#Christ foot soldier

[ragingbookdragon]

It comes as somewhat a surprise when the others realize that something has obviously happened between their resident Lieutenant and Private, as she’s quick to fall silent whenever he appears, and even more so make herself scare when she can when he’s around. It’s only the third time that Soap sees it that he says something, because if he doesn’t no one else will, and where’s the fun in that?

He watches her duck her head and leave the break room, Gaz, Soap, Price, and Ghost sitting alone at the breakfast table conversing over soggy cereal and cooling tea; Soap pushes a piece of bacon on his plate and asks, “Trouble in paradise, Lt?” the corner of his mouth arches with a slight grin when he hears the warning grunt come from Ghost.

“No.”

“Seems like it,” he retorts, taking a sip of his coffee. “What’d ya do? Tell her ta fuck off?”

“Drop it, MacTavish,” Ghost warns darkly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

This time, Gaz jumps in. “C’mon, Lt., it’s obvious that something’s wrong. I mean, she won’t even look at you, let alone say anything unless you speak first.”

“An’ she’s callin’ ‘im ‘sir.’” Soap adds, pointing at him. “Christ, Lt., ya musta done a number on ‘er. Poor Puffin. So sweet and kind. Broke ‘er heart ya did.”

Price can tell that Ghost is close to snapping at the both of them but gets to it before he does. “Soap, Gaz, go catalogue our inventory for the mission next week.”

“Aw, but we already d—” Soap falls silent when Price shoots him a look and quietly grumbles to himself as he grabs his plate and cup, Gaz following in suit.

It’s only until the two soldiers are alone that Price asks, “What did happen, Simon?”

Ghost lets out a long sigh and rolls his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Pretty much told ‘er to fuck off.”

Price watches quietly as Ghost begins rattling to himself—he’s never really had to ask the man to explain himself. All he’s gotta do is prompt him to do so and Ghost does the rest.

“I just got mad. She’s always ‘round and practically up my arse, and I got caught up and instead of ‘andlin’ it properly, I shoved my fucking foot in my mouth and scalped her.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I meant to be gentler but once I started, I couldn’t stop. It just kept comin’ out. And now she fuckin’ hates me.”

He pulls his hand down and looks up at Price with a scowl—the man is smiling at him, but it’s that stupid smile that means more than Ghost wants to admit it does.

“Quit that.”

“You care about her,” Price murmurs, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, though his admonish is still harsh. “And instead of telling her how you felt like a grown adult, you took the ten-year-old way out and decided to be a cunt to her.”

“I didn’t mean to be such a cunt.”

“But the fact of the matter is that you did, and you’ve screwed up team fluidity and cohesion.” He looks at him. “You know a team divided—”

“Can’t stand,” Ghost finishes with an even worse scowl. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He looks away. “I just don’t know how to even start tryin’ to fix it.”

“Well, apologizing might be a good start,” Price rumbles with a grin. “She’s a good kid, Simon. Her heart’s in the right place, even if it’s a bit much at times. Shows she cares. More than most do in our line of work. She’s a rare one.”

“I know,” he admits in a much, much softer tone. “I just don’t want her to lose that doin’ this.” His eyes meet Price’s, and they hold such a misery. “Look at us, Price,” he mutters, gesturing between them. “Middle age, unmarried, no kids, too fucked up for anything like that. She doesn’t…” he clenches his jaw. “She deserves a better path, a safer path, than this life. She deserves to go out and have a life where she comes home to a family.”

“That’s not your choice to make, son,” he replies gently, but there’s a firmness to it. “If this is what she wants to do, then she will. We can’t make her get out of service.”

Ghost growls low in his throat. “She has so much more potential than being cannon fodder. She could do somethin’ with her life. Somethin’ good. Somethin’ that won’t have her dying face down in the sand with a bullet wound in the back.”

Price simply watches him.

“But she’s so fuckin’ stupid. She wants to be here. She wants to spend whatever time she has dodgin’ bullets and wakin’ up every night in sweat ‘cause she can’t escape the dreams. No one wants to do this. We don’t want to do this. We do this because we have to. But her? She’s happy here.” He lowers his voice, it’s as if he’s in disbelief. “She’s happy here.” He looks at Price. “Why? Why is she so happy here?”

It's another long moment before Price speaks.

“You hear, son, but you don’t listen.” He moves the cup on the saucer. “She bounced around homes growing up, scraped by on the skin of her teeth. She has no one. But here, she has something. She has people who care for her, if nothing else, they won’t let her die alone.”

“Oh what? So, it’s found family bullshit?” Ghost spits. “If she dies, at least the team would mourn her?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve done too?” he replies, and Ghost falls silent. “People like Gaz, Soap, and myself are different than you and she are, Simon. We have homes. We’ve had families that have loved us, that do love us. But you two? Simon, you’ve made a home where you’ve had to. Made a family out of people you’ve bled for, would gladly bleed for. You’ve made something that’s yours. You made a family for yourself. And so did she. She’s made us her family. The one she never had the privilege to call her own.”

Price lets out a quiet hum, and pats his thighs, standing up and pushing his chair in.

“Think on what I’ve said, son. And if nothing else, apologize and leave it at that. Put the ball in her court and let her make the next move.”

As he walks off, he hears, “And if she doesn’t want it?”

He tosses a knowing look over his shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll take it.” His eyes twinkle as he adds, “Takes an awful strong woman to care about a man like you.”

[moody-alcoholic]

Coffee

I've had this story saved for a while now trying to muster the confidence to post it today is the day! I'm finally jumping straight out of my comfort zone and into new territory wish me luck... Can you tell I'm bad a naming things, title coming soontm... when I think of one.

DISCLAMER: This is my first time writing a reader fic so please be gentle. It is also my first time writing a fic that is pretty much going to be centered around smut. I am also really bad at writing Soap's accent my dyslexic brain freaks out too much, I will strive to improve though XD

Summary: Ghoap x Reader, throuple. Slow burn (sorry but not sorry). 3.7k words. Reader is female (she/her), army nurse, non descript physical features, names used: Ashe. Am I doing this right?? CW: This chapter is SFW, but in future it will get spicy so for my own sanity +18 MDNI mentions of sex, descriptions of injuries.

Part 2 Masterlist

Phew, Enjoy <3

“Sergeant MacTavish?” You call into the hallway there are some soldiers waiting, you look up and down to see if anyone reacts to the name. 

“Sergeant John MacTavish?” You call again this time a little louder.

“Here lass!” A man calls hobbling down the hall towards you. Your breath catches in your throat, even being on a base surrounded by plenty of hunky men you had not seen anyone quite like him. His broad shoulders, thick arms and tanned skin. His fluffy mohawk, shining almost bronze in the florescent lights. To top it all off his cheeky grin is sending butterfly's racing in your stomach.

He’s being followed by what seems like an even bigger man trying to help him wobble his way down the hall, his sharp eyes focused on making sure his friend doesn’t topple over. The rest of his face is covered by a balaclava with a skull printed on it. It makes you shiver as they walked towards you. You move to the side of the door letting them in. John finds his way to a chair while the other man stands behind him. You close the door to the room going back over to the desk sitting down and opening his file on the computer. 

“Twisted your ankle during an exercise?” You look past the monitor at him. 

“Aye, I’m fine but LT here insisted I get it checked out.” He replies with a smile on his face thumbing behind at the man looming over him. Christ even his accent is sexy.

“And I’m staying to make sure you do get it checked out properly instead of flirting your way to a few paracetamol and a cold compress.” The man said, his voice was deep, commanding. You could feel heat rush to your cheeks at the mention of flirting, but you push the thought away trying to remain professional. 

“It is good to get it checked even if it is just a sprain.” You move your chair round so you’re sitting in front of him. 

“Do you mind if I take your boot off?”

“I got it lass,” he winked bending down to untie the laces, and pulled the boot off. You could tell by the scrunching of his face and the grunt he made that this was causing him pain. He put his foot back down on the floor his ankle did look swollen. 

“Have you tried ice or a cold compress?” You ask. 

“Aye,” he replies you hear the man behind him sigh.

“What he means by that is he tried for about 5 minutes before he was back on his feet again.” John huffed at being called out. 

“You’ll need to try for longer then that,” you say acknowledging the tall man behind John who now had his arms crossed. You pick the foot up watching John try to hide the pain, you only lift it up a little before decided it was going to need an x-ray. 

“I will book an x-ray for you in the mean time if you go into the ward they will give you an ice pack and a bed.” You explain moving your chair back to the desk so you could book the appointment. 

“Do you want any pain relief?” You ask. 

“Na, I can barely feel it.” He says a cheeky smile on his face. You nod typing the report and waiting for the paper to print out. 

“I can give you some crutches you really should keep your weight off it.” You stand up going to the printer.

“It’s okay love I’ve got my own crutch here.” He says hopping up on his foot and wrapping his arm round the other man. You smile handing the paper to him.

“Give this to the nurse on the ward.” You say rushing in front of them to open the door. 

“Thanks love,” he says beaming at you as he gets lead out by his friend who looks back at you and nods. You close the door to the room taking a breath out. What the hell was that? You find a smile forming on your lips as your heart flutters in your chest. 

————————

Two days later you find yourself as the night nurse. Not that you mind it’s normally the quieter part of the job and there is no one in the ward so you don’t even have to worry about trying to look busy. About an hour into your shift someone comes through the doors. You recognise him immediately as John, from a few days ago with the sprained ankle. He’s hobbling around on crutches now, his friend is not with him ether. 

“Hello sweetheart!” He says his voice full of energy, that ever present smile on his face. 

“Hey, John did you need something?” you ask coming round from behind the nurses station. 

“Yeah actually, I was told to come pick up something…” He trails off. “Now what was it?” 

“Painkillers?” You ask. 

“No it begin with a T I think.” He looks up to the corner of the room like he is trying to think hard about it.

“A tubigrip?” You ask.

“That’s the one lass!” He says snapping his fingers, you can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm. 

“Sit up on the bed I’ll get you one.” You say turning to the cupboard of supplies. You pick out two sizes then walk back over to John already leaning down to untie his boots. 

“I can do that.” You insist waving his hands away, he sighs but gives in leaning back on the bed. You carefully remove the boot looking back and checking to see how he reacts. He’s ether getting better at hiding it or painkillers have helped. He only winces when you have to pull the boot over his heel.

“What did the doctor say?” You ask. 

“Sprained, I’ve been stuck behind a desk for the last two days.” He makes a pouting face as you pull his sock off. 

“You should sleep with it elevated that will help with the swelling.” You say pulling his trouser leg up. The swelling has definitely improved since you saw it last. 

“I bet with a few more days of rest you’ll be back on your feet like nothing happened.” You smile at him.

“I hope so lass, my unit’s being shipped out at the end of the week.” He says as you pull the tubigrip over his foot and ankle.

“Oh yeah anywhere fun?” You ask. 

“Ah ‘fraid I can’t tell you that love.” He winks, you can't tell if he’s joking or not but you pull his trouser leg back down.

“You can keep your boot on but not too tight, and keep it elevated.” You explain putting his boot back on and loosely tying the laces. 

“What painkillers are you taking?” You ask as he swivels his body round so his feet are hanging off the bed. 

“Paracetamol, oh and the doc said I could take ibuprofen too, but I don’t need it I can barely feel a thing.” You look back at him chuckling, his arms flex as he pushes himself up with the crutches. You feel your cheeks heat up again.

“You should take the ibuprofen at least it will also help with the swelling.” You force out, leaning over him to pick up his sock from the bed. He smells good, must be his aftershave. You hold the sock out for him and he sheepishly takes it out your hand shoving it in his pocket. You move back so he can hop out the ward back to the nurses station. 

“Well it was nice seeing you again…” He trails off like he’s trying to remember your name his eyes squinting. You cover your badge teasing him. He chuckles. 

“LT is the one with the better memory.” He says turning his body to the doors. 

“Ashe.” You reply uncovering your badge.

“Well then Ashe it was nice to see you again.” His smile is infectious and you could have sworn he winked at you. 

“Good luck on your deployment,” You call back as he pushes his way through the doors. 

“I don’t need luck.” He winks at you. Okay that time it was definitely a wink and it made the butterflies come back to your belly. You sit down at the nurses station with a smile on your face and heat in your cheeks.

————————

One week later you get a text out of the blue.

Hey, this Ashe? 

It’s an unknown number you’re tempted to ignore it, but something inside you forces you to answer it. 

Yeah, who’s this?

It’s only seconds later a response comes.

It’s Johnny, with the fucked up ankle. 

Holy shit, you choke on your drink, coughing as the liquid has now gone in your windpipe. You take a few more sips trying to sooth it. How the hell did he get my number? 

How did you get my number?

From a friend of a friend..

You can’t help but chuckle, is this real? Did he make his deployment? You realise you haven’t seen him round the base in a few days, and you would know you’ve been looking. Sometimes without even realising it any time you see a broad tanned soldier hairs stand up on the back of your neck and you crane to look only to be disappointed. His friend with the skull mask, you found out his name was lieutenant Riley. You know you definitely hadn’t seen him. 

Anyway…Want to get coffee? 

Such a simple request has your heart thumping in your chest. 

When? 

You reply without thinking, your leg starts to jump under the table nervousness washing over you. Coffee? With me? Why?

How about that coffee place just outside the base, tomorrow 1300?

Your heart is pounding now your throat dry. Is this a date? 

Sure :)

Was the smiley too much, you put your phone down embarrassed. You hear it buzz picking up the courage to look 

See ya there :)

You let out a breath your leg stops jumping. Coffee with Johnny, surely it’s just a friendly thing to say thank you for helping with his ankle. It doesn't matter if it is or not but he’s on your mind for the rest of the day until you go to bed. 

————————

You show up early, the butterfly's have not left your stomach since the moment you woke up. You managed to switch your shift with another nurse so you could be here instead. Coffee sounded like too much especially with your nerves you opted for a tea. You find yourself checking your watch almost every second, your back is to the door each time it opens your heart stops and you turn to look. Jesus calm down woman, it’s just coffee. You try to tell yourself. A few minutes later and a few sips of hot tea, you start to calm. 

“Hey there lass.” You hear the familiar Scottish accent behind you. You turn in your chair to see him. He’s smiling of course he is he sits down in the chair opposite you. His skin looks darker or maybe it’s just the light in the room, his hair looks like it’s been freshly groomed. You get a proper look at his eyes, a beautiful deep blue. You can’t help finding yourself smiling.

“Hey,” You reply. He chuckles almost like he can feel the nervousness radiating off you. 

“What’s your poison?” He asks pointing at your cup. 

“Eh tea.” You reply realising you’ve almost finished it. 

“Typical brits,” he sighs playfully as he gets up. 

“Let me get it, you should rest your ankle.” You say quickly stopping him in his tracks. 

“Don’t worry love it’s been solid for a few days now.” You sigh that’s good at least. He gets up walking over to the counter. You take out a deep breath, your head following him as he orders beaming at the staff his accent cutting through the mumbling of the other patrons. You look back at your tea finishing it off as Johnny comes back with the drinks. He smiles as he sits down putting the tea in front of you. 

“Thank you,” You say warming your hands on the new mug. 

“Ne problem don’t you worry about it, I’m supposed to be treating you,” You feel yourself blushing again as that cheeky look comes back on his face.  

“Why?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself. He chuckles.

“You helped me with my ankle, I wanted to say thank you.” He says as a matter of fact. 

“It’s my job,” you reply shrugging, feeling a rush of embarrassment washing over you. “You could have just caught me on the base.”

“Yeah,” Now his cheeks looked like they were changing to a gorgeous shade of pink. 

“Did you manage to get deployed?” You ask trying to move the subject on. He smiles leaning back in his chair.

“Na, whole thing got cancelled, I spent a few days in London.” He says smiling.

“Was Riley-I mean-lieutenant Riley was he with you?” You blurt out sipping your tea so the word vomit would stop. 

“Simon?” Johnny asked his smile getting bigger. “Oh yeah we spend a lot of time together.”

“Huh, that’s nice you must be a tight unit.” You say calming yourself. So his name was Simon, Simon Riley.

“What about you what have you been up to?” He leans forward sipping his coffee.

“Work, nothing really.” You smile.

“When’s your next leave?” He asks. 

“Two weeks.” He nods like he's thinking about something his lips pressed together. He leans forward on the table more.

“There was another reason I wanted to see you.” He says, his smile disappearing. You hold your breath in anticipation of what he’s going to say next. He takes a breath in for a second looking you in the eyes.

“I really wanted to see you again.” He said, okay that’s not bad. You almost want to laugh at how worked up you got yourself. He just wants to say thank you, he’s buying you coffee because he want’s to be nice. You helped him with his ankle. Now he’s asking if you’re single.

Wait what?    

“Single?” You ask, your brain trying to comprehend what you missed. He nods his smile coming back, at least that puts you at ease. 

“Yeah, I’m single. Are you single?” It seems like the appropriate time to ask him too. His lips are pressed together again like he’s trying to formulate a sentence in his head. 

“It’s complicated,” A cheeky smile forms on his lips as he sips his coffee. 

“What do you mean it’s complicated? Do you have a girlfriend?” You ask frowning at him.

“No.” He replies flatly.

“A boyfriend?” He puts his coffee down. 

“I wanted to see you cos I’ve spent the last week tryin’ te get ya out my head and it’s impossible.” He said leaning forward. You blush at his words. 

“What do you mean it’s complicated though?” Your heart beating faster in your chest you can’t tell if it’s the caffeine from the tea or the words from Johnny’s mouth but it was getting harder to concentrate. 

“I’m married to my work.” He says leaning back. You sigh, this has happened before. ‘I can’t be with you the job is too important’ It’s all too familiar, finding love when every one around you is throwing their lives on the front line is near impossible. 

“I get it,” You say trying not to hide your disappointment. 

“C’mon lass it don’t mean we can’t still be mates.” He says it sounds almost like a plea. You feel sad and drained, you didn’t know what to expect from the meeting but you weren't expecting to feel like you just got dumped by someone you didn’t even date. You look at Johnny his blue eyes look sad, he grips the handle of his coffee mug. 

“It’s okay, you seem like a nice guy but I know how this goes. We’ll talk maybe have sex a few times but sooner or later you’ll move on, or be deployed or I’ll move on or be stationed somewhere else…” You look at Johnny finishing the rest of your tea. And moving to stand up. He reaches out to you trying to get you to stay. 

“C’mon let me at least walk you back to the base.” You can’t help but see the pleading in his eyes his usual smile warms your heart. You go up and place a kiss on his cheek. 

“It’s okay Johnny, I need to go into town anyway.” You smile your hand patting his chest, you can feel the tight muscles under your hand only making it harder to turn away. But you pull your hand off his chest and head for the door.

————————

You make it two weeks having to almost actively avoid Johnny. Since whatever mission he was supposed to be on was cancelled he’d been helping round the base with all kinds of different things. You would bump in to him all the time, your eyes always betraying you and wandering to him whenever he was in your view. He spent a lot of time with Simon, the ‘big scary skull guy’ some of the other nurses would call him. 

“I heard his face was burnt off in a horrible accident.” One of them said one day as we were eating lunch in the mess. Your eyes had barely left Johnny’s face he was sat a few tables ahead of you. He seemed to like the fact you were always watching him. His eyes meeting yours and smiling. Sometimes you would look up and it would Simon's eyes staring you down. His gaze would always send shivers up your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck would stand up. The nurses giggling as they spread rumours about him. It was enough to piss you off, making you snap at them about spreading rumours like that.

“We’re not in secondary school anymore! Show some respect.” You snapped leaving the table. You knew you could feel Johnny’s eyes digging into you. 

When you made it home you welcomed the rest. Your small London apartment had been rented out for the few months you had been away, the place was going to need a good clean tomorrow. The thought of sleeping in a bed that had been home to a stranger for 5 months felt icky so you ended up curling up on the sofa turning the TV on for background noise. Your mind turning to Johnny. Wonder what he’s doing? Think he’s still at the base?

Your mind somehow turned to Simon too, thinking back to all the rumours you’d heard. None of them even remotely sounding plausible. Who cares, he has his reasons for the mask, it’s none of my business. Your phone buzzed and you reached over to pick it up. 

Make it home safe? 

It was Johnny, he hadn’t texted you since the coffee date. Well date was the wrong word. 

Yeah.

You hover over the send button wondering if this was a good idea or not. You take a deep breath in and hit send throwing the phone to the other side of the couch going back to watch whatever distraction was on the TV. You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You’re woken by a knock at the door, you look out the window the sun is peaking through the clouds, you check your watch its 10am. There is another knock. You pull yourself off the couch stiff from sleeping in such an awkward position.

“I’m coming.” You call yawning, looking through the peep hole. 

What the fuck? 

You open the door. 

“Johnny?” You ask shocked.

“Hey,” He says, his smile radiating off his face, his hair is a mess he looks like he’s barely slept. You look at him in stunned silence shaking your head. 

“I wasn’t completely honest with you.” He says. “Can I come in? I’ll be quick I promise.” 

