might grab the knife stashed there for such an emergency.

           The stranger seemed unbothered and, annoyingly, offended by Soldier Boy’s response. “I’m not here to harm you.”

           Soldier Boy scoffed. “Yeah, and I’m Ron Jeremy’s fluffer.”

           “Keep acting the way you are, and you won’t even be considered for the role of his fluffer’s understudy.”

           The younger man remained where he sat, his legs crossed in a dainty way and hands folded atop the highest knee. His brown face was smoothed in disinterest and, though obviously an infant compared to him, Soldier Boy recognized the age hidden within his features. His big eyes loudly advertised how much he’d seen in the little he’s walked this Earth. Not as much as Soldier Boy, but enough to keep him on edge. In a few steps, he’d be at his knife and this uppity kid will be wishing he broke into the wrong apartment.

           “We’ve already removed the knife there,” the stranger said, “Along with the other, various weapons you’ve had hidden here. I found the gun taped under the toilet tank cover quite ingenious, actually.”

           “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

           “The man with the ability to make your life much more difficult if you refuse to listen. Now?” He gestured at Soldier Boy’s sectional. “Have a seat.”

           Soldier Boy sat only after checking the stranger’s claims. His stomach pitched as he felt around the entertainment unit, the hidden compartment where his knife hid torn out and missing. “I hate repeating myself,” he said, plopping onto the center of his sectional, “but who… the fuck… are you?”

           “I’ll get to that. First I want to apologize that this is our introduction to one another. Not at all how I would have wanted it.” He offered his hand. Soldier Boy let it hang there. The stranger curled that hand into a fist and squeezed the rejection tight. “Very well… I’m Stanford Edgar. Recently, I was promoted to be the liaison between Vought International and its superhero division.”

           “Liaison?”

           Edgar smiled, its curl already testing the limits of Soldier Boy’s patience. “Think of me as a direct line to the decision makers. Everything that comes out of my mouth comes down from on high as if it were the word of God. Everything I do is an extension of their will.” He shifted, swapping legs so that the right knee was highest. He stretched his hands forward on the armchairs. “But a line can go two ways,” he added, “and I can be your representation for the Board, speak and – if able – fight for you, your interests…”

           “Oh, really?”

           “Of course, that all depends on how cooperative you are after today.”

           Soldier Boy chuckled, relieved that Edgar finally finished peddling his bullshit and cut to why he was truly here. “Listen, Edgar… you ever been in a war?”

           “I’ve never been particularly fond of the sight of blood or the sound of gunfire, so no.”

           “Really? So you’ve never got into a brawl on the playground… at a bar… maybe on the street for looking at someone the wrong way?”

           “…Just where is your line of questioning going?”

           “I’ve been at war.” Soldier Boy rose. He lumbered over to where Edgar was. Edgar hadn’t flinched, even as he towered above the younger man. “I’ve been at war probably my whole life. Here and overseas. No matter what, I’ve always had to fight. I’ve never balked or backed down from a fight since I could throw my first punch. And you know what that’s gotten me?”

           “What?”

           “Respect.” Soldier Boy stamped his foot. Edgar remained stone-faced. He cursed the other man but kept powering ahead. “Enough respect that I was chosen – chosen from thousands upon thousands of no-name bums – to be the world’s first superhero. Respect to lead men through the rain and mud to fight for freedom. Respect deserving of more than a cheap ploy at intimidating me. I’ll say it once, and only once – I don’t need a babysitter. Especially from a pansy-ass suit like you who’s had everything handed to him.”

           “Really?” Edgar interrupted, baring his teeth and sinking his claws into Soldier Boy’s leather chair. “Take a look in the mirror and then at me and say that again, that I’ve had everything handed to me.” He sneered, riling Soldier Boy further. “They said you were smart, but maybe countless years of partying killed what little brain cells you had to begin with.”

           Soldier Boy dropped into a crouch, meeting Edgar at eye level and staring at him like he was any criminal he happened on in the streets. It wasn’t hard for him to imagine. “Be lucky I’m letting you walk out of here with your life. Not because I’m scared of what Vought might do, but because I’d rather not ruin my evening cleaning the stains your dead body would leave behind after I mutilated you. Test me again or breathe a word about this place to any member of the Board, and I’ll choke you with the very tie you’re wearing now.”