“Not really the best opening line if you want to get into someone's flat.” You say.

“Scouts honour.” He says holding up 3 fingers. You roll your eyes and step aside so he can come in. 

“When I said it was complicated, it’s not cos I’m married to the job…” He trails off standing in your kitchen so there is at least a foot distance between you two. 

“I am married, to Simon.” Your mouth falls open at the revelation.

“Simon Riley?” you ask, almost shaking your head in disbelief.

“Yeah,” He shrugs.

“So you’re gay?” You say, but it feels like a question. 

“Yeah, well Bi, both of us. That’s why it’s complicated.” You shake your head not quite understanding. He seemed nervous all of a sudden.

“Well, we both still like women, and, you know-or I guess you don’t know-we experimented threesomes and what not.” He ran his hand through his hair. “There is something different about you, we’ve both been obsessed with you, can’t get you out our heads.” 

“Both?” You ask, your mouth still hanging open. 

“Aye, Simon’s not good with words though, or at least not till he gets to know ya.” He chuckles running his hand through his hair again. You take a deep breath out.  

“What do you want Johnny?” You ask. Is he asking me for sex? A threesome? 

“Have coffee with me and Simon.” He says.

“That’s it coffee?” You ask. 

“Yeah.” He says nodding. 

“You came all the way to my flat to ask me to have coffee with you and Simon?” You fold your arms, you can’t tell if you feel disappointed it’s not sex or annoyed that he’s basically invaded your privacy for something so trivial. He shrugs. You close your eyes for a second thinking about it. You sigh, it’s not like you have anything better to do while you’re on leave, and it is only coffee. You take a big breath in opening your eyes. Johnny’s smiling again, the smile that makes your heart skip a beat and the butterfly's wake up. 

“Okay.” You nod, You don’t get chance to finish your thought cos he’s thrown his arms round you squeezing you. 

“Thank you, thank you.” He says breaking from the hug. Your cheeks are definitely red now after feeling his body pressed against yours. You can’t help smiling. He reaches over for the door handle.

“I’ll text you a time and a place,” you nod as he goes out the door.

“Hey Johnny how did you find my address?” 

“A friend of a friend,” he smiles up at you from the stairs. You shake your head in disbelief. What the hell just happened?   

Next part AO3 link soontm

[rileysluvr]

super short price nsfw because i am his girlie til the day i die. he’s a bit of a meanie in this one tho so read with caution!!

“Again,” he orders.

You take a deep, shaky breath in an attempt to somewhat ground yourself, but it’s a difficult feat when you're being held down on your surperior’s hard lap by his big arm splayed over your hips. A thick, dusty book on the desk in front of you, flipped to the page that entirely covers the military-workplace regulations he was scolding you for until tears began to bead at your waterline. You don’t think you’ve ever been this humiliated.

Your vision is blurry, and it’s at that point where your memory serves you better than what you’ve been ordered to do, which is to read until you can’t. He’s broken you down to a writhing mess atop his thigh as both of yours can only drape over one of his huge ones. Back flush against his chest with his palm rubbing your pussy in all the right ways; you swallow thickly, wondering if you can even go on any longer in this state.

“Fifty-nine, oh-one: ‘Service personnel are to wear-” you pause to breathe, fighting back a stutter, “…appropriate regulation uniform on duty—”

A bashful whimper cuts you off mid-recitement as he somehow manages to shove his two fingers even deeper into your cunt, nudging against your nerves rather harshly. Your legs squeeze around his thigh and your hands twitch in their place wrapped around to your sides. All the willpower in your body being used to keep yourself from bucking your hips forward and earning another half-hour of degrading names and treatment.

“Did you hear me tellin’ you to stop?” he barks, but it’s in that calmer manner that spins your mind around until you can’t decipher the difference between anger and sympathy. You shake your head, and you don’t need to have a visual on his face to feel the disapproval teetering off his bitten tongue and firm expression. “Then why don’t I hear you reading, eh?”

Your voice trembles, almost enough for him to take pity on you; “Sir, please- I’m trying.”

You weren’t even on duty today, for fuck’s sake. You had stopped by to pick up a personal belonging, only to be reminded how your captain views you as his own the second you step foot through the base’s front gate. And you were never good at avoiding his stalking gaze, especially when he’s got access to eyes stationed at every nook and corner.

“Christ, y’need me to spell it out for you? Is that it?” he scoffs. “How many times’ve we been over this?”

The way he berates and babies you has your cheeks stained and glistening with tears, and your mind all jumbled considering how easily he switches back and forth from mean to soft. Soft like how his fingers pull out and away from your cunt and hold themselves just far enough to make you shift your hips forward in search of them, only to be held back by his arm’s weight. Mean like his spat words and the grip with which he grabs your jaw, squeezing tight and puffing your cheeks out a bit in an attempt to get you to focus; to knock some sense into that strained, precious little brain of yours.

“Pretty fuckin’ simple task for a soldier, if y’ask me.”

Because deep down, he truly cares about your well-being. He only wants the best for his girl, and the dynamic between you.

And you wouldn’t want to disappoint your superior even more than you already have, now, would you?

He lets go of your face to allow you to finish, a nervous and newfound quietness croaking in your throat in addition to your already shy voice after his display of aggression; “—except when otherwise ordered by a Commanding Officer…’”

“Good girl,” he drags upon your completion, along with his hand that sneaks back into your panties. You jump from the coldness of his skin but he barely pays any mind to it. “Keep going for me, now, pretty. Go ‘head and skip some.”

It’s a repeated process; you recite what you know, mess up due to his cruel ways of sadistic teasing, and watch on from the outside as your self-respect crumbles so easily. You acknowledge it, you feel it, and you willingly ignore it because you know that whatever he plans on giving you afterwards will far surpass any other means to pleasure.

His time, his teachings and guidance, his own pleasure. They’re better than gifts, really.

“‘No item of uniform which has not been authorized is to be worn.’” You mumble for the entirety of the final sentence, now expecting him to get on you for not speaking clearly enough.

Instead, his middle finger delves between your folds and dips into your cunt at last, ripping a hiss and another whine from high in your throat from his rough treatment.

“And who authorizes your uniform?” he finally asks.

He adds his ring finger and the fullness in your cunt would be uncomfortable if the heel of his palm wasn’t digging into your clit at the particular angle. It numbs the stretch and your worries, so much so you nearly forget what he had asked you.

You gasp, eyes shooting open to meet cold, empty office in stark contrast to the warm, staggering frame pressed up against your back. Every muscle and every flex beneath the cotton material of his shirt being embedded into your mind.

“You do, Sir—mph!—it’s only you.”

An approving rumble from his chest vibrates against your back, and you lean into him with a soft moan when he curls his fingers upward in that way he knows you respond to the best. Head leant back on his shoulder, you hold onto his arm to stabilize your spinning mind once he begins slipping his rough fingers in and out of your sensitive pussy more firmly.

“So you show up to base in this pretty, little dress on your off-day, and expect to leave here without any punishment?”

His words exceed intimidating to a great extent, but the way he coos them so gently right by your ear leads directly to you scrambling them into nothing more than sweet blurbs and mumbles. He continues his short scolding as if he doesn’t know how dumb he’s got you already, ready to make you bite the consequences for your inability to respond to him later.

“Distractin’ me ‘nd all the other men here while we work, like you don’t know what your body does to them. What you’re worth around here, to the lot of bastards falling asleep with their dicks in their hands to the pretty image of you dressed like this,” he emphasizes with the tug of your dress’s ending hem.

“Sir,” you whine, not paying a single nod to his language because your numbed mind can simply no longer compute it. Muffled and unclear, though the mean and deep drawl that bleeds through pushes you all the much closer to bliss.

“Feels good, I—please… ’m so, so close, Sir—!”

You whine and clasp your hand down on his arm for some sort of spiritual stabilization, and he only picks up the pace. He works you up so quickly after edging you for what felt like hours, as this time he gives absolutely no notion to relenting.

“That right?” Of course, you can’t respond with much more than a whimper as you rock your hips back and forth on his hard thigh, his skilled fingers working you up to ecstasy.

“Yes, yes ‘m gonna—it’s too much, Sir, ‘m gonna come—!”

He chuckles, his arm around your waist pulling you impossibly closer into him. You convulse around his fingers and moan through your high as he militantly, yet somehow so expertly, turns your vision to stars and your limbs into a limp mess atop him. It’s like he knows your body better than you do yourself, making you come harder with his fingers alone than anyone has ever. You thank him profusely, soft words of mantra like music to his ears as he decides what to do with you next.

He gives you no time to recover before he’s wrapping both his hefty arms around you and hauling you up in front of him, big palm instantly meeting with your shoulder blade to shove you down on the wooden desk and ripping a gasp from high in your lungs. He leans over you, caging you in as he soothes his hand across your forehead; his version of intimacy, and whatnot.

You’re panting, utterly exasperated, but simply can’t help the way you wiggle your hips back against his to chase that good friction. He laughs at your display of neediness for his cock, knowing it’ll be a much longer while before he’ll let you have it.

“My stupid fuckin’ toy,” he mutters softly against your skin, and it sounds just as good as any flattering compliment would.

He takes the hem of your dress and hikes it up to reveal your ass, humming at the sight before leaning back in to kiss your temple. Facial hair tickling and invading your senses, nearly feeling like a sweet treat to shush the way you whine out with his hard bulge pressed up against where you’re most sensitive.

Thoughts of what he could do to you right now running rampant through both of your minds, none differing from each other nor unwanted from either party.

“You’re gonna let me use this body however I like, until you learn to behave yourself ‘round your coworkers. Till you learn a fuckin’ lesson for once. Sound quite alright, sweetheart?”

[briarscreek]

141 rescuing a hostage who was in the middle of rescuing herself

it’s your basic situation of traveling a new country for a bit but getting tricked into human trafficking. hey, the tour guide deal online was too good to pass up and you had a coupon. it’s not your fault.

unfortunately for your captors you over prepared for your trip because you had a hunch this might happen while solo traveling.

anyways, the handlers didn’t even do much except hint that you might be worth good money and tie you to a chair. whatever, you’re not gonna sit here on your ass waiting for someone else to help you. with a quick tug on your boot, you pulled the tiny hidden knife free and quickly cut the ropes on your hands. before leaving you checked the dirty room around you for anything that might help you but it was unfortunately empty besides the chair. oh well, next is getting the fuck out of there.

with hurried steps, you sneaked towards the door to find the door knob trying to move on it’s own. it was locked from your side but why would these oafs try to open the door without the key that they have? maybe if you swing the door open you can surprise them with…something. steeling your resolve you quickly unlock the door and swing it open. what you did not expect was a large foot to hit your torso and knock the wind out of you, making you land on your back.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” you rush out now groaning on the floor trying to catch your breath.

“Christ, bonnie ‘re you ‘lright?”

“Nice goin’ McTavish”

“Was your idea to kick it down, Ghost”

“Yea but you didn’t stop when it opened did ya?”

“Shut it, both of ya”

The fourth soldier who hadn’t spoken yet came down to kneel beside you.

“Are you alright?” He offered his hand to help sit you up.

“As alright as someone who got the wind kicked out of them, but yea I’m just peachy” you sat up with a groan.

“American? What are you doin all the way out here?” The one with mutton chops asked.

“Thought I’d frolic around in an abandoned building. What do you think I’m doing here?”

God, these men are just unbelievable.

What a way to meet your future husband, huh?

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 6 - I've Been Searching for a Fortified Defense

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: As we begin our first 5-digit word count chapter (I can’t be stopped, someone take away my keyboard) and I find a stride of about two chapters per week, I want to say that: A) I fully intend on finishing this story. I plotted out the whole thing before I started, have made a few adjustments given the pacing I’ve done so far, and with how it’s broken down right now we’ll reach the end in 2-3 months. B) Thank y’all from the bottom of my heart for reading! If you have theories or thoughts or feedback please don’t hesitate to share them! I love hearing what you think of the plot and the characters, and every interaction means the world to me. Whether you’re only reading or leaving comments as well, thank you so damn much. I’ll see you next chapter (it’s gonna be a doozy) <3

Chapter Title from Bells in Santa Fe by Halsey.

Word Count: 11.2k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You throw a punch, and Phase One: Operation Quick and Bald goes. Not well, but it goes. Contains usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, fluff, angst

Read on A03!

Chapter 5 - Chapter 7

Taglist: @lordofthunderthr @kritara

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

Ben dodged the third punch in a row, grinning widely right up until the fourth one landed on his face.

“Ha!” She yelled, drawing back to shake her first out. “Take that, you weirdly fast man.”

Ben rolled his eyes, rubbing his face lightly. It hadn’t hurt—he’d barely even felt it—but She was being real fucking smug for someone who’d only just landed a hit after a damn week of attempting to do so.

“Yeah, sure, Sunshine. Keep it the fuck up, and at this rate it’ll only take you another couple thousand years to surpass Muhammad Ali.”

She raised her brows at Ben, pausing with a tilt of her head. “You were a fan of Muhammad Ali?”

He nodded, giving her a scrunched look of annoyance. “I’m a fucking American, and there ain’t nothing more red-blooded American than punching commies like that son of a bitch did.”

“What?”

“When he fought the Russian, and won. That’s fucking American.”

“Ben, you’re thinking of the plot of Rocky IV.”

“No, Muhammad Ali fought that Russian pussy and kicked his fucking ass.”

“No, Sylvester Stallone fought the Russian pussy and kicked his fucking ass. In a movie.” She laughed to herself. “I’m shocked you even saw Rocky IV, let alone were so impacted by it to let the plot override your knowledge of a real life person.”

“Shut up,” Ben grunted, moving his hands back to a defensive stance. She fucking always won these stupid arguments, and Ben couldn’t actually prove it, but he knew She was changing the fucking internet she loved so damn much to match her claims. “Go again.”

“Someone missed nap time.” She muttered under her breath, even though she knew Ben could fucking hear her, but put her fists up anyways. “Can this be the last one? I’m hungry.”

Instead of answering, Ben just launched himself at her, and She jumped to the side with a yelp.

“What the fuck, Ben!”

He turned and threw another punch, feeling pleased at the smooth way she ducked away and met it with a punch of her own. Her face had lost the pissy shock, laser-sharp concentration replacing it. Her eyes were narrowed, darting across Ben as he moved, her bobbing and weaving wasn’t entirely shit, and her heart was controlled with her breathing. She landed her second punch, this one on his shoulder, and Ben laughed, delivering one of his own.

“Christ, Sunshine, you’re fucking weak.” He laughed, examining Her carefully for any loss of control.

“I’ll kill you with my bare hands, Bitch.” She growled, lunging forward and grunting in frustration as Ben dodged with ease.

“That’s my line.” He taunted. “And you couldn’t even kill a man with an assault rifle if he was a fucking foot away from you.”

“Blow me.”

“I’ve been fucking trying- Fuck!” She landed her third punch, and it burned. Ben reached to touch where she’d hit and felt the skin mending across his jaw.

She was grinning in a wide, toothy, satisfied way. “Suck on that, cunt.”

“Bitch,” he muttered, looking down at his hand to see it raw and red from the contact with his face, with some of his fucking hair stuck to it.

“Did you burn off my fucking beard!” His head shot up to see a half-sheepish, half-amused look on her face, lips curled and eyes wide.

“Oops.”

He yelled her name, and she had the fucking nerve to giggle. “We said no fucking powers!”

“I forgot.” She said lamely, her face less and less apologetic by the second, giggling again as she offered some of the most insincere comfort Ben had ever heard. “It’s not even that noticeable! You look just as good as before!”

His anger faded, and he gave Her a cocky smirk, raising his brows. “You think I look good, Sunshine?”

“I’m being nice. Don’t ruin it.” She muttered, her face adorably flushed, and Ben didn’t miss the skip of her heart.

“Whatever keeps you up at night.”

“That’s not the phrase.”

He winked. “I know.”

She scoffed and turned away, but not before Ben could see the slight smile on her lips. “I’m going to shower, I’ll meet you in the living room in fifteen. If you’re not there, with food, I’m eating the TV.”

Ben frowned, calling after Her figure moving down the hall. “Has the TV been edible this whole fucking time and you didn’t fucking tell me?!”

Her laughter echoed back down the hall. "You're real fucking gullible, grampa!"

“You know I can’t fucking tell when you’re joking about that shit, you bitch!”

“Fourteen minutes, cunt!”

“How the fuck am I supposed to make food in fourteen minutes?!”

“You’re a big boy, you’ll figure it out!”

Grumbling a string of cusses Ben hoped She could fucking feel, Ben grabbed a cup of instant noodles and threw them in the microwave, wondering if She would notice if he spit in hers. After pulling them out, grabbing two spoons from the counter that he almost immediately bent, spilling one of the cups as he noticed the damaged utensils, spilling the other when he noticed the first spill, and having to start the whole damned fucking thing over, Ben made his way to drop on the couch next to where She sat, wet hair clinging to her pretty face.

“Heard a lot of swearing, Pretty Boy, everything ok?”

He grunted, shoving Her noodles against her chest and letting go, not giving a fuck if she had a grip on them. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Just asking a question,” he could hear her shit-eating grin. “Thought it was a free country. Thought a patriot like you would appreciate me exercising my first amendment right.”

“That protects you from the government, not me.” Ben parroted back the words She had yelled at him after he’d made the apparently fucking fatal mistake of saying “first amendment right” in her presence.

She chuckled, her voice teasing. “Didn’t know you were capable of retaining information about something other than yourself.”

“Well, your tits were looking great while you were bitching. It helped.” He grabbed the remote, raising it to the TV. “I made food. I’m picking what we watch.”

“If you pick Game of Thrones so you can watch the sex scenes again, I’m figuring out a way to kill myself and doing it on your bed.”

“Whatever gets you in my bed, Sunshine.” He winked. “And I’m invested in the fucking plot, it’s not just the sex scenes.”

“It’s mostly the sex scenes.” She said, not even flinching at his flirtation. “Just go watch porn. See how fast you can break the fleshlights. If you do all three in ten minutes, Butcher owes me twenty dollars.”

Ben scowled, not enjoying that She’d apparently been making fucking bets with Butcher about his masturbation. “I can last longer than ten fucking minutes, I’m not a fucking pussy.”

“Prove it.”

He grinned widely at Her as her face flushed adorably, her own phrasing catching up with her head. “I’d be honored, Sunshine.”

“You’re like a fucking rabbit in heat.” She muttered. “And if you do last longer than ten, Hughie gets the money, so keep that in mind when you’re jerking it to dragon boobs after I go to bed.”

“The dragons don’t have any fucking boobs, dumbass, the fucking hot lady queens do.” Ben said smugly, ignoring her eye roll. “And I would ‘jerk it’ in the privacy of my room, but someone won’t give me a fucking phone.”

“Yeah, the CIA. I’d actually back you up with Mallory, Pretty Boy. I think giving you a phone would be really entertaining.”

“I don’t need your fucking help.” He snapped, and she laughed.

“Can’t rely on just a handsome face to convince her that you somehow deserve the internet.”

“Handsome face?” He grinned at her, and only the slight stutter of her heart told Ben she heard him.

She made a mock face of thought. “Maybe if we suggested parental controls…”

“I’ll kill you, bitch.”

“I’ll make you the most useless and sad eunuch to ever grace this sorry planet, cunt.”

Ben glared at Her, and she reached over his arm to press play on the remote.

Most of the days since the failed Sister Sage mission had been like this. She and Ben got up, trained, ate, trained more, and then watched TV with dinner until She retreated to her room and Ben fought sleep for the rest of the night, alone. Neither of them mentioned how he’d saved her, or how She had started a habit of slapping Ben awake—he was pretty fucking certain that at this point she had figured out another way to break through the nightmares but was purposely choosing to fucking hit him instead—before she’d sit next to him for an hour or two after. Ben liked this unspoken arrangement, and liked even more how She had silently agreed to it. Just because he didn’t actively hate Her right now didn’t mean he was about become a sniveling pussy mess about feelings. Even if the lack of active hatred had morphed into something pulsing in his chest that he didn’t understand, and didn't fucking want to. Making Her instant noodles and not killing her when she lied to him for fun or called him “Pretty Boy” was as far as Ben would bend.

It had been mostly radio silence from the Boys, though Butcher and Cocksucker had visited two days after they’d dropped Her and Ben back at the safe house, as Cocksucker had managed to break his arm. There had been a long, incredibly boring and poorly told story as to how the injury had occurred, involving a supe, Nikola Tesla and something called a Cybertruck, but Ben had pretty much tuned out the entire fucking conversation once he realized they weren’t here for him at all. The only thing that had kept him from retreating to his room for the duration of the visit was the small falter in Her heart when she touched Cocksucker, her jaw clenched as Ben and Butcher watched Cocksucker’s arm heal into place in a fucking disgusting manner.