           Soldier Boy knew crushing this corporate bug under his heel would take little effort, even without weapons. Edgar must be aware of this, too.

           Still, Edgar maintained his cool. To Soldier Boy’s surprise, he seemed entertained by his performance.

           “So you still haven’t put it together, have you?”

           “What are you talking about?”

           “I meant what I said, before, about my role as your liaison. My decisions are their decisions… my words, their words… my actions, theirs…”

           His meaning began to sink in. Soldier Boy folded once realizing the horrible conclusion Edgar presented. He collapsed on the sectional while Edgar continued on like he hadn’t seen.

           “Did you really believe they were clueless regarding the secrets you kept from them?”

           “I… I, uh –“

           “I didn’t come here by choice,” he said, “I was sent here. Because they were finally tired of cleaning up your messes.”

           Soldier Boy’s hearing wavered, switching between a terrifying ringing and deafening silence. He cleared his throat. “How’d they… how’d they even found out?”

           Edgar convulsed as he rolled his eyes. “It’s not like financial crimes were ever your strong suit. Didn’t it ever occur to you we – the people who control your finances – would ever be curious of the small sum taken out every month? That we’d do background checks on the charity you made up to launder the money used for Nicholas Petrillo’s rent?” Soldier Boy snarled at the derision coating Edgar’s words. “We knew from the very beginning what this was.”

           “Then why interfere now?”

           “Because the risks outweigh the benefits. Naturally.” Edgar relaxed, his insipid smirk reappearing. “It was easier in the beginning. The parties you threw seemed like the perfect outlet for your wild and rebellious behavior. You performed better on the field, were more focused. Plus, we didn’t need to do much in the way of meddling. None of the freaks you partied with were a threat. No journalist would stake their career on some long-hair, unwashed hippie’s claim he smoked dope and dropped acid with America’s hero.”

           Those were better, simpler times. Soldier Boy missed them, both the moments he remembered and the ones that were trapped behind a haze of drugs.

           “Then the brightness of the 60s faded into the 70s, and while the unsanctioned parties thankfully stopped, you still came here from time to time for a random fuck. You are human after all. Our only concerns were making sure each partner signed a confidentiality waiver and keeping your girlfriend unaware of these infidelities. Annoying, but still manageable.”

           “…So, what changed?”

           “I think you know what.” Edgar broke the staring contest between them, glancing towards a nearby side table. He plucked the picture frame off it and studied it carefully. Heat uncomfortably pooled in Soldier Boy’s chest as sweat started pouring from him. “Be honest, is one man really worth all you’ve accomplished with Vought over the years?”

           Soldier Boy’s lips twitched. He huffed, spreading his legs wide and sinking into the sofa. He digested the reality of the battle in front of him and debated his strategy. There wasn’t any more room to underestimate his opponent, not if he wanted to maintain control. Not if he wanted to win. “If you knew how well he ate ass, you’d understand.”

           Apparently, Edgar didn’t find ass play rewarding like Soldier Boy did.

           “I doubt his skills in bed is all there is to this.” He flipped the frame over, showing Soldier Boy a sight he was familiar with.

           His eyes were drawn to the profile of the man next to him. How the sunset highlighted his strong features. How beams of light broke past the tightly packed coils atop his head and created a halo. How he happy he looked being next to the man and not Soldier Boy. It was the smoking gun that gave Vought enough reason to take action. He never bothered with mementos of his other conquests. Raul was different. Soldier Boy felt different when around him, and in his selfishness, he clung to the other man in such a despicable way.

           It was a flaw he thought buried in the past.

           “I’ll ask again, is he worth it?”

           Soldier Boy should be stronger than this. Stronger than this sickness that plagued his heart. His answer proved how weak he truly was. “There’s no way to sweep this under the rug?”

           “This is us sweeping it under the rug. Politely.”

           “Why does the board think this is messy, anyway?”