When She’d let go, she’d given Ben a weird fucking look with tight lips and sad eyes that he'd only seen before on Cocksucker. It had passed quickly, her face returning to apathetic and bored, her eyes regaining the sharp amusement they usually held, but fuck it had confused him. She and Butcher had started talking about missions and planning and other mind-numbing shit, Cocksucker shaking out his arm as if he didn’t trust that it was healed, and Ben had needed to piss and gone to do just that. Before he’d left, he’d caught Her a look of where the hell are you’d going, he’d grinned back with a wink of why, you want to join me?, and she’d rolled her eyes and returned her attention to Butcher. When he’d returned, Butcher and Cocksucker had left and She was glaring at him, arms across her chest.

“Are you an idiot, or just a dick?” She’d snapped.

He’d frowned at Her, trying to figure out what had made her all fucking bitchy. As far as Ben was concerned, he’d been fucking amazing, only calling Butcher a pussy twice and managing to refrain from talking to Cocksucker at all. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Butcher told me we’re moving on operation Quick and Bald soon. He told me you knew. Why didn’t you fucking tell me?!”

“Oh,” Ben had rolled his eyes. “I forgot.”

“You forgot?”

He’d shrugged. “Well, you fucking know now, so get over it. And what kind of fucking shit codename is Quick and Bald?”

“Fuck you, it’s an accurate and descriptive name.”

“How the fuck could that be ‘accurate and descriptive’?”

“Because two key factors of this phase of my plan are the quick and the bald.”

“Your plan?”

“Yeah, my fucking plan. That I fucking deserved to know the status of.” She’d scowled. “Butcher says it’s almost ready. He’ll get us in two days once it’s in place.”

That had been five days ago. Starlight and Cocksucker had dropped in after two days, full of apologies and updates that Ben didn’t give a fuck about, and when he’d asked Her for more information about the plan, she’d told him to “suck her dick and shove his questions up his ass until they reached his brain.”

So Ben still had no fucking clue what Quick and Bald was about.

Aside from Her lingering anger at him for apparently having the fucking nerve to ask questions about the jobs he had to do—an opinion he had made the mistake of voicing, leading the unwelcome lesson on the first amendment—She was being impossibly easy to talk to, and Ben was getting dangerously close to not only enjoying her company, but finding her comfortable. Part of him was hoping she’d say something very, very soon that would allow him to grip onto hatred, or at least indifference, for the rest of his time in this stupid fucking situation.

Instead, in a way that made Ben think God himself was out to fucking get him, he’d started to tell her things. Fucking voluntarily.

One of those nights where sleep had gripped his head and pulled him under, struggling and roaring, he’d woken up once more from only the force and sting of her hand across his face. She’d sat next to him again, and he’d asked her more questions about before, all of which she’d answered with a faraway, insufferably sad look in her eyes.

“How many siblings did you fucking have again?” He’d pressed once.

“Four,” She’d responded, a wistful smile on her face. “Two brothers, two sisters. All younger.”

“Your parents had four more kids after you? What, were you that fucking annoying they needed to try again four fucking times?”

“No, I was just so adorable they needed to try and recreate my perfection. Once they realized that was impossible, they gave up.” She’d smirked, and Ben hated that somehow he didn’t doubt her words. “Well,” she’d mused to herself. “That and they fell violently out of love with each other.”

“Violently?” He’d made a face, and she’d nodded solemnly.

“I shielded my siblings from a lot of flying plates.”

Ben found another thing to hate. Her parents, and how fucking sad she looked. “You miss them?”

“My parents?” She’d snorted. “I miss my dad. I hope my mom gets her head popped.”

He’d coughed to cover a laugh. “No, you fucking smartass. Your siblings.”

Her answer was quick and soft. “Every fucking day.”

Ben had grunted, watching the distance return to her face, and before he could stop himself, he was talking. “I didn’t have any siblings.”

Before he could curse himself out and try to distract Her with something else, she had been looking back at him with wide, focused eyes. “Do you wish you did?”

“I never thought about it,” he’d muttered. “My father was such a fucking dick I’m surprised he even got my mother to marry him, let alone fucking have one kid. I think he hated me enough to never fucking risk it again.”

“Risk it?” She’d kept her voice impossibly gentle as she’d asked, and it made his skin crawl all weird.

“I was the biggest fucking regret of his life. If he could go back and stop me from happening in the first place, make my mother flush me out, he wouldn’t have fucking hesitated.”

She’d paused, and a very fucking stupid part of Ben had thought she was going to let the conversation go. Of course, he should’ve fucking known by now that She damn well wouldn’t.

“What was your mom like?”

He hadn’t fucking expected that, and it had shocked him enough to answer. “Kind. Too kind for my father, he saw it as fucking weakness and told her all the fucking time. But she was so fucking kind.” He took a heavy breath. “She was full of love, and I have no fucking clue how. It was fucking stupid, all her love, even for my piece of shit father. He’d yell at her and threaten her and mock her, but she still fucking loved him. She fucking loved everything.”

Her voice was still gentle from beside him. “Like what?”

“Animals. Cats specifically. My father had all these fucking hunting dogs he loved more than anything, certainly more than me, and the only good thing he ever fucking did was trade one to get her a cat. It was massive, fluffy and gray, and it was a fucking asshole to everyone but her. It ate like a fucking elephant, shed like a whore in summer, but she loved it so fucking much.” At this point Ben had really wished he would shut the fuck up, but he couldn’t, and he was going to have to figure out a way to blame Her for that later. “She loved art. Painting. She tried to get me to love it too, even though I could barely draw a fucking worm. But I’d try, and she’d frame all my stupid, shitty drawings and hang them around the house until my father saw them and threw them in the trash. She loved music but couldn’t carry a tune if her life fucking depended on it. They’d go to the opera because my father would donate a ton for the publicity, and she’d come back all damn giddy. I’d wait up, just because she was fucking contagious when she was that happy. Even my father felt it, enough to just go straight to bed and not kick my ass for still being awake. She was fucking smart, too. Real fucking smart. My father would joke he wished she was a man, because then her brain would be useful. She would’ve fucking jumped for joy if she saw the world now. Met a fucking woman doctor.” He paused, looking back down at Her beside him. She hadn’t looked away from him, and there was none of the pity he’d expected to see on her face. It was just open, listening intently to his words with no malice or trickery behind her eyes.

“She sounds amazing.” She’d said softly, a small smile he didn’t understand on her face. “And your dad sounds like a fucking cunt.”

Ben had chuckled in surprise. “Fucking understatement of the damn year, Sunshine. That pussy would’ve tried to pry your degree from your fucking hands.”

“Let him try, I’d burn his fucking face off and laugh while I did it.”

“What were you even going to fucking do with a PhD in archeology?" He’d asked, and she’d huffed a small laugh.

“Anthropology, Pretty Boy. But nice guess.” She corrected. “And I’m honestly not sure. I’d quite literarily only just actually received the degree before everything… changed.” She’d sighed. “I had a few job offers, but mostly in academia and business. What I wanted was to work with nonprofits to help people.”

“Help people?” He’d given her a disbelieving stare. “With a prissy fucking degree?”

“Yeah, dickwad. Help people. I was a cultural anthropologist. I specialized in the evolution of cultures and ways to combat systemic cultural oppression.”

He’d stared at Her blankly. “You’re going to have to take down the fucking fancy talk by seven, Sunshine.”

“I studied how the government and culture is mean to people on purpose, and how to make them stop being mean.” She’d said flatly.

“Oh.” He’d rolled his eyes at the dirty look she was giving him. “Oh, fuck off. It wasn’t that painful to say.”

“Yes, it was.” She’d mumbled, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re not going to argue with me?”

“What’s there to fucking argue about?”

“I just called your beloved country an ‘oppressive system’.” She’d watched him wearily, but her heart remained steady. “Doesn’t it mar your refined American nationalism?”

“Do you fucking want me to be mad?” Ben had asked, raising his brows at her. “I can definitely find it in me, that’s not a fucking issue. But usually when we fight about this shit, you get all bitchy and don’t talk to me for way too fucking long.”

“I mean, no, I don’t want you to get mad…” She’d frowned, examining him with yet another fucking confusing look. “Does it really bother you when I ignore you?”

“No.” He’d snapped quickly. “It’s just annoying, and I don’t like having to fucking deal with it.”

She’d hummed with an amused smile on her face, and the conversation had moved on to something else. Ben had shoved down the way it had been so easy to talk about his mother with her, until it was somewhere in his gut and he didn’t have to think about the way the feeling rolled around inside him.

And he refused to even acknowledge how when She would smile now, he’d have to fight himself to not do the same.

———-

It had been a week since the Sage incident, a week since Ben had saved your life—you'd locked everything about that particular action from what you thought of it to how it made you feel somewhere deep in your chest—and you were starting to lose your mind a little bit. When Annie and Hughie had stopped by with nervous words about delays in your meticulously prepared and incredibly well-detailed plan, you’d been willing to wait another day, maybe two, before executing operation Quick and Bald. Now it had been three days, burgeoning on four, and you were worryingly close to leaving the safe house just to yell at Butcher. Ben could stay here, or follow you and help you beat Butcher up for all you cared. Which was, admittedly, worrying within itself. Especially because the whole point of operation Quick and Bald was to take preventative measures against Ben’s needless brutality.

Over a month ago, right after you’d moved into the safe house and when you had been ready to throttle Ben’s neck every waking moment—an urge that hadn’t entirely waned, but was now undercut with a weirder, stronger urge to be near him without any murderous intent—you’d spent the hours quarantined in your room perfecting your plan to get Ryan Butcher the fuck out of dodge. When they’d come to pick you and Ben up for the whole Neuman test, you’d left it in the van for Butcher to find, and had been waiting since for him to set up the dominoes so you could knock them over.

At this point, you’d be happy with not even “dominos to knock over” and just “one singular domino to throw at someone." You had begun to develop a habit of staring down the hall from the living room, trying to will someone to appear with at least a fucking update. So far this strategy was not working, and had apparently started to garner attention.

Sitting on the couch, the TV white noise in the background and noodles in your hand cold and forgotten, you felt a foreign rush of oddly tight concern run through your body. You frowned, heard your name from next to you, and turned to find that Ben had been poking your arm.

“Are you fucking alive?” He grunted, watching you with a frown.

“Literally? Yes.” You answered with a tight smile. “You have noodles on your face.”

He reached up to feel for them, not looking away from you. “What the fuck do you mean literally? How can you be fucking metaphorically alive?”

“Mind-body problem, Pretty Boy. And it’s not metaphorically, it’s philosophically.” You lean back, grinning.

“You’re a real fucking pretentious bitch sometimes.” He grumbled, still trying to find the food stuck to his beard.

“If you made me a shirt that said that, I’d wear it.”

“I’m not going to fucking make you a shirt, Sunshine. You couldn’t make me learn to fucking sow with a gun to my head.”

“Because the gun wouldn’t affect you at all?” You pointed to your own chin, mirroring where the noodle was caught.

He sneered. “Because I’m not a pussy.” His hand found the stray piece of his dinner, and he pulled it from his jaw.

“Big words from the man who took two tries to make me instant ramen- hey!” A wet noodle hits you in the face.

“Ramen your ungrateful ass didn’t even fucking eat.” Ben gave a pointed look at the abandoned cup in your hands, the food inside having long lost any heat. “Don’t fucking test me, or I’ll actually spit in your food next time.”

“Drama queen,” you muttered, peeking back at the door. “Like you don’t already do that.”

“I fight the urge to be a fucking bitch, unlike certain women.”

You nod absentmindedly. “Butcher.”

Ben snorted behind you, and a smile you hoped he didn’t see crept onto your face.

“Yeah, sure Sunshine.” His attention returned to the TV, and you did your best to not stare down the hall, trying to ignore the hope that the door now shrouded in darkness would open.

A successful effort that made you jump out of your seat when it did just that with an aggressive bang.

Ben was faster than you, practically launching himself over the sofa and bolting down the hall, a dangerous look of alarm the last thing you saw on his face before he was gone from the room.

“Shit, no! It’s me!” You heard a high-pitched shout from the shadows of the entrance. “It’s Hughie!”

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” You heard Ben’s growl of a response.

Butcher’s voice drawled from the shadows. “Oi, take a deep fucking breath and put the bloody kid down.” 

“Someone fucking answer me first.”

“Put him down, Soldier Boy, before we knock your ancient ass the fuck out.” The impatient, clipped words of MM responded, almost drowned out by Frenchie's shout.

“Can someone turn on the fucking lights? It is as dark as Monsieur Butcher’s heart and asshole!” 

“I- I don’t feel good.” Hughie’s voice stuttered.

“Ben!” You flicked on the hallway sconces, illuminating a scene of Ben’s full body weight pressing Hughie to the wall, Butcher and MM trying with practically negative success to pry him off, and Kimiko gripping one of Frenchie’s arms as his other groped around for direction. You let out a very long, very loud sigh. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s fucking late,” he snapped, not letting Hughie go. “They shouldn’t be here so fucking late.”

“This ain’t your real house, Mate.” Butcher grunted, still trying to move Ben. “We can be here whenever we bloody well please.”

Hughie wheezed out your name in a pleading tone. “Your plan is ready. We’re here to- fuck- we’re here to get you.”

That got you moving, crossing to the end of the hall in quick, frantic steps. “It’s ready? Are you sure?” Hughie gave a weak nod, and you rolled your eyes, shoving Ben shoulder. “Put him down, dumbass. He’s not a threat, and honestly, probably the worst one to have gone after. Just, like, strategically.”

Ben glared at you, but let go. He glanced at where MM and Butcher were still grabbing him, and gave them a venomous look that got them both to let go and take hasty steps back. He shot a glowering look of they could’ve fucking waited until the morning in your direction.

You wrinkled your nose at him. No. Shut the fuck up. You turned to Hughie, not even bothering to hide the desperation you felt in your imploring stare. “It’s all ready? All of it? A-Train agreed to help? We’re sure Ashley has the information? We’re sure neither one is going to tell Homelander, and we’re not about to walk into a fucking trap?”

“Yes, yes, yes, kind of, and yes.” Butcher counted off on his fingers as he answered. “But we’ve got to go right fucking now.”

“Kind of?” Anxious energy rushed through you—that still-strange feeling lighting under your skin—and you ignored the weird look Ben shot you as it did. “What do you mean, kind of? If you fucked this up, Butcher, I swear to God-"

“Calm the fuck down, Love.” Butcher snapped. “It’s going to be fine, we’ll explain on the way. But we need to go fucking now if you want this to work.”

You gave a sharp nod, starting to pull on your boot, glancing up with a pause when you heard Hughie say your name behind you.

“Do you, uh, do you want to get dressed first?” His voice was still slightly weak as he recovered from Ben’s force.

You glanced down at your body, and decided that the oversized shirt and cloth shorts would be fine. They were from the CIA spring fire-proof collection, and that was more than enough. “Nope. Let’s fucking move.”

You were halfway to the door when a crash sounded behind you, and you whirled around to see MM firmly blocking Ben’s path, the crash seeming to have been Hughie stumbling into the wall in an attempt to get away from the standoff.

“You’re not coming, Soldier Boy. This is a goddamn delicate operation, and you’re the fucking reason we have to do it in the first place. We can’t afford you throwing a tantrum and screwing us.”

“I’m fucking coming, and it’s not up for fucking debate.”

Off to the side, Frenchie snickered as Kimiko signed how many times do you think he’s said that before?

Ben shot them an annoyed look, his fists clenching. “What’s so fucking funny?”

“Nothing,” Frenchie snickered, and his tone was so remarkably unconvincing that even if you hadn’t understood Kimiko, you wouldn’t have believed him.

Ben grunted and tried to move past MM, again to no avail.

He glared down at the firmly planted man, a familiar violent glint in his eyes. “You better fucking move now, before I make you.”

“Do your fucking worst, we’ll put you right back in the box. You’re not coming with us.”

“MM,” you said firmly, watching Ben's fists clench as the dangerous glint returns to his eyes. “We need to go.”

MM looks back at you, but remains in his place. “Are you fucking serious? You’re siding with him?”

“I’m not siding with him.” You keep your voice level, ignoring Ben’s smug face and grin. “We can’t leave him. The I go where he goes thing unfortunately goes both ways.”

“The safe house will hold him for five hours.” MM pushed, and before you could even shake your head, Ben cut in.=

"No, it won’t.”

You shoot him a look that says you’re being unhelpful, and he just returns it with his own of fuck off, you know you fucking want me there.

“Please, MM. He’ll stay quiet in the background, or I’ll burn his dick off. Right?” You direct your last words at Ben, giving him a pointed agree with me or I’m knocking you out and leaving you here look.

“Yeah, whatever. But I’m not staying in the fucking van like a pussy. And you’d better explain what the fuck is happening on the way, Sunshine.”

“Deal. But first they,” You narrowed your eyes at Butcher. “Have some explaining of their own to do.”

“Don’t lose your bloody mind, Love, it’s all in order.” Butcher said breezily, shoving past you to open the door. He gave a dramatic wave of his arm for you to exit, and with a look of doubt, you did.

The car ride was already poised to be uncomfortable. Butcher’s car was not equipped for seven people, let alone seven people where three were very large men, three were supes, and nobody wanted to have physical contact with two. As such, Butcher drove, MM sat in the front, you found yourself squished against one window with Ben between you and a remarkably uncomfortable Hughie, as Kimiko sat, slightly elevated onto their laps, between Frenchie at the other window, and Hughie. It was overall an unideal situation, made worse as your own frustration was amplified by Ben’s, and by Hughie revealing that it was, in fact, not all in order.

Your phase one, the original operation Quick and Bald had called for Ashley Barrett’s complete cooperation. You’d even painstakingly outlined all the potential ways to flip her—most involving something along the lines of hey, wouldn’t a job that didn’t make you so stressed you rip out all your hair and have to buy a bunch of wigs be nice?—and different ways to keep Homelander from finding out about her betrayal—Spain was lovely this time of year, and had a thriving BDSM community Ashley would love. While MM had managed to take care of your instructions for A-Train, the half of the plan you’d incorrectly anticipated to be more difficult, the Ashley situation was, in Butcher’s words, very fucking delicate, but we’ve adapted and everything will be bloody fine, so trust me and don’t be a fucking cunt about it.

You did not trust him. I didn’t help that you’d asked for any other possible details, and he’d pretended he couldn’t hear you. This suspicion was confirmed when, despite your incredible clarity that you would never step foot there again, Butcher seemed to be driving right to Vought Tower.

Your eyes had been steadily widening, panic starting to run through you the closer and closer you got, and you flinched when you felt Ben’s roughly shoulder nudge your own.

“What’s fucking wrong with you?” He’d asked in a low voice, barely audible over Hughie’s rambling explanation.

“You should listen,” you mutter back, trying to shut out the confusing concern he always seemed to feel at you, how it felt remarkably genuine, but was laced with anger that felt like it was trying to push out of your body. “Hughie’s explaining the plan.”

“Yeah, but all I have to fucking do is stay quiet, and I get to keep my dick. You’re being fucking twitchy and silent, and your heart is beating faster than it has all damn day, so don’t even try to fucking lie and tell me it’s fine.”

“It is fine, I’m fine-“ You paused as his words sank in. “Wait, what do you mean my heart-“

“Alright, here we go.” Butcher cut off both you and Hughie with a clap of his hands. “Everyone bloody out, let’s get this shitshow on the road.”

“Butcher,” you said, looking around to see you’d parked directly across from the tower entrance. “What the fuck are we doing here?”

“We’re meeting them right there.” MM answered for Butcher, pointing out of his window to something you couldn’t see. “It’s almost midnight, and Annie’s been making sure nobody gets inside but us.”

“But why?” You protest, even as MM leaves the car. “This,” you give a wide, general wave that hits Ben in the nose. “Cannot be the only option.”

“Both of them still have their trackers,” Hughie leans forward with an apologetic look as Frenchie and Kimiko exit the car. “This will look like they’re just getting a midnight snack, and hopefully Homelander won’t get suspicious.”

“Hopefully?!” You feel a rush of anger—not yours—and a twist of fear deep within your gut—absolutely yours. “Hopefully fucking Homelander won’t get suspicious?!”

Hughie gave an uncertain nod before very quickly scrambling to get out of the car. You take a long, deep breath, trying to steel yourself. A rush of what was becoming a familiar fuming and brittle concern ran through you. You look at Ben, to find his eyes locked firmly onto yours.

“Sorry about hitting-“

“I know how to hot-wire a car.”

You blink at him, taken aback by the firmness of his voice. “What?”

His hand moved to grip your thigh, his gaze not wavering. “I know how to hot-wire a car.”

You give him a flat look. “Yeah, I heard you the first time. Why are you telling me that?”

His frustration leaked into you. “Because say the word, I’ll steal Butcher’s car, and we’ll fucking leave.”

“What? Are you insane?”

“You look like you’re either going to start fucking crying or burst into flames, and this is a stupid fucking idea.”

“This was my plan.” You snap. “And I’m not stealing Butcher’s car. Why do you even know how to hot-wire a car anyway?”

Ben’s grip tightened. “No, your plan was stupidly well fucking thought out.”

“That’s an oxymoron.” You mutter, and he ignores you.

“And even if they haven’t completely fucking blown the execution, they completely squashed any chance of safety.”

“It’ll be fine,” you say, the words sounding fake even as you say them. “It’s late. He’s probably asleep.”

“What if he’s not?” His concern was starting to move to your throat, and there was something else, something sitting far deeper in your chest, beating and beating against you. Against you.

“Ben.” You place your hand over his. “I’ve worked too hard on this. This is the only way, and it will be fine.” You say the last words firmly and clearly, trying to make them sink into you. “Now take your fucking hand off of me, and get out of the damn car.”

He pulls himself from you, and even as his touch leaves, the concern and beat linger until he’s gone from the car. You drag yourself across the seats and ignore Hughie’s offer of a hand as you duck out of the car and onto the curb. You notice the 24 hour diner MM must have been pointing out almost immediately, half because—aside from an incredibly sketchy looking deli a few doors down—it’s the only building with its lights still on, and half because two very flustered teenagers are sulking away from the entrance, where Annie stands with her arms crossed. She’s already spotted your group, and has angeled her head in a signal to join her.

“You’re late.” She chides as you approach.

“Well, Starlight, I’d apologize, but it was those two fuckheads,” Ben and MM both receive a jabbed thumb over Butcher’s shoulder. “Who decided to draw out the bloody carpool process.”

“I told you not to call me Starlight anymore, Butcher.” Annie snaps, not giving him a chance to respond before she turns to you. “A-Train is, somehow, running behind as well. Hopefully Ashley’s just being resistant to getting food with him, but they’ll be here.”

“Isn’t running that pussy’s whole fucking thing?” Ben muttered, quiet enough for only you to hear. You step as hard as you can on his foot.

“Shut it, Pretty Boy.” You whisper over his grunt of what probably is more emotional pain than physical.

“Bitch.” He hisses back.

“Cunt.” You raise your voice so the others can hear you. “We should go inside, it’s risky to just… stand here.”

With nervous looks around and stuttered agreements, you all make your way into the diner. The lights are flickering, and it’s eerily empty with only a very nervous-looking blonde waitress at the counter. She makes a very big show of asking how many are in your party, leading you to a large, round table, and laying out the menus with shaky hands. Kimiko, Hughie, Annie, and MM try and offer her comforting smiles, though MM’s is strained as he keeps a vigilant glare on Ben. The waitress is staring at Ben herself, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, glacing back as she leaves to get your and Butcher’s coffee, Annie and MM’s tea, Kimiko and Hughie’s milkshakes, and Ben and Frenchie’s orders of “the strongest alcohol you’ve fucking got.” Your personal bet was it was going to just be very old beer.

“Why is she fucking staring at me?” Ben muttered to you, watching the waitress as she walked away. “Did you fuck up my beard that bad?”

“Your beard looks literally the same.” You dismiss. “And it’s because, as far as the public knows, Maeve killed you in a heroic act of self-sacrifice to stop your evil, anti-American attacks. That, or she wants to fuck you.”

“Hm,” he looks back at you, settling down into his seat. “Am I allowed to bring guests into the safe house?”

“No.” You say, a little more curtly than you intended. Seeing his wide, cocky grin, you clairfy. “It’s a breach of security. She would need to pass a CIA vetting and be approved by, like, twenty people. I don’t think she’d do that just to fuck you.”

Ben shrugs, his smirk only growing. “You did.”

“I’m going to cut off your balls and feed them to you-“

“Hey,” MM cuts you off, saying your name in a brisk, hard tone from across the table. “They’re here.”

You snap your head to the door, where A-Train is practically pushing Ashley into the diner.

You hear her voice clearly over the recession pop humming from the speakers. “Why can’t we just go to the fucking deli? They make these amazing meatball subs and supes eat free, so you could order for both of us- oh fuck no.”

“Oh, shit.” MM mutters, jumping to his feet with Butcher and Annie as Ashley notices them, and promptly tries to dash for the exit.

You don’t entirely blame her. You’d probably do the same. You had done the same, an unhelpful voice reminds you.

“I- Am- Not-“ Ashley is trying to get past A-Train, who hasn’t given up trying to herd her further into the diner. “Fuck- this-“

“Ashley, just listen to them, I fucking swear-“

“Why should I trust you?!” Ashley doubles over, out of breath. “You fucking tricked me! Midnight snack my fucking ass- Fuck no!” She raises a crooked finger at Annie, who has stopped in front of her. “Get the fuck away from me, you bitch.”

“Ashley, please listen to A-Train-“

“No! Just leave me the fuck alone! I don’t want to be a part of your weird fucking eye for an eye justice shit-“

“You kind of already are.” MM says as he locks the door behind her. “You work for Vought, your it’s motherfucking CEO. That makes you a part of this, like it or not.”

“Not!” Ashley shouts. “I don’t care what you have to say! Homelander’s going to fucking kill me, oh my god.” She starts to hyperventilate. “If he finds out I was here, he’ll kill you-“ She points a shaky finger at A-Train. “And then make me go on fucking TV to explain why you’re missing, and then fucking kill me-“

Butcher scoffs. “Bloody hell, lady. Calm the fuck down, Homelander ain’t gonna find out.”

“You don’t know that!” She shrieked. “He knows fucking everything! Especially since fucking Sage joined!” She spins around frantically, and her wild eyes lock onto yours. “He knows about them!” A shaking finger jumps between you and Ben. “Fuck! He’s supposed to be fucking asleep and now he’s fucking not! And he was so fucking angry about her, I’ve never seen him so fucking angry-“

Whatever else Ashley stutters about Homelander’s anger is lost to you as the world freezes. The feeling isn’t just under your skin, it’s up your spine, in your blood, circling around your brain. It’s fucking everywhere and you can’t fucking breathe, her words looping around you.

He knows. He’s angry. He fucking knows. He’s fucking angry. He fucking knows and he’s fucking angry and he fucking knows and he’s fucking angry and-

A white hot, impossibly calm feeling crashes over you. It’s angry, hungry and angry, but it’s grounding, sharpening everything around you. Suddenly the world is back in complete focus, Ashley’s shrill rambling scraping at your ears, and in the distance that weird fucking rhythm is sounding. As the feeling in your body returns fully, you realize Ben’s hand is back on your thigh. You bounce it, looking up to give him a glare, and find he’s not even looking at you. Instead, his eyes are trained on Ashley, narrowed and cold. You give a small cough, and when he glances down at you, the feeling of anger stutters with something lighter, though only for a second.

You give another bounce of your leg, a look of move your damn hand or lose it taking over your face.

No, not until you calm the fuck down his scowl responds.

You huff, standing abruptly, and his hand falls off at the force of your movement. Suddenly you feel a lot less solid, but reason that your legs are shaky from the Homelander of it all, and if any situation calls for fractured nerves, it’s this one.

“Ashley.” You call across the diner, trying not to stutter or chew off your lip as her protests falters and attention turns to you. “If you know who I am, you know I wouldn’t be anywhere near here if we weren’t certain it was safe. Just have some food with us, listen, and then you can go.”

Ashley gives you a scowl that might surpass Ben’s but nods tightly, yanking her arm from where A-Train had been trying to hold her in place. You sit back down as the group at the door returns to their seats, the poor waitress pressing herself against the bar as they pass. Letting out a shaky, unsteady breath, you try and still yourself as you look out the diner window. City lights. Music.

City lights.

Music.

It was safe. He knows and he’s angry but was safe and there were city lights and music.

Your breathing was no longer coming in short, distressed bursts, but getting air in and out of yourself still felt like an act of labor, and you needed to get it the fuck together before Ashley sat down.

City lights. Music.

You can’t hear the song the diner is playing, instead letting your whole mind turn inward, allowing the ghost of music you can no longer sing to wash over you.

Ashley sits across from you right when you regain control, and from the corner of your eye, you see Ben pulling his hand from where it had been inching towards yours.

Her eyes flit, nerves poorly hidden, from you to Ben to Butcher to Annie and back to you, and her voice is high and shaky when she speaks. “Well?”

“Ashley, we need your help.” Annie leans forward, palms flat on the table.

“Well, then we’re done. I can’t help you. They don’t tell me anything, not really.” Ashley tries to stand, but her arm is caught by A-Train. “Really?” A-Train hisses as he pulls her back into her seat beside him. “They don’t tell you anything my ass, we sit in on all the same meetings. And I pulled these files-“ He pulls out a thumb drive from absolutely nowhere and drops it on the table. “Using your name, so you clearly have access to them.”

“What?!” Ashley looks at the thumb drive like it’s going to either explode or start jizzing on her blouse. “Why would you fucking do that?”

“Insurance.” A-Train answers smugly, the thumbdrive clearly having his intended. “I can’t open it, so you’re going to tell them how, and then I’ll erase the records of you taking the files from the system.”

Ashley looks around at your group, shaking her head. “No.”

“Sorry, Mate. We ain’t really asking.” Butcher leans across A-Train, shoving the thumb drive closer to Ashley. “Do us this solid, and A-Train won’t go right up to Homelander and tell him about how he saw you also cuddly and tight with me, Soldier Boy, and his favorite missing person.”

Your heart jumps right into your throat. City lights. Music.

Suddenly, Ben’s elbow is planted against yours, and you’re pulled back down to earth just in time to hear Ashley yell, “This is fucking blackmail! I’ll fucking sue!”

“You cannot sue government officials, madame.” Frenchie says smugly, and Hughie shakes his head.

“That’s- Frenchie, that’s not even kind of true.”

“You’re also not a government official.” Annie adds.

Frenchie looks genuinely perplexed at this and gives Kimiko a confused frown, receiving a shrug in return.

“But,” you pipe up, your voice somehow bored and casual. “I’m legally dead. He’s-“ You jab Ben in the chest, and Ashley’s eyes widen. “Legally dead and an enemy of the state. You can’t sue either of us, not without admitting some Vought secrets that will be very bad PR.” You give her a twisted smile, leering across the table. “Help us, or, even if Homelander believes you, which we both know he won’t, you’ll get fired. And I’m sure they’ll be very understanding and normal about how they do it.”

You feel a flash of weird pride and realize you can see Ben fighting a smile in your periphery.

Ashley has a fearful expression, looking at where your elbow is still connected with Ben’s. “What- what's even on it?”

“Becca Butcher files.” You say, not taking your gaze from her, but you didn’t need to look around to see the sudden, rigidness with which everyone sat. You even felt Ben’s own shock run through you.

You’d be lying if you said hiding the exact contents of the file hadn’t been a very purposeful choice that you and Butcher had made. He’d cornered you, demanding to know what you planned on doing should Soldier Boy go after Ryan, and you’d told him that it wouldn’t be an issue. Ryan looked up to Homelander, that was why he stayed. He’d lost his mother, he didn’t trust Butcher, all the poor kid had was his insane, sociopathic father. Some part of you—small and sad and tired, still sitting on a staircase in Boston—understood that. But with Becca gone, gone forever, Ryan didn’t have a place to run like you’d had. Homelander was the default, and just kind enough to his son that Ryan could force himself to forgive Homelander again and again. Homelander was safe for Ryan.

You were going to make sure Ryan never saw Homelander as safe again. And that started with Becca Butcher and would end with you. So you and Butcher had agreed with a tight handshaked that he'd ripped his hand from right after, everyone was only going to know what they needed to. That was the only way it would work.

“Becca Butcher files?” MM repeats in a slow, incredulous tone. “You,” he turns with a look of shock to Butcher. “You knew about this? You’re fuckin okay with this?”

“I’m doing what has to be done, Mate.” Butcher answers flatly, then says your name. “Tell ‘em the plan, Love.”

“We need to get Ryan away from Homelander. Ryan needs to know about his mother.”

“No,” Ashley was emerging from the shock to try and stand from the table, but A-Train’s arm shot out, pulling her back down once more. “No,” she says again, looking around desperately. “Ryan, Ryan is all he has. All he cares about. You take Ryan he’ll lose his mind-“

“He’s already lost his mind.” Something snaps in your chest—a cruel feeling waking up as you watch Ashley fret about Homelander. “And I couldn’t give less fucks about what he cares about.” The feeling is crawling across your skin. “If this hurts him, good. It could never hurt him enough to make it right.” You hear drums and still can’t place where they’re coming from. “Now listen to the last fucking strand of your morality on your scalp and fucking help us.”

Ashley shakes her head again, this time with less certainty. “It’s- no- He-“ she pulls in a deep, unsteady breath. “He won’t stop until he gets Ryan back. He already is going insane about you and him and how he needs to get you back safe and put him back down, and if Ryan goes to then nothing will stop him-“

The drums are loud now, and something that’s usually there on Ben’s face is missing. Your own body doesn’t feel entirely normal anymore, but it’s not paralyzed or running. You can feel something in Ben caving, falling inward in a growing rhythm, moving in time as something in you grows. It's not in you now, it’s across you, coating your skin and singing with glee.

“Ashley,” the sound of your voice is a little far away, but you can hear it echo through you. It’s wired, hot, a warning.

“I- I can’t.”

“Yes, you fucking can.” You sneer. “You’re just too much of a pussy to do it.” Ben coughs in the way that you know means he wants to laugh, just as the drums stutter and move farther away.

“Please, I don’t-“

“Do not make me stab you.”

Ashley falters, looking you up and down. “You won’t.”

“Trust me, she will.” Ben smirks, giving you a nudge. “She’s surprisingly violent.”

“I, I won’t. I can’t. He’ll kill me-“

“You think we won’t?” Ben growls, any amusement in him gone as you feel something unbreakable and resolved through your body.

Ashley tries to run again, this time actually managing to get up from the table, but is knocked flat on her ass by A-Train before she can take two steps. You stand and give the itch, now under your tongue and your nails, a small scratch.

“Oh, fuck no.” You hear scrambling as you walk around the table and stop, staring down at Ashley.

She’s crawling back from you, back from the fire curling from your whole body, and disgust curls in your gut. For the first time you feel anger—insatiable and gory anger—all of your own. No city lights flash around you, no hollow music dances around your head. You don’t fear Ashley. She’s weak and spineless. She’s willing to cover her hands in Ryan’s blood, in your blood, to keep herself safe from Homelander. She’s staring at you, terrified, and you don’t need to touch her to know it isn’t even a fraction of all the fear you felt in that white room. That white room she knows about, may have seen, and is still trying to keep Homelander happy.

You bend down, letting all your hatred for Vought, for her, cover your features. When you speak, your words are clear and low.

“You are going to tell Butcher how to access the thumbdrive. A-Train and you are going to take some food with you, and walk back to the tower. You aren’t going to tell Homelander about this, and if he asks, offer him some leftovers. A-Train will erase your activity from the files, and you’re going to pretend the whole night never happened. If you tell Homelander about either me or Be-“ You correct yourself smoothly. “Soldier Boy, the last thing I will do before he locks me away again is kill you. Do I make myself clear?”

Ashley nods frantically, flinching when you raise your hand.

“Say it. Say that I made myself clear.”

“You-“ Ashley stutters, hiccuping. “You made yourself clear.”

You draw yourself back up. “Good. Butcher, I’m leaving. You can drive me and come back, or Ben can steal your car, but I’m leaving.”

When you turn, when you see the looks on your team’s face, all the anger is gone, and suddenly there is a crushing, painful weight of shame on your chest. They’re looking at you like Ashley had been, like you’re no better than Homelander. Like maybe you should go back in the room, it would be safer for them, it would be safer for everyone if you were far, far away-

“You heard the lady.” Ben is standing, walking around to your side. “It’s late. We’re leaving. Sunshine?” He offers you his arm, and you stare between it and your own, still covered in flame. Looking up, his face looks bored, as if this is just another Tuesday, and he offers his arm to women who are actively ablaze on a regular basis.

Your face feels slack, and all you can manage is to blink at him. I’ll burn you, Pretty Boy. It’ll hurt.

His brows subtly knit, and he doesn’t move. I’ll live, Sunshine. Don’t let them see you break. We’re going home.

You look back at your team, a wide circle of berth having formed around you and Ben. Butcher is looking between the two of you, and you recognize that glint in his eyes. You’d seen it before, but it’s only been really, truly directed at you once. In a graveyard in Boston, gravestones and bushes around you burning in the dead of winter, holding a bucket of ice that steamed off your skin. Under it, fear begins to creep back into you, exhaustion pushing it forward. Butcher reaches behind him, and your knees feel weak.

But you don’t fall. Zealous anger, strong and raw, spreads through you and Butcher’s movements still. You look down and find Ben’s arm unflinchingly looped through yours, his body at its full height as his eyes rake coldly over Butcher.

The silence hangs in the air, cut through only by Ashley’s quick, sobbed breaths. For a second you think the smoke seeping from you will overtake the room before anyone moves, but Butcher slowly reaches into his pockets, eyes not leaving Ben’s, and throws the keys at Hughie.

“Drop them off, Mate, then come right back. No bloody detours.”

Hughie stares at the keys, looking like he’s going to protest, but Kimiko grabs them before he can.

She turns to you, completely composed, no fear wavering as she locks your eyes with hers. I’ll take you.

Before you can thank her, Frenchie steps forward, signing as he speaks. “Mon Coeur, you cannot drive.”

She frowns. Yes I can.

“No, Mon Coeur, not legally.” Frenchie says, exasperated, and you have a feeling this is not first time they've had this debate.

Kimiko rolls her eyes at you. Fine. She signs back at Frenchie, throwing the keys at him. You’ll do it.

Frenchie stumbles as he catches them, giving Kimiko a shocked look, which she pretends not to see as she walks to the door, signing at you as she passes.

Let’s go before Butcher’s brain starts working.

A small smile threatens your face, and you move, tugging Ben’s arm only once before he falls into pace with you, Frenchie scrambling behind you both.

The car ride back feels longer. The moment you’d stepped out of the diner, your body had extinguished, and you had a worrying sense that the only thing keeping you from collapsing on the sidewalk was Ben’s arm firm through yours. No words were said for the entirety of the drive, you and Ben in the backseat as Frenchie drove and Kimiko lounged in shotgun, and your brain raced. Ben hadn’t let go, and the drums were fading in and out of your chest as he stared ahead into the night.

You arrived at the safe house, only a street lamp casting a dull glow across the street. The chill of the wind cutting against you as Kimiko walked you to the door, Frenchie mumbling something about keeping the car safe from Hooligans. Ben made to step inside, but halted, still not releasing your arm, as you stayed at the doorstep.

At his questioning glare, you tried to wiggle his arm from yours. “Go inside, Ben. I’ll be right there.”

He looked down at where he was still connected with you, and you felt reluctance in time with the drums, but he let go with a scowl. “Be fast,” he grunted, and stomped into the house.

You watched until he’d disappeared fully down the hall, turning to Kimiko only once his back was shrouded in the darkness of the house.

“Thank you,” you give her a soft smile, signing as you speak. “I- I don’t know what happened, I just-“

She shakes her head, and you trail off. I understand. I get angry too. She pauses, hands hovering for only a second. We are not like them. She points down the street, in the direction of the tower, and then past you, into the house. We get to be angry.

“I don’t want to be angry.” You say softly. “He wins when I get angry.”

Kimiko gives you a sad look, placing a hand on your arm. Her own frustration, her fear of Homelander, all the anger at the world, sinks into you. She holds your gaze for a second before drawing back to sign once more. He doesn’t win when you’re angry. He wins when you’re scared. You’re not Soldier Boy. Your anger is good.

You glance back into the house. “I think he- Ben- Soldier Boy- is scared. Or something. His emotions are really fucking confusing.”

You let him touch you. She signs. Does he know?

“He said he didn’t care, because he’s, and I quote, ‘not a pussy with something to hide’.”

But he’s scared? She gives you a questioning frown. Do you think it’s because of Russia? Could you fix it, like you offered for me?

“I’m not sure, but-“ you’re cut off as Frenchie honks the horn, leaning out the window.

“Mon Coeur!” His odd position makes his signing almost unintelligible, which he seems to realize, and raises his voice. “Monsieur Butcher says to get back ‘like a hare with a bomb up it’s arse'.”

Kimiko rolls her eyes at you, but signs a goodbye, giving your hand a small squeeze before returning to the car. As the engine rumbles, Frenchie pulling out the driveway, Kimiko’s calm faith lingers in you, and you walk back into the house, shutting the door behind you.

Almost all the lamps and ceiling lights of the house are off, the TV glowing from where you had abandoned it several hours ago. From the bottom of the stairs, you can see the upstairs hall is washed in a soft yellow, and when you reach the top Ben’s door is open, the light from within filling the hall. You stop at the entrance to his room, his back to you as he pulls a cotton shirt over his head.

You let out a small cough in a weak attempt to alert him to your presence.

“You’re allowed to just come in, Sunshine.” He grunts, still facing away. “I’m not a shy little virgin you need to pussyfoot around.”

You let out a small hum, walking over the threshold and stopping a few feet behind him. “Thank you.” You say softly, and he turns around to look at you.