           “Because feelings are messy.” Edgar placed the photo back where it sat. “We should have been aware that this might happen when you failed to bring him back to your place that night months ago. However, we figured the next time you went cruising you’d move on. We didn’t expect you to see him again. We didn’t expect the deviation from your usual M.O. We didn’t expect for you, the most masculine, hard-ass man in America, to fall in love.”

           That’s what it was. Soldier Boy ignored it until now. He couldn’t any longer. Not with Edgar and the full force of Vought’s board bearing down on him with the truth.

           “A simple fuck is neater. No feelings. No ill will on being kept a secret, at being paid off. Both parties favor discretion, and one of you walks away richer after signing our NDA. This, on the other hand… if the Post or the New York Times catch a whiff of what you and your lover do when America isn’t watching, it’s over for you. Any such saccharine displays at courting do nothing but suggest Vought’s biggest asset has been a deviant homosexual all these years.”

           “Hey! I’ve slept – and enjoyed – many a gal in my life.”

           “That won’t matter to your base. Video of you holding hands with another man will cause your reputation to spin out. No amount of PR on our end would matter, and it’d have us operating at a loss to try and save your ungrateful ass. You’d be marked by this… permanently.”

           He shouldn’t fight this hard. Why was he fighting so hard? Soldier Boy recalled the scene from earlier in the day, of the grip and the dancer flirting despite the risks of being publicly outed. It sparked an idea that leapt uncontrollably out of his mouth. “What if I choose to come out?”

           It sucked that, when Soldier Boy finally caught Edgar off guard and ripped away his façade, he couldn’t revel in the satisfaction of how the mask of detached professionalism cracked. Instead it took all his will to appear completely normal with his suggestion; despite how massively scared saying it made him.

           Edgar pinched the ridge of his nose, pushing his glasses far up his head. “You want to get ahead of this? Is that it?”

           “It’s just an idea,” Soldier Boy explained, “I mean… isn’t that what we always want? To control the narrative? What if we – we clue Raul in as to who I am, get him prepped for interviews and all that other show pony stuff, then do a circuit. No, a blitz!”

           “And how is revealing your homosexuality any better than someone else doing it?”

           “Because people only care about things when they know they can take the piss out of someone.” Soldier Boy straightened, adopting his familiar confidence as he spoke. The idea came to him in a panic, but he believed in it more with each passing second. “If I show it doesn’t bother me, they’ll lose interest fast.”

           Edgar steepled his fingers, considering his argument. It was his turn at playing defensive. “Everyday citizens are easy to convince with the right messaging, especially if we get ahead of it. What about the bigger names? The people in your social circles.”

           “We all have our secrets.” Soldier Boy chuckled, “And the ones I don’t know I’m sure Vought’s collected for their own use. Hell with all the dirt on Reagan and his throat goat of a wife, I doubt America’s first family of homophobes would throw a fit over who I stick my dick in.”

           “You mean he doesn’t stick it in you?”

           “I’m not the chick in the relationship.” Soldier Boy sighed, “So? Does this seem like an idea worth bringing to the board, Mr. Liaison?”

           “Your offer has legs,” he admitted, “however, I don’t see it getting very far.”

           “What do you mean?”

           “Your consistency in viewing things short-term is astounding, and probably why you hadn’t taken into account the long-term implications your coming out would impose on the business.” Edgar arched a brow, readying his offensive against Soldier Boy yet again. “Because this is a business at the end of the day, and while how you feel is one thing our bottom line is another. You say people will grow bored and tired of your homosexuality, yes? They won’t discuss it which, therefore, means they won’t discuss you. What was once a household name will become a pariah. It might not be a crash and burn but your brand will be slowly poisoned over time. I can already see your popularity in the Midwest and South, the bulk of your Q-score, disappearing within a year. It’ll take longer in metropolitan areas, though you never really shone there as much until we started booking you television gigs. Which, speaking of, you can kiss that goodbye along with all the campaigns and products tied to your brand. You’ll also notice the list of places where you’re welcome shrinking at the same rate your social circle diminishes because if you even if you can’t retaliate by speaking about someone, the next best thing is to shun them.”