His eyes are tired. Pained. Something looks like it’s pulling at him and it scares you. You’ve seen that expression before, when you’d woken him up that first day, at the Neuman mission, when you pulled him from nightmares with sharp hits, but never just there. It was always with something. This was like an island, just him and you, nothing pulling it out of him.

“Don’t thank me.” He says gruffly. Even his voice is drained. “You mostly held your own.”

“But-“

“And stop feeling bad about that Ashley bitch. She fucking deserved it.”

You stare at him. “You really believe that?”

He lets out a hollow laugh. “She was fucking pathetic. A fucking pussy. Fucking eating out Homelander’s fucking hand, brown-nosing him until he fucking cums and pays her, letting him take you-“ His jaw clenches. “I fucking meant it when I said we’re not going back Sunshine. I’m not a goddamn pussy liar.”

“I didn’t think you were. But, you…” Your voice fades as you try to find the words. “I could feel you. At the diner.”

“I fucking know, that was the goddamn point. I wasn’t going to let you start crying in front of those self-righteous pussies.”

“No, Ben.” You shake your head. “I could feel you. I could feel it.” You place a hand over your chest. “It was building. There was something beating against you, inside you. And you looked…” You watch him carefully. “Scared.”

“Fucking watch it.” He growls. “I don’t get fucking scared. I’m not-“

“A fucking pussy. I know.” You sigh. “I don’t want to, I can’t, fight right now. I’m so fucking tired. You can scream at me in the morning, but not right now, please.”

He stares at you, and just when you think he’s going to start yelling, he nods. “You’re…” He sounds strange. “You’re ok.”

Just like the last time he said it, the words aren’t phrased like a question. They don’t feel like a question. It feels like he’s just telling you again. But there’s something under it this time, something that makes his words almost unsure. Something that makes up your mind faster than you thought you would.

“Are you?” You ask quietly.

“Of course I fucking am.”

“Ben.” You tilt your head at him. “I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to respond now.”

“You’re being fucking weird, Sunshine.”

“Please.”

He relents with a grunt. “Fucking fine. What.”

“I can fix it.” It’s so hard to keep his gaze as you speak. “It will take time, but I can fix it.”

“Fix what.” He scowls. “There’s nothing to fucking fix.”

“Your PTSD.”

“I don’t fucking have-“

“Ben, I could feel it. It’s dangerous. I could fix it.” You take a deep breath. “I can fix internal injuries as well. I offered to fix Kimiko’s muteness, but she didn’t want me to do it.”

“Then what fucking makes you think-“

“Muteness isn’t dangerous. And it would’ve been harder for me, I might have ended up mute myself. You’re dangerous like this. You can’t fucking control it, and don’t try and lie and say it’s under control. Ashley mentioned putting you back under, and you looked like someone was drowning you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sunshine.” He leers at you. “You don’t fucking know me, know what it was like-“

“I do. You know I do.” You whisper, and the anger on his face breaks. “More than anyone else, I know. I can fix it, but you’ll have to let me. Just-“ You search his eyes, not sure what you’re looking for. “Just think about it. I won’t mention it again, I won’t even touch you, but my offer will stay on the table. Please, just think about it.”

Before you can leave, he grabs your hand. A rush of painful exhaustion runs through you, and there’s anger, but it’s not full of the fervor you’ve come to expect from him. It’s not even at you. It’s wide and almost consuming, leaving room for only a small kernel of something fragile and warm.

“I don’t care if you keep touching me, Sunshine. I've go nothing to hide from you, and that’s not going to change. But there’s nothing in me you need to fucking fix, so don’t fucking bother.”

“I’m not trying to fix you, Ben,” You murmur. "But remember, you burn, I burn. Please don't burn." Your last words are soft, and the kernel pulses.

“Good,” he grunts, releasing your arm. A small smirk crawls onto his face. “Now I don’t care if it’s here or in your room, Sunshine, but you need to go the fuck to bed. You look like shit.”

Just as he says it, the full weight of your fatigue hits you. You give a mumbled acknowledgement of his words, and try to leave the room, but all the adrenaline is gone from your system and nothing is left to stop the failure of your legs or droop of your eyes. The last thing you feel is something pulling you up before your knees hit the carpet, the last thing you see is green eyes on your own, and you hear an amused snort from above you.

“Goodnight, Sunshine. Try not to dream about me.”

You try to object, but sleep pulls you under before you can even remember why you need to.

[miniwheat77]

Shakin’ (Ghost x Reader.)

!I aged Simon up a bit for this chapter. He’s around 44. Smut, unprotected p in v sex, (wrap it up-_-) military talk, teasing, you know the drill babes, absolutely NO MINORS, enjoy!

(Bc I bet Simon totally listened to Eddie Money when he was a teen XD. Obvi my song inspo is Shakin’ by Eddie Money.)

At this point, everything he did was routine. 141 had Simon busy most of the time so he didn’t spend too much time off base anymore. He had nothing better to do, the most exciting thing he did was stop by a bar with Johnny and Price. That was it. A round of new recruits were coming and this was always the hardest part, getting used to the newbies. Because some of them were insufferable. Ghost liked to be left alone. But the new recruits were always all over him. Trying to make friends and be nice and ask for advice which he didn’t mind, not at all. But sometimes he’d just want to be left alone.

For some reason, there weren’t many women on base. Aside from a couple that didn’t work out for… inappropriate reasons. There was no one but Laswell around.

“Ghost.” The scot accent pierces his ears and he turns to see Soap approaching with a girl by his side. “This is Y/N. She’s one of the new recruits.” He tilts his head to you. Ghost nods his head. “Hi.” You send a small wave his way. “Hey.” He says. “See, he doesn’t bite.” Soap laughs. “No, but I might.” You smile. Your sly smile pierces Simon right to his core, a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time. As you walked away with Johnny, he wondered what the hell that was.

He didn’t know it, but it was the start of something special.

You settle in pretty quickly and Ghost sees how well you and Johnny get along together. He sees the both of you together quite often. Ghost worried about him catching feelings for you, and having you turn out to be like every other girl that’s come onto this base. A barracks bunny.

His worries all came to an end when he watched you resist every guy on base. Seriously, they’ll hit on you while you’re sitting across from the both of them and you’ll have to spin around and tell them to piss off.

You’re usually eating, listening to something Soap is saying and someone will walk up behind you and start trying to flirt with you. He can see the immediate anger on your face, wanting to be left alone.

Something Ghost didn’t expect is the both of you to start spending time together. Without Johnny around. You were a productive soldier. Always offering to help, always busy doing something around the base. You hardly ever complained about something and when you did it’s usually because you hurt in some kind of way. Which he understood all too well. You always offered to help him with anything he was doing. Jumping right up when he was going to do some heavy lifting. So the two of you started hanging out and doing those things together like it was second nature. A routine. Ghost started catching feelings for you pretty quickly and he tried to avoid it.

Especially after he found out how young you were.

You followed him out to load up the Humvee, and you spoke about your parents. Something about the age of your mum made Simon perk up. “Wait. How old are you?” He asks. You smile. “Why you want to know?” You smirk. “Because it sounds like your mum is about the same age as me and that means you’re really young.” He freezes up. “Yeah, I’m 21.” His eyes widen. “Jesus Christ. You do not look that young. You’re really mature for your age.” He mumbles, tossing a box into the back of the Humvee. He hears you chuckle. “Yeah, I get that a lot. But.. age doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you.” The slyness of your words have the hair on his neck standing up. “Yeah right, I’m old enough to be your dad.” He rolls his eyes.

You set a box down, only maybe a foot away from him. “Doesn’t scare me.” You smile. Stepping away from him. What exactly did you mean by that? Were you… flirting with him?

—

“Rosanna’s daddy had a car she loved to drive.” You mumble out the lyrics as you pass by Ghost. You don’t see him yet but he’s there. As soon as those lyrics hit his ears, he smiles. Reminding him of when he was a teenager, being crazy. Something he didn’t seem to think about too often anymore. “Stole the keys one night and took me for a ride.”

“Fuck.” You mutter as the box splits open, the contents of it falling out the bottom. Ghost steps out of the darkness. “What you singing there sweetheart?”

You jump when you hear him behind. “Jesus Christ.” You breathe. Tugging an earbud out of one of your ears. “Gave me a heart attack.” You laugh. Theres something inside of him brewing. Looking at you now, he knows there’s no going back.

He can only pray Johnny has no feelings for you, because there’s no going back. “Price told me to get you and check out some surrounding areas. Take the Humvee.” He nods. “Really?” You ask. He nods his head, lying through his teeth. What Price doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

He could still hear your music through your earbuds.

“Turned up the music just as loud as it could go, blew out the speakers in her daddy’s radio. She was shakin’” he smiles. “Eddie Money ah?” He asks. Hearing you laugh.

“Of course.”

“Snappin her fingers, she was movin’ round and round. That girl was shakin’”

“Come on, let’s go.” He helps you put everything back into the box, telling you to worry about it later. When you get inside the Humvee, he snags one of the earbuds from you. Sliding it into his ear. He pulls out of the garage. He could get in so much trouble over this, but can’t remember the last time he’s done something this crazy. You haven’t done anything and you’ve already lit a fire inside of him.

“We started drinkin’ wasn’t thinking too straight. She was doing 80 and she slammed on the breaks. Got so high we had to pull to the side. We did some shakin’ til the middle of the night.”

He reaches his hand across the middle, resting it on your thigh. You tense up immediately, turning to look at him. “Ghost.. what are you doing?” You ask. His hand glides further up, and he hears you gasp. “Simon-“ you laugh.

“Shakin’, snappin’ her fingers. She was up and down and round and round. Shakin’”

“Cmere baby, sit in my lap.” He forces you over onto him, facing the steering wheel. You can feel his bulge against your ass. You twist around in his lap. Straddling him and keeping your face tucked into his neck so that he can see. He groans as you start attacking his neck. Sucking and biting at his skin. “Fuck.” He mutters under his breath. “Drive me fucking crazy.” He hisses.

“I got a little nervous. She took her coat off. She looked so pretty, ah yeah.”

He takes in a deep breath as you reach for his cargo pants. “Focus on the road. Don’t kill us.” You laugh. “Fuck- doing my best.” He laughs. You unzip his pants, tugging his cock through the hole in his boxers until you could see it. Taking a deep breath. You wiggle your own cargo pants down, off of one leg, freeing up your hips, you straddle him.

“I’m always talkin’ baby, talkin’ too much. I love that little girl and I just can’t get enough. It takes a lonely night with nowhere to go, just call Rosanna and it’s a hell of a show.

And she’s shakin’”

A hiss leaves his lips as he grips your hips with his rough hands. You swallow him up, sliding down onto him. He’s driving fast, way faster than he should. But he’s so fired up from you, he can’t help it. It’s fucking thrilling. Your skin is soft compared to his calloused hands. He grits his teeth, muscles tightening in his body as you slide down around him. Clutching onto him like a glove. The music is loud, nearly hurting your ears as you rock your hips into him. “Fuck- fucking hell you’re a minx.” Simon grits his teeth harder, gripping onto you and rocking his hips up to meet yours. He presses his foot into the gas harder, thanking whatever god is out there that this road is empty.

The pleasure is white hot, wrapping around the base of his spine and working its way up. You make him feel young again, like a crazy teenager. You attack his neck, you’re loud and you can’t help it as you ride him, raising yourself up onto him and moving back down. Riding him like your life depends on it. Chasing after that high. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, crying out. You gasp out when he slams onto the breaks, pulling over onto the side of the road. He forces you to look at him after he throws it into park. He grips your hips tightly, thrusting up into you. “Fuck, you’re so fucking sexy.” He growls. He grasps the bottom of his balaclava, tugging it over his head. He grips your chin, pulling you in to kiss him. You’re whining as he fucks up into you.

The windows are starting to fog up, your bodies are sweaty as they move against each other. He feels hot, fully dressed. Feelings just how hot the two of you have made it in the car. The fat of your hips clutched hard between his massive hands. Making you feel small as he fills you up. You stare him in the eyes, keeping eye contact. You smile, making him narrow his eyes. “What?” He asks. “Do I intimidate you Simon?” You smile. He shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”

“You seemed intimidated by me flirting with you.” You wrap your arms around his neck, rocking into him. He’s panting almost. “Just not used to it. Usually it’s the other way around. I’m supposed to intimidate you.” He laughs. Clutching onto the seat of the Humvee. “Fuck- you’re getting me close sweetheart.” He grits his teeth. “Me too.” You breathe, adjusting yourself one last time. He tilts his head back against the seat and you lean in, biting down on his throat, feeling his pulse against your tongue. His breaths pick up. He’s getting close, you can tell. He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you tight. Thrusting up into you. “Fuck- fuck baby. I’m gonna cum.” He gasps. His eyes roll back and his lips part. He gasps, hips jerking up into you. Your eyes narrow shut, closing tight. That knot forming in your belly. The warmth of him sends you over the edge, crying out into the crook of his neck. He holds you tight to him like you’ll fall apart if he lets go.

Your thighs shake as he adjusts you in his lap. “You did so good.” He breathes. “Such a good girl for me.” He breathes. He hears you laugh into him. “Fuck. We’re gonna be in so much trouble when we get back.” You mumble against him. “Yeah, probably.”

“One more, make it worth our while?” He smirks. You glide your tongue over your bottom lip. “Let me restart the song.” You giggle.

[forsworned]

⠀⠀⠀˗ˏˋsexy stretching ft. johnny 'soap' mactavishˎˊ˗

꒰ঌa/n໒꒱ not my normal content but i told u guys i'd be doing whatever tf i want on this blog now, no longer putting limitations on what i feel like writing. enjoy for any fans of soap :) (edit: i went back and used a eng to scot slang traslator to make it a bit more accurate lmfaooo, so i hope that kinda helps)

꒰warning(s)heavily suggestive꒱

Trips to the gym on your days off were routine and habitual, nobody to join your sessions which was your own doing. It felt distracting to have a gym partner. if you needed to be spotted, you'd just ask the nearest soldier. Simple. No fuss, no muss. This time, however, Soap had decided that he wanted to yoke in on your excursion to the facility. 

"C'mon, ye never lemme join." He whined, as he paced behind you trying to match up to your quick stride. Always in a hurry, always with purpose.

You exhaled softly through your nostrils as you peered over at his sheepish grin and stopped in front of him. He looked absolutely mouth-watering in his white compression short sleeve tee that carved into every muscle of his body and hugged his delicious arms, his dark grey 5in shorts clung to his slutty waist that he paired with a matching set of compression shorts that peaked underneath. "I never let anyone join me."

"Sae, lemme be th' first." He beamed, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder. You could only roll your eyes as you silently agreed and he could honestly jump for joy at this point. There was no use in telling declining him because he wouldn't shut up about it until you did anyways. It wasn't that you couldn't say no to him, but something about the way he would flash you that cute grin, thick dark lashes that framed his cerulean eyes that didn't allow room for a 'no' from you. Some part of you felt like Johnny knew that. Using his charm and witty, suggestive comments to win you over. It wasn't hard, like, at all.

You dropped your duffel bag with an unceremious thud and began your stretches, Soap mimicking your every move. Another huff left your lips.

His dimples deepened as he chuckled. "What? We're s’pose t’be partners."

"Alright, jeez..." You ran a hand through your hair as you grabbed a mat and set it on the ground. "Make yourself useful and help me stretch my legs out then."

He eagerly agreed as he sat on the opposite side of you to begin your high kicker's stretch, spreading your legs in a 90 degree angle with your feet pressing against his. You quirked a brow at him with amusement at his less than 90 degree angle leg spread. "Is that as far as you can go?"

He scoffed. "Listen, ‘m not flexible lik' ye. Ye'r a lass."

"That's sexist."

"That's basic anatomy."

You gave him a wicked grin before using your foot to extend his stretch, which earned a very satisfying yelp from him. "Get flexible, Sergeant."

Regardless of the dirty look he shot you, he offered out both of his hands to begin your portion of the stretch and if you hadn't been so damn limber it would've definitely cost you some PT time.

"Damn, [name], y’r flexible as hell." Surprise and admiration in his tone as he reclined your form to the fullest extent. The tip of your nose reaching the mat. He felt like he was simulating a slinky. 

"I know." You rise up from your position as he relinquishes you to switch. "Your turn." You gave him the most sinister, spine-shudder inducing grin before clasping onto his hands and extending him beyond his own limits. His breath caught in his throat for a moment preparing himself for the most asshole-tearing, toe curling stretch of his life. He couldn't even make out a word. Just a single droplet of sweat hitting the mat that had sent you into a fit of laughter.

"…jesus pumpin' christ…[name]. I think ye might've torn me a new arsehole." He groaned, as he started to feel the burn.

"Well, these are the consequences of being my gym partner. Gotta get you right." A smug expression on your face as you observed sweat forming on the base of his neck, soaking the neckline of his Under Armor compression tee. 

He chuckled. "Dinnae git a' sly wi' me, [last name]."

"Or what? You're in quite a compromising position, Johnny." You emphasized his nickname in a taunting manner that made the grin on his face spread. 

"I'll show y’ a compromising position." He muttered under his breath.

"Say again?" 

He mumbled a 'nothin' that you mentally noted but didn't argue with. You were merciful enough to slowly let him out of the painful position you placed him in and a sigh of relief escaped his lips. You surveyed him behind your hydroflask as he reached for his hand towel and patted himself down. "Breakin' a sweat, already?"

He flashed you a mischevious grin. "You're gonnae sloch yer words, Sergeant."

You simply ignored his remark as you laid your back against the mat, his strong hands gently grasping at your ankle was only a ruse in comparison to the painstakingly slow, burning stretch that he was inflicting on you. It illicited a small yet entirely involuntarily breathy moan that passed your parted glossed lips with brows that furrowed in an almost all too lewd manner. He hadn't noticed that his crotch was positioned right at your middle and you felt his hardness press up against you. Tension seemed like it saturated the gym air even through the heavily ventaliation. You couldn't help but feel flustered as warmth spread not only to your cheeks but to your groin. As you attempted to sit up from your position, Johnny held you still. "Hips down, Sergeant."

Body rigid and eyes wide as he proudly knelt over you, towering over your form. Primal instincts were nearly about to take over as he admired the way you were beginning to break a sweat. His hands firm on your ankle as he shifted his bodyweight onto you once more, a small huff leaving your mouth not going unnoticed by his curious gaze. He peeked at you under heavy, dark lashes as he keenly observed the way your body shuddered, now convulsing against the mat and his pressed form. Paltry, muffled  whines stumbled out of your mouth completely against your will as he stretched your leg past its original limit. He was practically splitting in you half as he urged his half-chub against your clothed sex. It wasn't difficult to note through the thin cloth of your leggings.

"Tha’s a deep stretch, lassie. Ye sure ye kin handle it?" His Scottish accent was sexy and breathy as if he was in you, stretching your walls. The question didn't feel like it was concerning the calf stretch anymore. 

One too many shaky exhales and a few more drops of sweat later, you could finally muster a, 'yes'. A shit-eating grin spread across his lips and you could only curse him in your mind. No, no, not under your breath. You were now in the compromising position that he was muttering about just a few moments ago. You could curse yourself for allowing him to tag along with you.  Damn him. 

He unwillingly tore his gaze from you for a moment when the realization of you two being out in public dawned upon him, but as he scouted the area it was minimal and still. Only a few soldiers were on the floor, completely zoned in on their own workouts and spread far away from you two. Far enough from any prying eyes and his hungry expression went right back to you, eyeing you like you were mere prey. "Jus’ tell me when." He murmured, elongating your leg even further down and you could look at him with scrutinized eyes as another whine passed and a shudder went up your body. Johnny loved the way you gazed up at him. Lips agape as you struggled for breath, drool slighting the corner of your lips, knowing that at any moment you said anything but, 'yes, sir', or 'no, sir' would end up with nothing but torturous pain. 

But you liked that. You liked, loved even, the way he pushed all your buttons without fail. Helpless and bashful under him. An unsteady breath left his lips as he focused on you and the way your body contorted so sapidly for him.

So, so dirty. He thought to himself. His eyes studying the way you swallowed hard. He wanted to taunt you even more, but Johnny decided to be clement as he relinquished you slowly allowing you to breathe again. You drew a large, labored breath as you sat up not able to look his way as he chuckled at you. 

"You're an asshole." You hissed, as you took a large swig of your drink nearly feeling like you were going to choke from how fast your heart was beating.

"'n' ye liked it." He raised his brows at you, imitating your gesture and taking a sip of his own drink. You averted your gaze, feeling your cheeks warm as he chuckled at your embarrassment. Johnny absolutely adored teasing you, and you welcomed it. 

[bucknastysbabe]

Oh Bucky you’re so fine <3

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Avenger!afab!reader, daddy kink, smooth talkin big lover boy era Bucky, banging in concerning places, confessions of feelings, pnv!sex, v!fingering, Big Dick Bucky Barnes, alcohol consumption, Thor’s Super Mead, the reader is IN THE TRENCHES down bad

A/N: Oh here we go again random Bucky smut aggressive as hell

Bucky was too hot for his own good. The idiot didn’t even realize he was sex on legs, hiding his beautiful body away under long sleeves and jeans at all times. You could appreciate the skinny jeans at least, often ogling his thick thighs around the tower.