           “They can’t do that!”

           Edgar steamrolled over him. “They absolutely can. Sure, they’ll say it’s not because you’re gay, scapegoat with some other reason; but talk amongst our peers is so rife with subterfuge and hidden intentions that the meaning behind the medium is plain.”

           “But what –“

           “But what about the wider homosexual community, you ask?” Edgar laughed, removing his glasses to wipe away an invisible smudge with his tie. “It’s not like we’ve never considered market testing with them. In their fetal state, though, they offer no reward in gearing advertisements about and for them. Still too bohemian and anti-capitalist… and afraid. Johnny Everyman might realize he likes men more than women, maybe sneak a Playgirl or attend a drag show, but will he risk outing himself by purchasing a roll of paper towels with your face on it? I don’t think so… Homosexuals have no true spending power at this stage, which makes them utterly worthless and unimportant in Vought’s eyes.”

           Soldier Boy fumed. “So that’s how it would all go?”

           Edgar stopped cleaning his glasses. He glanced up at Soldier Boy in such a condescending manner it curled his toes. “Well… ask yourself this. Would you act any differently in the situation?”

            He hated how smug Edgar looked nearly as much as Soldier Boy hated that he couldn’t disagree. Since he couldn’t voice that, however, Soldier Boy let his silence answer for him.

           “Exactly.” Edgar set his glasses back on his face. “Which is why you’d also understand why Vought would slowly wean you off of Payback until, when your popularity passes a certain number, you’re taken off the team to be a C or maybe D-list hero elsewhere if we don’t have you retire outright.”

           Soldier Boy reclaimed his voice to better communicate his indignation. “You can’t kick me out of Payback. I am Payback!”

           “Vought is Payback. You are an entity, trademarked and owned wholly by the company. If your value declines to the point we begin losing money on you, we’d be within our rights – and within our stockholder’s rights – to do what’s necessary to maintain our margin on profit. If this means replacing you with heroes more willing to walk the company line like, say… Black Noir, so be it.”

           “Noir!” He jumped to his feet. “You’d let Noir lead my fucking team?”

           “Of all the heroes in our portfolio, he has the second closest Q-score. He has great market potential. And, within Payback, he has the most experience in non-simulated combat.”

           “That don’t mean he can lead.” His lips twitched again. “He can’t lead! He’s a –“

           “I’d think very carefully what you say next,” Edgar warned, rising to Soldier Boy’s challenge. He crept closer, circling Soldier Boy, daring him to finish his thought despite the danger posed from him being a super. “Because there’s still a chance I stop being civil with you and take a more… nuclear route.”

           Soldier Boy hated being backed into a corner. He stuck his chin out before slowly sinking back onto the sectional.

           “Glad to see you still remember your place.”

           He crossed his arms. “My place is as leader of Payback. America’s greatest hero. That’s who I am.”

           “You are who we say you are.” Edgar stomped his foot for dramatics, hammering the point into Soldier Boy. “We created you from nothing! Built an image of you and protected it with our very lives. We crafted a myth of you for people to buy into, to believe, and it looks like you fell for it like the rest of the idiot public. You used it to your advantage. Now that you find it doesn’t suit your needs, you don’t get to shrug it off and keep the benefits. There are procedures you have to follow, and a culture – a culture you thrived in – that you must continue to emulate and promote!” He tugged on his suit jacket, then swept his hands across the breast to smooth imagined wrinkles. “So you can either have this,” he gestured to the apartment. Because of Edgar’s scrutiny, it suddenly felt too big, but also claustrophobic at the same time. “Or you can be… Soldier Boy.”

           Edgar wrapped his pitch with a clap that echoed and rang in Soldier Boy’s ears while he mulled over everything they discussed these last few minutes. There was a lot Soldier Boy had to consider. And, as he checked the clock above the mantle, not much time to do it in.

           Raul arrived in thirty minutes.

           Of all he and Edgar clashed about, the crux of their issue rested on who Soldier Boy chose to be.

           Did Soldier Boy walk away from his alter ego? Abandon this port in the storm of celebrity that he missed since his first injection of Compound V, and all that came with it? Would he trade the possibility of a meaningful relationship Soldier Boy’s so far cultivated with Raul for the shallow and vapid ones that crowd him day to day?

           But on the flip side, if Soldier Boy owned up to the lie he advertised for decades and began speaking his truth, would that really change anything? Would he regret trading the fame, the money, and the power, if Edgar’s predictions proved true? Anonymity of civilian life was great in small doses, but could Soldier Boy handle being stuck in mediocrity forever? Would being treated like everyone else, like a nobody, drive him insane because he knew what it was to be special?

           Worst of all, the doubts that ate at the back of his mind since he and Raul fell into their secluded dance returned and attacked with renewed strength. They questioned Raul’s intentions, whether he recognized him at some point or was still clueless as to who Soldier Boy was. If he’d stay once learning the truth or feel betrayed? If Soldier Boy’s fall from grace, when the story leaked, might drive them apart? Or would Soldier Boy do that himself? The bitterness that nestled itself in his heart from a young age, that he directed outwards on the daily, would focus on Raul until he pushed the man out of his life and truly left him with nothing. Raul did many things for him, but even he hadn’t been able to heal him of that toxicity.

           No matter which angle he looked at it, there wasn’t any decision that didn’t cost him something.

           So, naturally, he picked self-preservation.

           “You made the smart choice.”

           “Don’t you mean the right choice?”

           “Right and wrong are subjective. In the grand scheme of life, they don’t matter.”

           “Whatever…” Soldier Boy rocked forward, onto his feet beside Edgar. “What’s the plan now?”

           Edgar gifted Soldier Boy with what he surmised was the younger man’s first genuine smile throughout their entire conversation. He produced a lighter and flicked it on. “We burn the evidence.”

           “Burn the… you mean arson?”

           “Of course.”

           “What about the other people who live here?” Soldier Boy asked, “I thought doing this was all about reducing messes, not making more.”

           “Already taken care of.” He flicked the lighter off and squeezed it against his palm. “Following your lead, we created a shell company and purchased the building from the previous owners for a generous sum. All former tenants were evicted last week, save one squatter – a Mr. Nicholas Petrillo – who tragically lost his life in the fire he set on accident.”

           “Hell, you really do think of everything.”

           “It takes a team of highly trained professionals to keep a superhero team running smoothly.” Edgar glanced about the living room space. “Gather whatever you wish to take with you. In a moment all you’ll have left of this place are your memories.”

           Soldier Boy didn’t keep much at the apartment. The clothes and furniture were for show. His cupboards were bare. All he would’ve grabbed Edgar mentioned were removed before he stepped foot in the building. The only other thing he considered taking was the picture of him and Raul.

           He reached for it. Soldier Boy brushed a thumb across Raul’s cheek, his gaze darting between him and his happier doppelganger. The fluttering feeling of love seeing Raul caused was immolated within the hardened fires of his anger of having such a dumb grin captured on film. This Soldier Boy bought into a lie, but not the one Edgar said. He committed the sin of thinking there was another way to be a man.

           The real Soldier Boy, who held the picture with trembling hands, understood the truth of manhood.

           Men were tough. Men sacrificed for the sake of others. They didn’t whine about their problems because they hadn’t the luxury to do so. Men controlled the destiny of the world and couldn’t lose their heads like dames always did because too much rested on men’s shoulders.

           Only the strongest of men survived that crushing pressure. For too long Soldier Boy allowed his defenses to slip, to buckle under that weight. He lost his way because of the other man in the photograph.

           Soldier Boy hurled the picture to the floor, the glass shattering on impact. He swiped at his very-clearly-dry-if-you-don’t-look-closely eyes and kicked the frame for good measure.

           Edgar laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now there’s the belligerent hard-ass that fills our coffers.”

           Soldier Boy shrugged his hand off and headed towards the door. “Get it over with already, will you?”

           He heard the lighter click and the curtains go up in flames as he exited the apartment door.

           Edgar trailed him down the stairs, neither man in a rush despite the building burning above them. They descended in the comfortable silence of being unafraid to exist in silence.