You were down bad. Clint and Natasha thought it was hilarious how you watched him like a lovesick puppy. The archer would elbow you, teasing, “Careful someone might trip over your tongue hanging out.” They weren’t wrong.

Bucky was so oblivious though. He would play back with your flirting, shooting a million dollar smile and batting your shoulder but that was the extent. He had this five foot thick concrete wall around anything past flirty banter. You needed more, honest to god needed it. Your clit was raw from the amount of times you’d rubbed yourself to completion over the super soldier.

Currently your eyes were fixated on his thighs spread around a barstool. Barnes had been convinced by you to come out for once. Minus a couple of familiar faces, most of the Avengers were in this packed club. Thor was making Bucky take the rest of his Asgardian alcohol. Your lips quirked up— the shit had gotten Steve drunk as a skunk one time. He had the original serum too.

Maybe a little liquid courage would break down the brunettes barrier. You gulped down the rest of your own lemondrop and straightened your skirt. It was leather and way too short, but a girl has to get dick somewhere. Even though the puny men didn’t add up to Bucky in your mind. You knew he could put it down, there was no way the man didn’t have a huge dick. Two enhanced individuals in bed, the thought made your pussy throb.

Bucky’s delicate nose scrunched up as he chugged down the rest of the mead. Thor laughed maniacally, slapping the former assassin’s broad back. Bucky coughed, “Jesus Christ! The hell you make that with?”

Thor smiled enigmatically, “Tis’ a secret, soldier of winter!”

Clint’s annoying whine disrupted your watching.

“C’monnnn you can’t watch him all night! Take a shot and get after Barnes, sheesh!”

Bucky’s blue eyes flickered over to you and the bowman, a quizzical look on his flushed face. You turned to Clint, narrowing your eyes and hissing, “Shut the fuck up!” Barnes’ eyes made a scan over your body before he turned back to the blonde god. Clint guffawed and led you over to the opposite side of the bar, ordering vodka.

You whispered, “Does my hair look okay? I don’t look like too slutty right?”

Clint eyed you amusedly, deadpanning, “If you two don’t stop eye-fucking and do something about it I will. You look fine.”

You rolled your eyes, catching the shot slid over by Clint and downing it. You breathed out harshly at the burn, working yourself up to approach Bucky. Nodding at Clint, you walked over to him. As a former agent of SHIELD, you could do the deed. But the nerves were still there.

Bucky smiled down at you, cheeks pleasantly warm and his eyes slightly glossed. He must be tipsy. The brunette rumbled, “Whatcha’ been doing? Besides getting dragged around by asshole?” You blurted out, “Watching you.”

Oh Christ on a stick. Why did you do that?

Bucky’s wide smile fell a bit, his pupils darkening at your wide eyes. He raised a thick brow and intoned, “Is that right?” You stammered and blushed, looking down in embarrassment. “I-I oh god, y-yeah I’ve been staring you down.” A gloved hand tilted your chin up, Bucky gazing intensely. You fought to hide a whimper at the gentle touch.

He purred, “Been watching ya’ too, just begging to be looked at with those legs and that ass.” His other palm came down on your ass with a rough squeeze, pulling you into his broad chest. Bucky continued, “Been thinkin’ about sliding this skimpy shit up and seeing what little scrap you had on underneath.” His warm breath fanned over your gaping lips.

You were utterly struck, two seconds from getting down and worshipping Bucky’s cock under the bar. Whining softly you pressed your tits against him and pled, “Please! Want you to, got all dressed up for you Buck.” He smirked in that lopsided way of his and pressed full lips to yours. Faintly from afar it sounded as if Sam and Clint were cheering.

“Ya’ need it that bad huh? I oughta wine and dine my favorite baby avenger first,” he pecked your wet lips again, “But I don’t think I can wait, sweetheart.”

Your knees went weak at his pet name, the super soldier holding you upright with his grip on your cheek. Bucky chuckled softly, sharing more kisses with you. You lapped at his tongue, whimpering like the neediest slut. Smaller hands clenched into the leather of Bucky’s jacket, holding on for dear life. You couldn’t believe this was real life.

Was is that easy all along?

You blanched at realizing you spoke your thoughts aloud.

“Baby, I’ve been wanting you since your cute self walked into the compound,” Bucky admitted with a shy glance.

You suckled on his bottom lip and pulled back, frantically begging, “Bucky- shit! I need you to fuck me right now or I’m going to die!” He laughed again, eyes growing even darker with lust. He leaned down to nip your earlobe, purring in that old Brooklyn accent, “C’mon then sugar.” On shaky legs you gripped his hand and half-ran to the women’s bathroom. As horny as you were, the men’s was out of the equation.

Bucky slammed and locked the door behind you two. When he turned to you, you felt like a little bunny about to get eaten alive. No wonder people thought he was so scary. That glare was something else, thick brows furrowing, eyes penetrating your soul.

The former assassin grabbed you under the ass, slamming you on the counter, hungry lips sucking down your neck. Bucky hummed between marks, “Fuck you’re so hot, perfect angel.” You hiked up your skirt frantically, spreading your thighs to wrap around Buck. “No you,” you gushed. He moaned against your skin, peeling off his gloves in the process.

You ripped off your tight top, tits falling out under the fluorescent light. Bucky inhaled sharply, flesh fingers crawling under your thong. He snapped it against your hip, earning a pretty cry. The brunette rumbled, “You plan on wearing nothing hm baby?” You nodded and sloppily took Bucky’s mouth again, tongues intertwining. His cooler metallic hand pinched and twisted at one of your nipples, you whining and squirming in place.

With a tear, Bucky ripped off your slinky thong, stuffing the wet underwear in his pocket. Fucking menace. You complained, “Touch me p-please, m’so wet for you.” He smirked again, palming your sensitive breasts teasingly. Bucky murmured, “Yeah? I can smell it pretty girl, all soaked for me. Fuck!”

Your back arched painfully when fingers swiped through your copious slick. He drove two thick digits into your pussy, eliciting a loud squelch. He curled up into your g-spot, biting on his lip, eyes glossed over. You shook and chanted his name, fucking onto Buck’s perfect fingers. He groaned, “Yeah, that’s it, needy baby.”

“Fuck me, fuck me, c’mon Buck, please!”

Your frantic hands unbuckled him, almost crying from sheer need. Bucky shushed your carrying on, kisses driving you silly. You took his cock out and begged again, “Shit- Bucky, wan’ you to fuck me from behind, treat me rough da- Buck.” His blues almost rolled back from your near slip. You shoved your face into his thick neck to escape the embarrassment, leaking all over him.

Bucky growled, “Yeah? Need me to fuck you? Take you like a slut, Daddy’s girl want that?”

You cried out like a woman possessed, “Please! Please please please!” It was the only word you could utter at the moment. Bucky flipped you over, shoving you face down on the shitty countertop. The bulb above you blinked but shone on, bathing you two in a strange bluish light.

You gazed at yourself in the mirror, breath hitching at your debauched state. Smudged eyeliner, ruined lips, hair sticking up, and the dark bruises littering your neck. Bucky murmured nonsense into your cheek, rutting his thick cock against your slickened pussy. He was disheveled himself, muttering, “Fuck babydoll, gonna make me blow too fast.”

“C’mon daddy,” you whined.

Bucky’s gasped when he shoved his length into your cunt, both hands flying to your hips. You gripped onto the counter, eyes rolling up, moaning about ‘daddy’. He thrust into you in forceful movements, hips clapping into your ass. Someone knocked on the door, Bucky hollering, “Fuck off!”

You whimpered and shook under his assault, big cock splitting you wide open. Bucky panted, “S’good, babygirl is squeezin’ daddy s’good.” His big hands engulfed your waist, snapping your smaller frame onto his cock. You wailed, “Love your cock daddy, needed you s’bad!” He grinned and nuzzled into your sweaty nape, cock still pounding against your sweet spot and cervix.

“Yeah? You think my old crazy ass is hot?”

You babbled deliriously, breath hitching, “Uh! Huh! You’re so- god! Fucking hot! Not- ohmygodbuck! crazy.” Bucky kissed your shoulder, grunting, “But I’m still old.” You shook your head and continued, “Fuck daddy! Like you being older, s’good!” Your legs were shaking from his rough thrusts, pussy abnormally soaked.

Your eyes met his own in the mirror, you whining pathetic and desperate for the older man. Bucky wrapped a big hand around your neck and pulled you flush to his firm body. Still snapping his hips in debilitating jerks he rasped, “Such a dirty girl.” You agreed with him, succumbing to the mind boggling pleasure.

“You gonna cum on my cock babydoll?,” he cooed.

“Yes! Yes! Oh god yes!”

You cried and slammed your hands down on the counter, gushing on Bucky’s cock. He slurred out low curses, lashes fluttering. Meanwhile you spasmed and twitched around him, vision going dark for a second. You sobbed out Bucky and Daddy interchangeably, tears sliding down your cheeks. His cock was coaxing another out of you quickly.

Bucky begged, “One more, one more, c’mon sweetheart.”

His warmed metal fingers pinched and played with your clit, sending you up into another climax. You cried and seized up harder this time, hoarse guttural groans wracking your frame. Bucky’s hips jolted deep into your pussy, tip firmly nudging the bump. Your name left his swollen lips in a adorable whimper, nose scrunching up and mouth hanging wide open.

He gritted, “Can I come inside?”

You begged him to, feeling like you’d die if he didn’t.

Bucky’s baby blues rolled up.

You sucked in harsh breaths at Bucky’s hot cum painting your insides. He grunted and moaned softly through his climax, praising you so very sweet. He slipped out and turned your head to capture your bitten lips again. Both of you sensually kissed in slow, heady movements. He murmured, “S’pretty sweetheart. Think you wanna come snuggle with me after a shower or somethin’?”

You nodded dumbly, hand bracing itself on one of Bucky’s killer thighs. Lapping into his mouth another time you cradled a stubbled cheek. Satiation seeped out of your pores, picking up on Bucky’s saccharine emotions. “Yeah. I’d like that a lot. Can we get a shower first?”

He chuckled, “Careful whatcha’ wish for, babygirl.”

Oh you were downright ruined you were so down bad now. But now you could say Buck might feel the same, practically purring and rubbing against your sore body like a big cat. He murmured, “Pretty baby, good baby, what am I gonna do with you?”

[zepskies]

Love Actually - Part 2

Paring: Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader

Summary: You and Ben steel yourselves in order to meet your crazy family for Christmas dinner.

AN: Here’s the requested Part 2! It got too long, so I had to break it up lol. There will be a Part 3 after this (final part). I also tried really hard to find an image/gif that would match this chapter better, but alas, there are only so many pictures of this scruffy guy. (And none in a real suit. 😂)

Read Part 1

Remember, this story is set in the same world as “Break Me Down,” and set before “Checkerboard.” But this can be read as a stand-alone! Hope you enjoy…

Word Count: 4,800 Tags/Warnings: Tense situations, bit of angst, lots of sexy fluff

Part 2: "Season’s Greetings"

Ben checked his watch again. 

He’d lost count of how many times, how many minutes, how long he’d been waiting for you to come down the goddamn stairs so he could get this night over with. 

You’d been getting ready for this dinner with your family for four hours. How long did it take you to slap on some makeup and throw on a dress?

Finally, he heaved a sigh and got up from the couch, adjusting the watch on his wrist. He stayed by the foot of the stairs and called up to you.

“Hey. What’s taking so damn long?” he asked. His brows were furrowed, mouth set in an aggravated frown. “I already told you. I’m not planning on being at this thing all night. So if you don’t come down here in the next ten minutes, I swear to fucking Christ—” 

Ben stopped short, as he heard your footsteps at the top of the stairs. When he looked up with expectant, pursed lips, his face subtly froze. 

“What? What’re you gonna do?” you teased. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you grasped the guardrail and carefully made your way down the stairs. These heels were no joke. 

You had a black suede clutch tucked in your other hand, but Ben was drawn to the bright red of your dress. The color alone appealed to him. It called back a memory of a musty club, rich whiskey, and the dulcet tones of your voice.

But now, this dress was shorter. It also hugged your every curve and stopped just a few inches above the knee. He noticed a tantalizing little slit in the back, at the hem, leading his eyes down your sheer pantyhose and down to the tall, black heels.

His lips formed a teasing smile. “You sure you can walk in those?” 

But you could see the truth in his eyes; he liked what he saw. They raked back up your body, taking in the short sleeves, the slight plunge of the neckline, the red lipstick as bright as your dress, the soft sweep of eyeliner and dark lashes—and you hoped he noticed the way you’d painstakingly done your hair into soft, ‘40s style waves.

“Do I look shaky to you?” you countered.

Ben tilted his head slightly as he stared up at you. “Not one bit.”

He reached out for you on the last step of the stairs. You took his hand and gave him a grateful look, but your hand didn’t stop there. It grazed up the sleeve of his suit jacket as you took him in with a smile.

Not often one to don a simple black suit, Ben went with a charcoal gray against a crisp black undershirt. No tie though, leaving the first couple of buttons casually open. 

“Look at my man, all sharp and modern and sexy as hell,” you purred. He accepted the praise with a pleased quirk of his lips. 

Normally you wouldn’t try to feed his peacock-level pride too much. He knew he was a damn fine-looking man. However, you also knew he wasn’t totally into meeting the rest of your family tonight. You knew you needed to give him a (well earned) ego boost.

“Gotta match my girl,” said Ben. Though he fingered the ends of your softly curled hair with a more genuine glint to his smile. “Though you’ve gone a bit vintage.”

“Compromise.” You grinned, and you leaned up for a soft kiss. 

He met you there, even pressing his luck when his tongue begged entrance against your lips. You held his cheek and brushed your thumb there tenderly, but you soon broke away. 

“We’ve got somewhere to be,” you reminded him. Ben sighed through his nose, though his hands molded to your waist.  

“I didn’t realize you were that kinky,” he said. His voice was deep and suggestive. Your face started to heat up, even as your brows knitted with confusion.

“What?” you asked. 

“I know you’re not gonna make me wait all night to get a taste of this,” he said. And he leaned down to begin plying you with his heavy hands and his lips along your neck. “I gotta assume you want me to fuck you in your mom’s house.”

You uttered a shocked laugh. You batted his shoulder, even though it didn’t even make him blink. His lips curved as they grazed your neck. He inhaled under your ear, making a pleasant shudder run down your spine. He hummed in approval.

“Is that the perfume I got you?” he asked. 

“Mhmm,” you nodded. “I like it a lot. Makes me feel all warm and spicy.”

Ben chuckled into your neck. He did pull back eventually to thumb around the edge of one of your earrings—the second part of his Christmas gift to you. The white stone and silver filigree shone in the light. 

“They look good,” he remarked, giving you a charming smile. “Better on you than the catalogue girl.”

Now that was an image. Soldier Boy: browsing through a magazine of women’s jewelry. You smiled brightly at him. 

“Thank you, baby,” you replied. “They really are beautiful.”

Then you glanced down to find your gift to him on his wrist: a new silver Rolex. You turned his hand over to make sure that it fit him right.

“Not too tight, right? Not too loose.” you asked.

He shook his head. “Nah, it’s good.”

“Just good? Does it still need adjusting? We can go back to the store and have them fix it—”

“It’s perfect, sweetheart. Stop fussing,” he said. Your lips pursed as you looked up at him from the watch. 

“I just want to make sure you’re happy with it, that’s all,” you said. 

“I am,” he replied. But his smile, the hidden glint of something in his eyes, made you blush. Inside, you were warm and pleased.  

“All right, let’s go then,” you said. “I’ve got the rum cake, and the actual rum ready to go in the kitchen. And the presents are lined up by the door. Can you load those up in the car for me while I get the food?”

Ben obliged you, though he soon balked at the army of presents waiting for him by the door. When did you have time to get all of these? He didn’t remember you buying all this shit. 

Though he realized, this must’ve been how you filled your time after work, while he was gone for the past two weeks on that mission. 

As he loaded the gifts into the car, Ben reluctantly remembered that it had been…strange, to be away from you. For the past few months, you two had fallen into a rhythm. Waking up to each other, busy morning routines before work, sharing your evenings afterwards. 

You had also been making it your mission to find new things to do together. Like paintballing, of all things. Or comedy shows, new movies and restaurants, concerts, club nights with your friends. Though it was weird for him, sometimes, to go to a show without all the celebrity fanfare he used to get as Soldier Boy.    

Well, he was still Soldier Boy. He just wasn’t getting paid anywhere near the same as he used to. (But let’s face it, he didn’t need the damn money. He’d earned plenty in 40 years of fame and family inheritance.) 

People still knew his name, still worshiped him at times, but it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t part of Vought’s machine anymore. No one really told him what to do, but if he wanted this life—here, in upstate New York—he was forced to make efforts to color within the lines of the law (mostly). Hell, he actually worked for a living. Even if it was for the government.  

The point was, he was part of something. And it wasn’t totally shit, even if he was surrounded by morons on a daily basis…  

By the time you opened the passenger side door to interrupt his musings, Ben remembered to actually start the car. 

“You okay?” you asked as you clicked in your seatbelt. You were keeping a close eye on him tonight, trying to gauge his shifting moods. 

Ben hesitated, but when he glanced over at you, he reached over and thumbed at your chin, under those ruby red lips. It made you smile. 

“Yeah,” he replied. Though he let out a subtle breath as he faced the road and took the wheel of the car. Ever perceptive though, you sent him an assessing look. 

“You’re not nervous, are you?” you asked. His brows furrowed slightly.

“Why would I be?” he asked, his voice a bit sharp. Defensive, you interpreted. 

Instead of answering, you leaned over and laid a hand on his thigh.

“Look, my mom already likes you. Louisa’s going to come around,” you said. Your mouth edged into a smile, of sorts. “I just need you to stop me from killing my aunt with a ladle.” 

Ben snorted in response. “All right.”

When the two of you arrived at your mother’s house, she opened the door to her home and greeted your boyfriend like a long-lost son. 

“Oh, Ben! Come in, please,” she beckoned, grabbing his arm and guiding him inside. “You look so handsome, my goodness!” 

Ben couldn’t help offering a smile. It was infused with his usual charm. 

“Marie,” he greeted with a nod. You shook your head, despite your own smile. Ben liked attention—along with a bit of praise and fanfare went without saying. And you knew your mom wouldn’t be the only one to play into that tonight. 

“Hi, Mom,” you said pointedly, with a hand on your hip. Marie turned to you with a bright smile. 

“Oh! Honey, there you are. Merry Christmas!” She brought you in and hugged you tight. She then fairly gushed as she took in your dress and touched your hair. “Oh, you look so beautiful. I wish you’d come earlier though. I need you to help me and Trina. Come on.”

Marie glanced up at Ben again. “Oh, you too, hun! We can introduce you to everyone.”

Ben nodded. He followed your lead behind your mother, and you inwardly steeled yourself on the way to the kitchen. The familiar smells awaiting you brought you back to the better parts of your childhood. Ones that were filled with music, laughs, and good food.    

And if there was one redeeming quality about your Aunt Trina, it was that she could cook her ass off. Since your mom had always been more of the “boxed meal” variety cook, Trina always took over at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and just about every other family gathering. 

She was putting the ham in the oven while your sister sat at the kitchen table with your Grandpa George, peeling potatoes. The bigger table in the dining room was currently set up with appetizers and wine. 

But the sounds of chatter and pots and pans and cabinets closing—it all stopped when you and Ben entered the kitchen. You felt his hand at the small of your back, and whether he meant it to or not, that familiar touch stabilized you. 

Even Trina stopped giving Louisa directions on how to correctly peel and cut the potatoes for boiling. Her mouth opened when she took in the sight of Ben, from head to toe. 

“Good evening,” he said, if only to break the silence. 

But you knew the rest was up to you. You curled a hand around his solid arm and gave him a smile, before looking to your family. 

“Hey, guys. Merry Christmas!” you greeted. “This is my boyfriend, Ben.”

Trina squealed in excitement. She came over (with a wooden spoon in hand) to give you an enthusiastic hug and kiss. She held your arms and looked between you and Ben. 

“Your mom said you were dating a superhero, but I had no idea…” she twittered. “I mean…it’s Soldier Boy. He’s in my kitchen!” 

“It’s Mom’s kitchen, actually,” you muttered. Trina’s excitement dimmed slightly as she rolled her eyes at you.

“Ever the smart mouth,” she said, playfully whacking you in the ass with her spoon. 

Ben smirked. He certainly agreed with your aunt’s assessment. He turned to her to offer something in greeting, but before he could, Louisa’s voice cut in from across the room. 

“What should we call you? Ben, or Soldier Boy?” she asked dryly. 

You frowned, gave your sister a look. Meanwhile, Ben didn’t quite make it to a smile, but he was civil when he answered her. 