           Though Soldier Boy felt there was one matter still unresolved before he might close the chapter on this part of his life. “You asked if he was worth it.”

           “Come again?”

           “Upstairs, you asked if Raul was worth not being Soldier Boy.” He tucked his hat tighter on his head and buried his hands deep in his pockets. “I’ve got an answer.”

           “Which is?”

           Soldier Boy sighed. “He is. But lucky for you… I’m not.”

           Nicholas Petrillo died once they exited the building. He was remembered by no one. Mourned by no one, not even Soldier Boy.

           How could he mourn someone who never truly existed anyway?

#the boys #the boys s3 #the boys season 3 #the boys fanfic #soldier boy #stan edgar #crimson countess #tw: racism #tw: homophobia #tw: sexism #tw: arson #tw: toxic masculinity #probably goes without saying but we don't root for soldier boy in this house #however characters can be complexed and explored in certain ways while also not championing them (which I hope I did) #also I am a slave to my attraction to jensen #that being said this is sort of a deep dive subconcious of soldier boy and his motivations #also his first introduction with stan edgar and how that went #queer soldier boy #soldier boy fanfic #pridewrites 2022 challenge

[agent-bash]

I'm writing a fic for Fire Country (I know you probably don't watch it) but do you know anything about Fire Camps at all? I just have a fairly general question because I've been finding conflicting information, are there any crimes that exclude someone from being able to go to fire camp? Like could a murderer go there to served down his time? Any insights?

Hey Nonny.

I don't watch Fire Country (my roommate loves it, though). But I do know about Fire Camps and can answer your question.

Yes there are convictions that exclude you from being assigned to a Fire Camp. Murder is one of them. So are Rape and Arson. Certain crimes against Children as well. Also if you are serving a life sentence (important for three strike states like California) you can't serve at Fire Camp. Same if you are found physically or mentally unfit, or if your sentence is (I think) less than a year. It used to be any violent crime conviction stopped you from being eligible, but that has changed over the years. In part because some violent crimes aren't necessarily violent, like Robbery, while others are considered to have extenuating circumstances or being a trumped up charge. So yeah, at this time no murderer, rapist or arsonist, is allowed at fire camp, and likely never will be. But that's only applicable if they've been conviced of that crime.

#asked and answered #Fire Country #tw: murder #tw: rape #tw: arson #sort of

[cheetee]

I decided to repost the last two pages with this batch; I realised they read better put together. These lyrics are from the nursery rhyme Debajo un botón. Thanks to @redcookies-bestcookies for help the song and Spanish here. @prophetic-hijinks also drew a wonderful piece of art inspired by this update! The story is approximately three-quarters complete.

The Macondian Giftshop, Part 18+19 / Transcript

First / Next / Read on Webtoons

#encanto #tmg #the macondian giftshop #tw: fire #tw: arson #tw: violence #tw: hypnosis #tw: mind control #tmg comic

[apersonwholikeslotus]

seeing Wales stuff for saint davids day and remembering that Wales one-shot I wrote where my brain just went "he's going to have some arsonist tendencies and they will be directed at England. As a treat."

Dylan deserved to be secretly unhinged and really done with everyone's shit. Stress relief.

#tw: arson #aph wales #hws wales #hetalia

[venusqq]

Thought for The day: Is Free Will real or is everything we do predetermined by 'fate'? - @thoughtforthedaysolitaire

(tw: me thinking about arson in a very hypothetical way, but still)

i don’t believe in fate, and i think you can pretty much do whatever you want at any given time.

sometimes it strikes me how i could literally do anything right in that moment, and everything i do could change something that happens in the future. i could just cross the street, i could get on some train and leave the country, i could say something that might have an influence on the way people perceive me, i could literally just… take a lighter and burn down my house. any time. and i know i’m not going to, but it still frightens me sometimes how much control i actually have, how i could ruin everything for so many people in one second if i wanted to

thank you for the ask :)

#thought of the day #tw: arson #i guess

[burningpaths-ffxiv]

FFXIV WRITE 2022 // Prompt #14 Attrition

🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑🛑

Trigger Warning - This prompt includes depictions of violence, bodily injury, decapitation, blood mentions and descriptions, murder and arson. 

Read at your own discretion.

The pulse beating in his throat was his own, but the fading thump of a pulse in his hands was not.

The back of one degloved hand rose, wiping at the splatter of gore up across his face. A useless gesture, simply smearing the wet shock of red across the sun-warmed cheek. His mismatched sunset coloured gaze moved up slowly and stared at the figure wheezing across from him in the long hall.

It was a breezeless place, save the opened spots in the windows. Both double-doors were shut and barred with beams of thick pine, with a collapsed horned body at the foot of one set of doors. A vague dark red imprinted outline of the body’s shape where it had struck the doors still drying. The vaulted ceiling shifted to three main points above their heads. The walls were lined with brilliant, complex stained-glass imagery. One image was missing the middle of its coloured tapestry, remaining bits occasionally falling from loosened cracks as more reverberations from the fight had rattled the ground. Another blown completely apart, leaving just a bit of the window framing intact.

The white glow along his hands lingered, fading slowly as it licked up his wrists and forearms like a lover’s caress. The hyuran man in his hands was dropped with a wet thock to the already blood-covered rug stretching the length of the aisle. The miqo’te body beside it twitched its fading waves of life. Raising his head with a heavy exhale, that narrow gaze pinned onto the vieran woman heaving for breath across from him where she braced against the shattered remains of a carved pine bench. A spear of thick, red-smeared wood extended from her stomach, blood slowly trickling down both corners of her pinched mouth.

“Monster,” Came a whisper in a tongue all-too familiar to his long ears. His head tilted at the sound, ears shifting forward, hearing the bubble in her throat before she coughed wetly. Her figure slumped more with an unbidden groan, steadily losing consciousness.

Rising in the crooked aisle, it’s jagged path offset by the tossed over or destroyed benches along the rows, Shear stepped over the headless body of the man he’d released to the ground. A step further and he casually kicked that same man’s head out of his way as one might move a ball in a field with the side of one’s boot. His body swayed at the motion, stumbling and he had to catch himself against one of the upturned benches still lining the aisle.

“No.” His answer came quietly but loud enough her long ears could pick up the sound just the same. “Just a tired man who asked you to not pursue this.” He spoke in the same tongue, pushing himself up to continue the trudge closer. She grimaced and a shaking hand reached aside to try to push herself away. Her palm slipped on the red pooling under her and her shoulder went down instead with a pained whimper, body stuck in place by the wood within her.

Dull brown eyes tracked his closing movements up, attempting a glare that was feeble compared to the energy in its gaze prior to the fight. He fell to his knees in front of her with a groan, gasping a breath in and taking a moment to let the pain in his side finish its throbbing trail along him.

“You’re wr-wrong, y-you are… you-” She muttered again, another feeble attempt to shuffle away from him with an agonized moan. Her movements were sloppy, and her eyelashes fluttered too quickly, fighting the loss of consciousness. Pity filled him once again, as it did when the familiar faces he had shared thick stew and hot crusty bread meals stared at him with such anger and resentment. Pity and a deep ache that squeezed that wretched part of him. She managed to gasp another word past her agony. 

“Monster!”

His heart.

He replied to her coolly, reaching out but halting when she flinched. “I’m not. I asked you to walk away. To forget you knew where I was.”

“You w-would have s-struck us d-down,” Red bubbled at the corner of her mouth as she spoke, the wheezing in her tone worsening. “If w-we had turned. C-coward. D-disgusting wr-wretch.”

“Shh shh. Hush. Do you want to spend this time hating me? Truly?” Shear asked it plainly, even as his adrenaline faded with the light along his arms. “Is this what you want? At your end?”

“There is n-nothing I f-feel f-for you otherw-wise. A t-traitorous w-weapon with no m-master… is just… a d-isgusting d-dis… grace…”

He was silent as she muttered, coughing between words and spraying droplets of red. Finally he set a hand to hers. The muscles in it twitched but otherwise could not flinch away where it had lain limp in front of her. “Go to the great forest beyond in peace, Hrefna. Home and hearth await you there.”