“Ben’s fine.”

You remained in the kitchen to help out, while Ben migrated to the living room with your grandfather. Ben grabbed a large glass of wine on his way there, along with a few mini quiche to tide him over until dinner. 

He then noticed an old woman sleeping on the leather recliner. 

“Who’s that?” he asked George. 

“Oh, that’s Great Aunt Sylvia,” George said. “She just took an oxy for her hip. She’ll be passed out ‘til dinner.”  

Ben blinked at the casual mention of oxycodone, but he wouldn’t mind a few of what Sylvia was having. Oxy gave him such a nice buzz. 

But instead, he and George sat on opposite ends of the couch while Sylvia snored away. 

For a moment, it was quiet, save for the soft crooning of Nat King Cole playing (and Sylvia). The music came from a small round speaker on the coffee table, Ben noticed. You’d told him about Alexa and Siri and all those techno bitches out there now, controlling people’s houses. He didn’t trust it. 

“You like baseball?” George asked as he turned on the TV. Ben nodded, and the other man put on a game. Mets versus the Cubs, three to one. The men were silent for a while as they watched the game. 

Unfortunately for Ben, that peace couldn’t last. 

“So,” George started. “You’re a supe, huh?”

Ben inclined his head, sipping at his wine. This was what he fucking hated. Small talk. 

“I remember you,” George said. “My wife and I liked that movie you made…King of Kings. With Charlton Heston. What a classic that guy was.”

Ben smiled. “He was a good time. Drank like a fucking fish.”

George raised a brow. “Did he? Well, we all need a glass every now and then.”

Ben nodded, taking a pointed sip of his wine. 

“Heston. One of the few celebrities I gave a shit about when he died,” George said with a shake of his head. “Wasn’t long before my wife’s passing.”

You’d told Ben a lot about your grandmother. When your parents got divorced, she’d insisted that you, your mom, and your sister live with her and George. She didn’t want to take any chances with your dad, who’d been more than unstable at the time in his drinking. 

Ben didn’t often pray. But he drank then with a silent toast, that good ole’ Jon was getting hot coals up the ass right about now. In hell.

Ben then considered your grandfather’s musings, realizing he hadn’t thought about his old pal Heston in a long time.  

“How’d he die?” Ben asked. George glanced over at him.

“Well, official case was pneumonia. But it wasn’t all that clear,” he said. “However, I think he had a flare up.”

“Of what?” Ben asked.

George gave him a wry look. “The fate that all men fear. Ass cancer.”

Ben raised a brow, his mouth twitching. He had a feeling he knew where your sense of humor came from. 

“You probably don’t have to worry about that,” George waved a dismissive hand. “You’re still young. Well, sort of…I mean, being superhuman and all that. I’m sure that comes in handy with the normal stuff, like the sniffles and whatnot…and hey! At least you won’t have to worry about your asshole fallin’ out.”

Ben actually smiled. Now he knew you were related to this man. 

In the kitchen, you were trying and failing to dodge a game of “Twenty Questions” with your aunt, while you and your sister finished cutting potatoes. All of the questions were predictably centered around Ben. Luckily, you had a plate of mini quiche, cheese, and salami between you and Louisa to keep you pacified. 

“Well, you’ve done well for yourself, I’ll give you that,” Trina said. “But why on God’s green Earth didn’t you tell us you were dating Soldier Boy? How the hell did you even meet him?”

Shit. There was more than one reason you hadn’t told the rest of your family yet, and this was partly it. How the hell were you supposed to explain this? 

Louisa shot you a knowing look, along with a raised brow. 

“Well, I was actually assigned to find him after he…went missing last year,” you said, keeping things purposefully vague. “We met and…things just kind of took off from there.”

Your mom and your sister didn’t even know all the details, but they knew this much. After Soldier Boy used his nuclear power to end Homelander, he’d escaped in the aftermath. 

You’d been working a year in Surveillance at Supe Affairs, but you’d been a private investigator by trade, previously working at your father’s firm. You’d even worked at Vought for a few years, before joining the S.A. 

You were then recruited by Grace Mallory to track down Soldier Boy, along with Butcher and his team. 

…And that’s where things got complicated. 

“But isn’t Soldier Boy the one who killed Homelander?” Trina asked. She stopped in her stirring of the cranberry sauce to look back at you. And you met her stare directly. 

“Yes. He was partnered with the CIA on that.” Sort of. You added, “Homelander wasn’t the hero you all thought you knew, remember? He was a raging psychopath.”

Trina huffed at that. 

“So was your father. And you still worked with him for years,” she remarked, even off-handedly as she went back to stirring.

Your entire body stilled. Inside, your temper was a lit fuse, preparing to ignite. You stuffed a mini quiche into your mouth to stop you from exploding. 

And your mom and your sister recognized the danger. Louisa frowned tightly and touched your arm. 

She had been too young to form a true relationship with your father by the time your parents were divorced, and your grandparents (and later you) hadn’t allowed Jon to interfere too much with Louisa's life. So Jon’s death, a mere seven months ago, hadn’t truly affected her as deeply as it had you. 

And that in itself was complicated. 

Marie paused in preparing the sweet potato casserole to give her sister a warning look. 

“Trina, that’s not fair,” said Marie. 

Your aunt shrugged. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Slowly, you stood. You grabbed a hand towel and brushed the velvety remains of potato skin from your hands. You also took the plate of cheese cubes and salami with you. 

“Honey, she just means—” 

“I know what she meant, Mom,” you said. Your mother wasn’t confrontational. She would never tell her sister to shut the fuck up when she was being out of pocket. 

But you had no problem doing so. You walked over to Trina, who saw the look in your eye and actually relented, realizing that there was, in fact, a line, and she had crossed it. 

“Look, I’d like us to continue having a nice evening,” you told her. “Mention my father again, and it won’t be.” 

After a moment, Trina nodded. 

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t mind me,” she said. But then, she smiled. “I’m really happy for you, sweetheart. You’ve got a superhero! Who knew you’d pull that one off, huh?”

Your flat smile remained. “Oh, yeah? How do you mean?” 

Trina faltered. Apparently, she hadn’t expected that. 

“Oh. Well, you know…”

“No. I really don’t. Can you clarify for me?” you asked, using the same even tone you employed with testy co-workers on the Surveillance team. 

Trina sighed. “Oh, honey. You’re a beautiful girl, but…”

“What?” you challenged. “Just say it.”

Behind Trina’s coil of dark hair piled on her head, Marie looked worried. Louisa was also on tenterhooks, gripping the kitchen table. She slowly got to her feet though, in case she needed to intervene. 

“Well, I wasn’t gonna say anything,” Trina said. She gestured to you, after grabbing a cheese cube off your plate. “But your hips, hun. I mean, I enjoy a snack. A bon bon. A chocolate eclair. The occasional croissant, but the weight don’t come off easier as you get older, does it?” 

You were officially burning like a tea kettle.  

“And with a man like that…” Trina fanned herself with the discarded, empty bag of cranberries. “Mother of God. He’s gotta be beating ‘em off with a fucking stick.” 

Your mom pursed her lips at the salty language, giving Trina a sharp glance (for multiple reasons). 

Trina noticed, but she only popped another piece of salami into her mouth. “Sorry, hun.” 

But then she turned back to you. 

“And have you talked about kids yet? That’ll be some serious weight gain.” 

You let out a sharp breath and raised your gaze heavenward, pleading for mercy. 

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered.  

“I’m just sayin’!” she said. “He might have forever, but you certainly don’t.” 

Now that one struck a nerve. Perhaps not the one she intended, but it cut deeply into you all the same. You and Ben had agreed to pin that conversation for now, but the fact was, he would continue to age much slower than you. 

At your steely glare, Trina again raised her hands. This time in placating defense. “I’m trying to help you, is all I’m saying.” 

You gripped the edge of the kitchen counter so tight you thought a manicured nail might break off. You’d reached the end of your tether. 

“I’ve been here for all of five minutes—” 

“Okay, you know what?” Louisa finally stepped in and grabbed your arm. “I need your help. Let’s find the red tablecloth so we can set the table.”

She led you out of the kitchen and into the hall, but you stopped short so fast that you skidded a bit in your heels. You took deep breaths and braced a hand against the wall.  

You turned to your sister. “Why doesn’t she attack you like that?” 

“Oh, believe me,” Louisa said, rolling her eyes. “I had my turn before you got here. I’ve been locked in with these clucking hens all morning.” 

A grin twitched at the corner of your lips. 

“My condolences,” you said. But then, you look at your sister a bit harder. “And you. What’s your problem, huh? How long are you going to give Ben a hard time?” 

It took her a moment, but Louisa eventually sighed. 

“I mean, Aunt Trina’s an asshole, but she kind of said it. He’s literally a century-years-old,” she said. “How do you not have a problem with that?” 

You crossed your arms, though you knew you didn’t have a good answer for that one. 

“Age is…relative.” You struggled against a wince. 

“He lived through the damn Dust Bowl,” Louisa deadpanned. “He’s fucking ancient.” 

You glared back at her. “Okay, enough. What’s your real problem, huh? I mean really.”

Louisa let out another sigh. Her hands went to her hips. You hadn’t had a chance to tell her, but she looked pretty tonight too in her black dress. It flared at the waist and reached her knees, and she’d paired it with some chunky red heels. She was a little taller than you normally, but not by much. As the older sister, you enjoyed finally being taller than her for once in your higher heels. 

Still, you were annoyed with her right now. You sensed she had something deeper against Ben, and it wasn’t all about his age. When she eventually answered, it just confirmed your suspicions. 

“He’s dangerous,” she said at last. “He’s so fucking dangerous.” 

That disheartened you. Your lips pressed, and you held onto your own arms a bit tighter. 

“Not to me,” you replied. Louisa’s frown deepened as her brows knitted together.

“Especially to you,” she said. “He kidnapped you.” 

You gave a wan smile. “Not technically.” 

That had been one of his subordinates, who’d taken you outside of Ben’s orders…

It was a long and complicated story, but basically, it had worked out for both of you in the end. 

Louisa gave you a more incredulous look. “He’s got an atomic bomb in his chest.” 

“He’s working on controlling it,” you insisted. “He’s gotten a lot better!” 

Louisa threw her hands upward in exasperation and turned to leave you in the hall. You stopped her with a hand on her arm. 

“Look, I get it,” you said, meeting her gaze directly. “You’re worried about me. But here’s the thing…you don’t have to do that. I’m the one who looks out for you, remember?” 

Once again, she frowned at you. “Why, just because you’re older?” 

You gave her a teasing smile. 

“Well, yeah.” Still, you grasped both of her arms, now crossed in front of her chest. “Lou, haven’t I always taken care of you?” 

“Okay, yeah,” she said. “But who takes care of you? Who makes sure you’re all right?” 

You gave her a patient, if knowing look. 

She grimaced. “Oh, don’t you say it.” 

“Honestly, Lou. He does take care of me…he makes me feel safe.” You bit your lip, and your eyes began to well up with the sting of tears, emotion rising in your throat. “I’ve never had that. Ever.” 

Your sister released a heavy sigh. “I know.” 

“Then can you actually try to get to know him? Please?” You rubbed her arms, pleading with your eyes. You wanted your family to like your boyfriend, but it was so much more than that. You didn’t want to have separate worlds. Everyone in this house was part of your family, and that now included Ben.

The longer she looked into your imploring eyes, Louisa’s grimace lightened, just a touch. “I’ll think about it.” 

You smiled then, warmly as you hugged your sister. You then kissed her on the cheek, leaving the bright red imprint of your lipstick.

When you went back into the kitchen, your better mood was ruined pretty quickly by watching your aunt run your mother around the kitchen with demands and instructions. You decided to jump into the fray, taking a large serving bowl out of Marie’s hands before it tipped over.

“How’s the ham doing?” you asked. 

“About half an hour or so, I think,” Trina said. “Maybe forty-five.”

“Okay, and what’s left?”

“Let’s get the desserts ready.”

While your help sorely relieved your mother, it was actually a terrible idea for your mental health. When you could take no more of Trina’s irritating, commanding voice in your ear, you had to take a breath (as well as down a full glass of wine). 

You wordlessly asked Louisa to tag in for you before you traveled into the living room. 

There you found Ben immersed in a baseball game with Grandpa George. Both men only looked up at you when you stood near the couch with crossed arms. Your nerves were on edge, your blood still just short of boiling, but you took pains to look pleasant.

“Who’s winning?” you asked.

Ben quirked a smile at the sight of you, while George gave his more freely.

“5 to 3. It’s close on the Mets,” he said. You realized then that you hadn’t even hugged your grandfather yet. 

“Oh my God, Grandpa! I’m so sorry,” you said with a frown. You went over to hug him. “Trina has me all out of whack.”

George chuckled and patted you warmly on the back. “Why do you think I’m out here?”

You sighed with a wry smile. You then turned to Great Aunt Sylvia, who was still passed out in the recliner. 

“Aunt Sylvia?” you tried. You went over to her and touched her arm. 

“Leave her be, hun,” George told you. “Only the smell of food’ll rouse that woman.” 

Your smile deepened. Then you turned to Ben, who’d been watching you with reserved interest. He’d never seen you with the rest of your family before.

You went to him on his side of the couch and asked, in a tone deceptively light, “How about a tour of the house? You haven’t even seen it all.”

He could admit, it was a fairly big house for just your mother, but he was more interested in the game. 

“I’m watching this,” he said, gesturing at the screen. However, when he saw the tight press of your lips, he knew something wasn’t right with you. You were trying to tell him something with your eyes, he just didn’t know what.

You leaned down, subtly grabbing his thigh.

“I need you,” you whispered in his ear. “Now.” 

The tone of your voice set his blood alight with new interest.

Ben’s resulting smirk was subtle, but edged. 

“A tour it is.” 

AN: Just when you thought you'd seen the last of my BMD cliffhangers. 😏

How'd you like Ben's introduction to his girlfriend's family? I also sincerely hope you don't have an "Aunt Trina" in your life. 🙄

Next Time:

He grabbed your arms and meant to kiss you, but you stopped him with your fingers against his lips. 

“Two rules: this lipstick doesn’t come off. And no. Ripping. The dress.”

Keep reading: PART 3

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Tag List:

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @mrsjenniferwinchester @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26

@spnwoman @syrma-sensei @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @muhahaha303 @123passwort

@xoxovienna @katherineann814 @lollag0w0 @globetrotter28 @nancymcl @ashbatz @secretdreamlandmentality @kristophalis @wonderland2022 @emily-winchester @shelh93 @sl33pylilbunny @spoonmynoodle @chernayawidow

@buckybarnes-1917 @asgardprincess97 @sometimes-i-sing @itsyellow @karnellius @kimberleymjw @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @iamsapphine @sanscas @se-fucking-hun @lassie-bird @jessjad @yepimthatperson @fromcaintodean @stoneyggirl2

@spnfamily-j2 @im-a-slut-for-fluff @lacilou @venicesem @mimaria420 @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @tearsfortheyouth @agalliasi @chriszgirl92

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 2, Unspeakable - Pt. 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mentions of alcohol, longing looks/touches, this part's mostly fluff, ngl.

Word Count: 1.1k

Previously On...: And from that night, you and Bucky became best friends. Because there are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and the stuff of your nightmares was one of them.

A/N: I thought the Harry Potter quote was appropriate to bastardize for the Previously On... Don't come for me, lol

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917

Taglist: (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!)  @blackhawkfanatic @les-sel @marcswife21

From that night on, Bucky found every excuse he could to touch you. It was as though, after so many years of nothing but cold cruelty, he had become addicted to the warmth and softness of your skin. You didn't mind in the least; you liked the way he wrapped his arm around your stomach and rested his chin in the crook of your shoulder when he came up behind you, or the way he pulled your hand onto his thigh and traced the lines of your palm with his index finger while you watched TV in the common room, side by side.

One afternoon, you were standing in front of a monitor in your lab, lost in thought as the numbers from your latest algorithm trial ran across the screen. So immersed were you in the data that you didn't notice the form coming up behind you until two hands grabbed you by the waist, lifting you up and spinning you.

Without thinking, your years of training kicked in, like flipping on a switch. You stomped down, hard, on the top of your assailant's foot with your heel, while simultaneously throwing your elbow back into their solar plexus. The attacker let out a low "Oof" and released their hold on you, giving you the opportunity to drop your weight low and spin on your toes to face them.

Bucky stood stooped before you, one hand clutching his abdomen where your elbow had made contact, the other hand held up in surrender. The other hand?

"Jesus Christ, Buck!" you panted. "You scared the shit out of me!"

"I was trying to surprise you, you hell beast," Bucky said, though he was smiling. Rubbing the tender spot of nerves you had so artfully disturbed, he asked "Where'd you learn to fight so dirty?"

"Krav Maga," you beamed, pleased that you'd managed to get a hit on a super soldier, even if Bucky hadn't been actually attacking you. "Care to tell me how you managed to end up with two fucking arms?"

Now it was Buck's turn to beam at you as he held out his new left arm for your perusal. You took the hand, inspecting it. Black metal gleamed in the light of your lab. You turned the arm over, admiring the craftsmanship. "This is a thing of beauty, Buck," you murmured, trailing your fingers along the gold veins that ran through the metal. Bucky involuntarily shivered at your touch. "You can feel that?" you asked him, awestruck. He nodded, his face awash in delight.

You leaned in to examine it more closely. If you didn't know any better, you'd say it was... But, no, it couldn't be– "Bucky," you said in astonishment, looking up to meet his eye, "is this vibranium?"

Bucky grinned from ear to ear, looking like a little boy who had gotten just what he'd asked for for Christmas. "It was a gift. From the Wakandans, for helping them capture Helmut Zemo." Bucky seemed almost shy at revealing why the Wakandans had gifted him the arm, as though he was still uncomfortable with being acknowledged for doing good instead of being blamed for committing evil.

"This..." you started, at a loss for words. "Bucky, this is amazing! The Wakandans are the most technologically advanced nation on the planet. This makes the arm I've been working on look like a fucking stick."

Bucky cocked his head and studied you as you studied the vibranium appendage. "You were making me an arm, doll?" he asked, throat choked on emotion.

You looked up at him, a blush of color rising to your cheeks. "Well, I was trying to. I wasn't going to say anything until I knew it would work; I didn't want to get your hopes up, but this... this is worlds better than anything I could have manufactured."

Bucky gently pulled his metal arm from your hand and used it to cup your cheek, instead. You leaned into the cool, hard metal. "That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me," he murmured. You gave him a soft smile.

"You're one of my best friends, and you deserve all the good things," you told him with a shrug of your shoulder. "Including two functioning arms."

Bucky pulled you into a hug and you returned his embrace, relishing in the feeling of being completely held by him. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Pocket," he said into the top of your head.

You pulled back to look up at him. "Well, hopefully, you'll never have to find out." You stayed like that for a few moments longer, neither of you willing to be the first to let go. "You know what," you said, eventually pulling away from him, "we should celebrate."

Bucky looked down at you with a glint in his eye. "Celebrate, huh? What should we do?"

"Anything you want," you told him, moving out of the cage of his arms. Arms. You still couldn't believe it. "It's your arm we're celebrating."

He studied you for a moment, and there was a look in his eyes you couldn't quite decipher. As the heat of Bucky's gaze lingered on you, a shiver ran down your spine. There was something different about the way he looked at you now, something that made your heart race and your palms grow sweaty. It was as if every fiber of his being was focused solely on you, his eyes tracing every contour of your face with an almost alarming intensity.

"Can we start those Hobbit movies?" he asked.

"That's how you want to celebrate?" you smiled up at him. "You're such a fucking nerd. Yeah, we can absolutely do that. Oh, shit--" you remembered. "It's Girls' Night tonight. It’s fine– I can skip it."

"No," said Bucky, and the look he'd been giving you had vanished, leaving you to wonder if you'd simply imagined it to begin with, "go to Girls' Night. I know how much you look forward to those."

"I said we'd celebrate, and I want to celebrate," you insisted. "I can bow out of Girls' Night early. I'll just pop in, have one glass of wine, and then I'll be all yours; they can manage without me for a night."

Bucky hit you with his devil-charming grin. "All mine?" he asked, a mischievous lilt to his voice.

Rolling your eyes, you playfully slapped at his chest. "You know what I mean, asshat."

"Another dollar in the jar," he tsked.

"Get the fuck out of here and let me get back to work," you said with a laugh, shooing him away. You followed him with your eyes as he made his way to the door. Right before he went through, he turned around and looked back over at you, giving you a parting smile before walking off.

<- Previous Chapter / Next Part ->

[youredyingthatsallthereis]

kinktober day 22: cockwarming

this is my last departure from the prompt list ive been using! i wrote dacryphilia (crying) into a piece i did back in...june i believe, and i was very satisfied with how it came out but i just. i dont have any other ideas for that kink so i'm going with this instead /thumbs up emoji/

content warning: this is mushy and they are in love

read on AO3 | prompt list i will be returning to tomorrow! | word count: 760

soapghost, trans ghost, cis soap, immediately post MW2 canon

"all the way in."

ghost wiggled his hips a bit, working slowly so that soap's cock was fully seated inside him.