She whispered as her eyes unfocused and he leaned in to listen.

“M-man… jima… was… r… rig… ht… ab… abou… t… y-y…ou…”

The last breath she drew bubbled out of her with a wet sound and whether by fortune or not, she did not speak or move again.

His body was heavy as he knelt there, staring at her pained, half-lidded and dulled expression. The bloodied hand he’d touched hers with raised, two streaks of red drawn down her brow and over the tops of her cheeks as he shut her eyes to his image.

“Lest it haunt you further,” He whispered it and moved to stand, swaying away from her. His legs had different plans however, half collapsing back into the soaked rug which squelched wetly under the pressure of his knees. It spiked another ripple of pain up him, leaving him gasping and seeing stars instead. So he opted to not fight it, settling instead where his legs had given out.

A trembling hand pressed numbing fingers into his jacket unsteadily, his other hand patting for the edge of that bench Hrefna was impaled on to right himself against it. A plain, thick metal case - no thicker or wider than a cigarette case - removed from an inner lining. The latch across its glinting side flicked open with a thumb and raised to his mouth. His sharp teeth gripped one of the vials within it by its stopper, tugging at it as he pulled the case away from his face. Clicked shut, it fumbled its way back into his jacket, the gouge along its back casing glinting in the light glimmering in through open or glass-decorated windows.

The case had saved him another hole and its contents would save him yet again.

The glass vial was gripped weakly next. The stopper yanked from it with his teeth and spat aside. The disgusting - albeit helpful - crimson coloured potion was swallowed in its entirety. Nearly choking a moment at the dreadful, bitter taste and thickness of the liquid but down it all went. The vial was tossed aside, clinking and rattling against the rest of the wooden slatted floor of the hall.

He’d pay his alchemist for the lost glassware later.

It might have been considered sacrilege, were the hall a more holy place, with what had happened within its old walls. Although it had been used for village meetings once upon a time, it was long-since abandoned. Over time its insides had simply just grown dusty from disuse but the bones of the place had held up over the turns.

Until he’d sought refuge in it, of course.

While the effects of the potion knit his wounds closed and lent him strength, Shear’s head lulled forward with a heavy sound.

No.

He would not.

Not for them.

Not for any of them.

They would never spare grief for him.

He swallowed the pain and agony clawing at the back of his throat, yearning to be released. Wishing to be howled into the pine beams above his head.

Not for them.

The worst of his aches numbed, sealed, or in the process of sealing, Shear pushed to his feet with a calming breath. He moved slowly, taking care not to overextend his mending body. He did not bother with the doors - he did not truly believe he had any energy left to move those beams anymore anyway - and instead opted to pick the mostly-blown through window.

He leaned against the windowsill, sliding half onto it and swinging a leg over. Overgrown grass rustled as he stepped out and shortly his other boot followed. Fresh air filled his aching lungs, warm sun filtering over his exposed skin and into his golden hair. Comforting feelings.

He sat on the windowsill awhile before standing up from it. Turning, he set both of his bloodied hands to the sides of the wooden walls, that white glare flaring to life along his palms. Hot copper hit the air from his warmed skin, his teeth gritting against the smell. Eyes pressing closed, a growl rose in his throat. A roar ripped from his hands, white flames skittering along the old wood in a flashing burst of heat. He pushed those heavy feelings deep into his aether well, shoveling the pain within those spreading white ripples painting up along the aged pine wood.

Leaning back and stepping away from the engulfing wall, the viera turned and walked away from the half-alight hall. The bodies lying within did not make any attempt to escape the encroaching flames as they were consumed in the fire as it moved across the building quickly. Spurned on by his pain and his aether both.

The smear of blood across his face itched but he paid it no mind as he put distance between himself and that roaring fire. He did not wipe at it when his other cheek itched again from the pink, wet streaks sliding down his skin.

Not for them.

But for himself.

And his very long war.

He was so very tired. 

#shear kinestti #ffxivwrite2022 #tw: gore #tw: arson #tw: blood #tw: murder #violence #bodily injury #decapitation #blood mentions and descriptions