"that better, love?" soap asked, running a hand along the front of ghost's thigh.

ghost gave a contented sigh once his back was flush up against soap's chest. soap draped an arm over his torso and kissed behind his ear. "good."

soap rocked his hips a smidge, just enough to feel himself slip half an inch deeper in and out of ghost's cunt before settling to go back to what they were watching.

which happened to be ghost's favorite mini-documentary about deep-sea gigantism. soap combed his fingers through ghosts dark, short hair while they listened to the narrator quietly talk about the role buoyancy plays in creating monstrously large life on the ocean floor. ghost had watched everything this marine biologist had ever made (and thus so had soap), but this piece in particular was his favorite. soap let the familiar information wash over him, savoring the intimacy of what they were doing.

through a series of poorly timed last minute plan changes that were out of both of their hands, they hadn't seen each other in nine consecutive weeks. and while normally that wouldn't be such a big deal, ever since sheperd's betrayal they had both been a bit edgy about having to be away from each other for more than a day or so.

no one had questioned that they had started showing up together in the mornings, that they left work together at the end of the day, that they were rarely out of each others sights - everyone knew.

ghost had moved into soap's house shortly after they'd both physically recovered from their wounds and no one had said a word.

they'd wasted no more time, knowing that too much had already been lost to needless pining and stalling: they set about learning everything about each other every chance they got, whether that was soap cooking them breakfast on a saturday or watching ghost's ocean documentaries (usually followed by a very thorough lecture of ghost's take on the subject matter) or spending hours in bed experimenting with what made the other tick. at the end of it, soap and ghost had bound themselves together for good.

and so after such an unexpectedly long time apart, they'd been frantic for each other upon reunion. ghost had returned to soap impatiently tapping his foot on the tarmac and shoving his gear at the nearest soldier with a barked order to get it checked back in and half-dragging ghost home, needing him as close as possible now.

that had been several hours ago; they'd been in bed almost the entire time and had zero intention of leaving. they'd already decided that they didn't even want to talk about the mistakes and assignments that had led to them spending so much time apart, just focus on that they were together now.

ghost shifted his leg back, hooking it over soap's to pull him in just that much closer. soap pushed his hips forward, kissing the corner of ghost's jaw as his cock slid into him, already full of his spend, just that much further.

soap vaguely registered a small white jellyfish on the television as ghost took one of the captain's hands and held it tightly over his chest. "hate being away from you," he admitted quietly. "bloody torture. and i'd know all about that."

soap almost snorted at the last comment. "bleedin' christ, simon," he said. "it is, though."

they laid in comfortable quiet, ghost pressing soap's hand flat to his chest over his heartbeat, like he needed them both to know that it was still there. needed him as close as he could be in every way, like even having him inside his cunt wasn't close enough.

soap closed his eyes and rubbed his thumb across ghost's chest, letting the heat under his hands and against his chest and around his cock remind him that ghost was there, ghost was safe, ghost was alive. and so was he.

they stayed like that for some time, soft and warm and still, until the documentary ended and ghost reached back to put a hand on soap's hip, giving him a small push.

"give us one more?"

soap smiled into the side of his neck. "i'm not 20 anymore, love," he said.

"please?"

soap chuckled and put a hand flat over ghost's lower abdomen, rocking slowly in and out of him to get fully hard again. "can't say no to you."

[softspeirs]

on leave

A/N: Obviously this goes without saying that there's almost no historical basis for this interaction to happen, except that there's a brief window of time in the late summer of 1943 where Easy and The 100th could have interacted... but that's why I love fanfiction. Thanks to @basilone for enabling me. Meet my BoB OC Kat Gray. You can learn more about her in Barren Soul. No pairing for this fic except a hint at something if you take a cue from Bucky Egan.

"You know, it's nice that the Airborne finally decided to show up." Bucky says, tilting his head and gesturing with his glass.

They've been back from Africa for two days, and the brass decided everyone could do with some leave. They've got a few days in London while the new replacements arrive, and it seems that half the units in the US Army had the same idea.

This pub in particular is packed with soldiers, airmen, and civilians alike.

Next to him, Cleven and DeMarco share an aggrieved look.

"What?"

"Can you just--" Gale straightens his jacket, leans in, "--try not to start a fight? For once?"

"Don't count on it." Bucky grins.

A roar from the corner of the room grabs their attention, and they shift on their barstools to watch how the game of darts is getting on. There's a new addition to the roster, Bucky notices.

"You're a cheat!" A man says, and the woman in question raises her eyebrows.

"When have you ever known me to be dishonest?"

"The last time you gave me stitches and told me it wouldn't hurt."

She rolls her eyes. "That was an accident, and you're too sensitive, Luz."

"Interesting." DeMarco says under his breath. "You ever heard of a woman in the paratroops?"

Buck smirks. "What, you haven't read the papers? Experimental unit."

"Any girl who can jump out of a plane is alright in my book." Bucky says, as he takes another gulp of his drink, "Probably a little crazy, but alright."

They interrupted by a First Lieutenant who looks like he's already had a few, but all the same, he squeezes in on the other side of Benny, signaling the bartender. "Majors, Captain." He says, two fingers at his temple in half-hearted salute.

"You with the Airborne?" Bucky asks, louder to be heard over the band.

"101st."

"100th Bomb Group." Buck says, holding out his hand to shake. "Gale Cleven. This is Major John Egan and Captain Benny DeMarco."

"Lewis Nixon." The man says, a few pints set down in front of him by the bartender. Nixon looks up in thanks and then turns back to the men in front of him. "100th Bomb Group... you're flying B-17s, right?" He whistles. "I wouldn't know what to do with a plane like that."

"Jump out of it, probably." Bucky says.

"Nix--" a female voice interrupts them, "Need a hand?"

The woman in front of them is brunette, her hair tightly pinned and tucked beneath a garrison cap. Bucky instantly straightens, grin firmly in place.

"I wouldn't." Nixon mutters, giving Bucky a look out of the corner of his eye. Turning to the woman, his face softens a fraction. "This is Corporal Kathryn Gray."

Introductions are made, and Bucky can't help himself. "What's a girl like you doing with an outfit like this?"

Her eyes narrow, and he gets the feeling he's put his foot in it, though he was just trying to be funny.

"A girl like me?" She asks, her tone neutral, but that steel look in her eyes. "What am I like?"

"Christ." Nixon mutters, running his free hand over his face.

"What?" Gray asks. "Just making conversation."

"Just starting trouble, more like."

"Funny," Buck says. "We just had a similar conversation. He elbows Bucky in the ribs.

"All good over here?" Another Lieutenant appears, this one shorter, eyes hard. His reddish hair and sharp jaw make him stand out among the rest of the group, but Bucky's not stupid enough not to notice the way they're all glancing over to the bar, prepared to close ranks if needed.

He holds his hands up. "Just fine, Lieutenant--"

"Welsh."

Benny interrupts, ever the peacemaker. "Gray, what line of work you in? We were reading about the women paratroops in the paper the other morning."

She turns to Benny with a smile, and Bucky frowns. He had asked the same question! Well, he asked it his way, and Benny has that unassuming way of talking. Even though they're both from the Midwest, somehow Bucky just doesn't come off as disarming as his friend from Chicago.

"Medic," she says proudly.

"Tough job." Buck says quietly, though his lips are quirked to show he means no harm. "What made you go that route?"

"Dad's a doctor. And I wanted to help." She says simply.

"Kat!" A loud voice bellows from across the room.

"Duty calls." She says dryly. "Majors. Captain." She looks back at her own Lieutenants. "Sirs." She says, but it sounds sarcastic. Bucky blinks in surprise at her tone.

Welsh and Nixon both grumble and roll their eyes, neither of them making any move to admonish her.

"She sure made that sound like an insult." DeMarco says.

"Word to the wise, in case you ever find yourself with a woman in your unit-- and you will, soon enough--" Nixon says, "She'll call you by your rank, but don't for a second think that means she takes you seriously or will listen to anything you say."

"And it's useless to try." Welsh says, and holds up his glass for Nixon to cheers.

"Sounds like my kind of girl," Bucky agrees under his breath, and gets another sideways glance from Nixon before he makes his excuses and heads off with Welsh, the both of them greeted with cheers, slaps on the back, and sounds of approval from their guys.

"He was right--" Buck says. "I wouldn't."

Bucky frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Over there." Buck tilts his head in the direction of the opposite corner of the room. At a table with one other man, there's another Airborne Lieutenant. Dark hair, darker eyes, and he's tracking Corporal Gray as she moves in the room.

"Huh." Bucky settles back into his seat, elbow on the bar behind him.

Buck turns around, chuckling when Bucky curses under his breath. "Better luck next time, Romeo."

Bucky watches as Kat Gray as she flits between her men, an easy smile on her face. They nudge her and crack jokes, and all bravado aside, he can see why she fits right in. These guys clearly care about her, and she about them.

She shows it with a quick touch to one mans arm as she leans behind him to talk to someone else, as she winks at another guy who rolls his eyes and nudges her in the arm as he claims the seat on her right.

A half hour later, they're getting ready to clear out when Bucky sees her approach, an armful of empty glasses in tow. She sets them on the bar on the other side of him, and nods her thanks when he takes the last few from her hands.

"How long left on your leave, Major?"

"Just one more day. Then it's wheels up." He says, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"Good luck." She says simply. "I can't imagine what it's like up there."

Bucky feels the smile slipping off his face, but he does his best to try to keep it up. He doesn't want to think about flying right now. He doesn't want to think about Curt, or Buck flying in on no engines, none of it.

"You take care on the ground and I'll do my best in the air, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

He can't help it, he laughs. At her confusion, he grins. "I have it on good authority that when you say sir, what you really mean is--"

"Don't finish that sentence," Buck says, amused. "Corporal. Have a nice night. Good luck."

"You two, Majors." She says, and then she's off, a Sergeant and Nixon waiting at the door for her.

He sees the Screaming Eagle on her arm as she goes, and he shakes his head. "Lady medic."

"You're gonna need a medic if you don't get to bed soon." Buck mutters. "Let's go."

[deanoheartspie]

Something RED 6

Pairings: Reader x Soldier Boy (Ben)

Warnings: None.

Summary: you knew soldier boy since you were young until the man had gotten tested he had become a whole different person. So when he comes back after Crimson and other supes send him away, it makes him angry

A/N: I love hearing your thoughts! So share what you think.

Edited?: no I'll edit all the mistakes tomorrow. 10/31

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Ben had sat at the picnic table devouring his sandwich like it was going to leave him. He had been acting a little weird, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it until he cleared his throat.

“You know, Blondie the rip-off version of me? I'm his dad”

A small laugh left your lips and you shook your head, “That's a great joke”

Ben on the other hand didn't laugh, not one bit for the first time he looked dead serious which made you gasp “How is that possible...?"

“I get called into Vogelbaum’s lab for an experiment, some stupid shit about genetics. I basically beat my meat into a cup.” he stated very short, he ran his hands through his brown hair and sighed.

“I'm in a tough spot here yeah?”

You awkwardly nod, it did make more sense for Homlanders issues now... You were in no position to tell Ben what to do and neither was Hughie or Butcher if they found out.

“Am I the only one that knows?” you ask wondering who knows already and who you'll have to deal with.

Ben nods “That stupid shit is really mine. He's got a goddamn cape for Christ's sakes” he cringes and shakes his head disprovingly, before downing the rest of the whiskey bottle when smuggled into the basket when you had announced that you both were going for a picnic.

It grew silent. There wasn't much else to talk about it, honestly? It felt kind of weird knowing this information but then again... You were curious to what path Ben would choose. The team or Homelander?

“You should lay off the drinking, I can't exactly carry you back the motel” you teased trying to lighten up the mood, “Also back to what your were saying, what's wrong with a cape? They are pretty cool unless you have a boring looking one”

Ben gave you a side glanced and looked at you in disgust. “Y/n. It's a goddamn cape. It's just stupid.” he mutters his point and you raised a brow.

••••••••

“What the fuck is wrong him ay?” Butcher points to Ben who looks like he's conflicting all his life choices.

“Soldier boy you betta not be rethinking our agreement.” The bearded man kicked, Bens foot which nearly ended in a cat fight between the two.

“Butcher leave it alone im handling it.” you said sternly growing annoyed that she had to snap at these men like the we're children for gods sakes they are grown men!

“I talked to blondie on the phone today” Ben tells you before you left the room, stopping in your tracks and turning around.

“You what?!”

“I told him I was his father and all the bullshit.” he said waving around his blunt as he talked.

You were stunned. Annoyed but stunned. Did he know what homelander was like? Because shit like this was going to get them killed.

“Now I need to go tell Butcher this, stay here and I swear to god Ben don't touch anything” you were stressed and on your wits end at this rate. So much was happening and it was all going to fast.

“Butcher. We need to talk.”

•••••••••••••••••••••••

Taglist: @hobby27 @kat-nee @globetrotter28 @tmb510 @beskarfilms @deans-spinster-witch @stoneyggirl2

[blood-feathers]

...Who the fuck are you talking to, bird?

Jesus fucking Christ. Can't do anything without you jumping a foot into the air. Now what the hell are you doing at five in the morning? Don't fucking tell me you didn't sleep, we need you for the mission on Friday.

(The soldier is now available for questions.)

(COUGH COUGH WHEEZE)

[bizaar]

Cruel Summer - Part 17

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pairings: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

summary: After breaking up, you and Eddie do your best to soldier on with your lives, but you slowly begin to discover that there is a stronger line of connection keeping you together than just history…

word count: 10k

warnings: angst, swearing, medical descriptions, mentions of death/violence

A.N.: i had to split this last part up, we were near 25k words, Chat. Wayne Munson continues to be the greatest man alive and continues to suffer for it

“Are you the father of Edward Munson?” The woman’s voice is short and terse, and Wayne feels his heart seize erratically in his chest for it.   

He’s been waiting all week for a call, biding his time between shifts at the plant and days at the Motel 6 where he’s been sequestered out on the interstate while his home languishes in police custody.  

He sits by the phone, chain-smoking and flipping channels, doing everything he can to avoid any and all news perpetuating the ouroboros of misinformation about his nephew, but there is only so much he can do when it’s everywhere he looks.  

Nothing catches people’s attention quite like murder in Middle America, especially if there is even the faintest whiff of a Satanic connotation to it.    

That’s what they were saying about him last he heard, that it was ritualistic, that they’d brought in an expert to “consult” … that his boy had sacrificed that poor girl, like something out of a goddamn movie.  

It makes Wayne’s stomach turn, because how could they think something so terrible?  

How could they not?  

He was the one who found her, lying there in a twisted heap of limbs. He hadn’t known what to think, dragging his sorry carcass home after finishing up a mind-numbing twelve-hour shift, only to find that waiting for him.   

Really, he didn’t think at all – he saw what was left of that girl, and he turned right around and went back out to his truck where he closed himself up in the cab and smoked half a pack of cigarettes just to try and stop himself from shaking.   

He wanted to tell himself that whatever happened wasn’t his business, that he ought to just turn away and pretend he didn’t see that girl, lying there on his floor, but this is not the type of thing you can just shut your eyes against and ignore.  

Wayne is a simple man leading a simple life. He likes it that way. He doesn’t concern himself with things beyond his ken and as a result, the world more or less leaves him be — as a man like himself in a town like this, it’s more than he can ask for, but sitting there staring unblinkingly at the open doorway, at the single socked foot he could still see from the cab, he knew two things for certain: that girl was dead, whoever she was, and he needed to call the police.   

When he finally managed to get his legs working again, he made the half-mile hike to the nearby 7/11 to use its payphone to report what he’d seen, because there was no way in hell he was setting one foot inside his home while the dead girl was lying there.    

It wasn’t until Wayne was hanging up with the 911 operator that the shutter finally clicked over and his brain jumped back into working order. 

Suddenly, all he could see was the glaring problem with this scenario, the angry red sign flashing over and over, demanding he ask himself what is missing from this picture. Better yet, who is missing from this picture?   

Eddie.

Oh, Christ… where the hell is Eddie…?  

Before Wayne could untangle his thoughts enough to understand what he’d just done, the Hawkins PD was turning off of the road beyond and roaring down the dirt path like a swarm of bats out of a flashing red and blue hell.   

Despite knowing exactly nothing about the finer details of whatever it was that had occurred in his living room the night before, Wayne barely had time enough to consider what he ought to tell them and what he was better off keeping to himself as they came screeching to a halt in his front yard and piling into his home like invading forces.

Suddenly, it was all questions, a hundred and one right after the other before he could even begin to answer the first.

Nothing he said seemed to satisfy them, and no matter what they asked, they always circled back to one question, again and again like a bastardization of those ominous public service announcements striking fear into the hearts of parents across the Midwest:

It’s 10 PM. Do you know where your children are?  

Mr. Munson, do you know where your nephew is?  

Of course he didn’t. The boy’s business was his own, always has been, but with all these questions and thinly veiled accusations flying around, Wayne found himself wishing he’d paid a little more attention to his nephew’s comings and goings as he scrambled to provide the boys in blue with some kind of a credible answer.

He was desperate to drum up an alibi for the boy, but he couldn’t do it, much to his patent dismay, because he didn’t know where Eddie was, and he didn’t know what’d he’d been doing or where he’d been during those crucial hours during which the girl apparently died.

Wayne almost exclusively works the night shift out at the plant, so how could he possibly know what kind of shenanigans his nephew gets up to in the wee hours of the morning?

He tried in vain to tell them how he thought Eddie might have said something about staying after school to play that game of his – which can last for hours at a time, he explained, but that didn’t explain how the dead girl ended up on the floor in his living room.

It doesn’t explain where Eddie is now, or why their neighbor heard him screaming bloody murder and come flying out of the house like the Devil himself was snapping at his heels.   

In the end, Wayne was helpless to do anything but watch as the police came to their own conclusion, and very quickly their story fell neatly into place, like meticulously placed dominos.   

They were seen leaving the school together, Eddie and that girl.   

Now she is dead and Eddie is missing.   

Despite those glaring truths, Wayne knows without a shadow of a doubt that his nephew did not lay a finger on that girl, but more than that, he knows how hard it is going to be for people to believe that. Wayne is under no delusions about how people regard his family. He knows how this looks, and what people think of his nephew, but he knows better.   

Eddie couldn’t have done something like this, not even if his life depended on it, but all he has to back that up is his word, and what is the word of a Munson against self-righteous small-town prejudice?  

They don’t know him. They don’t know that the boy would rather lie down and die than hurt somebody, that he very nearly did last summer over the guilt hurting you caused him, but that doesn’t fall in line with the narrative they’ve worked so carefully to craft.  

As far as the people of Hawkins, Indiana are concerned, that’s not the Munson way, though only because no one has taken the time to separate Eddie from the image of his father, burnt into the memories of this town. Nobody cares enough to do so.   

People in a place like this are always going to need a monster. Al was more than happy to play the part for a good long while, and when he went away, they were happy enough to fit his son into the space he’d left in the zeitgeist.   

It must have seemed like a fair trade to them, what’s one Munson for another? The boogeyman is the boogeyman, after all, only they didn’t realize what they were doing, forcing a boy into the role that had been held so long by a man.  

You want to talk about a sacrifice?   

These good, God-fearing people may as well have offered his nephew up on a platter, the way they’re tripping over themselves to corroborate the story they’ve already decided on.  

That Eddie Munson is evil, and he killed that girl.   

Jesus wept.   

The press junket began with a relatively harmless photo of Eddie — one of his school portraits from his first year of high school, fresh-faced and bright-eyed, still riding the high of being freed from his father’s custody, before the world came crashing in and Eddie learned better than to hope for anything out of life.  

Wayne’s got no idea how the family photo album made its way out from underneath the couch, but suddenly there it was, on ‘round the clock display, occupying people’s homes throughout the duration of the morning, noon, and nightly news.   

The invasion of privacy makes his skin itch.  

Still, he knows the picture well, that first one they used. Wayne can see it when he closes his eyes: Eddie is still growing his hair out, and his face is stretched into that big goofy smile of his, teeth poking out, cheek indented in the illusive dimple the kid is more or less shy about. He was still under the hopeful delusion that he had a chance at winning his classmates over, back then. He didn’t know any better.

You can’t tell by looking, but Eddie has got a cast on his arm in the picture, sitting just out of frame. It was a final parting gift from Al Munson to his son, the straw that broke the camel’s back and lost him blissful custody of the boy after he marched him into Hawkins General with a broken arm and a lame excuse about how the boy had fallen off the bicycle he did not own.

One quick check from Social Services put the last nail in that tired old coffin, and the matter was finally — mercifully — put to bed.

Eddie went to live with Wayne that summer between eighth and ninth grade, Al was in prison for good by Christmas, and the rest is history.

Wayne can still see his nephew giving him an awkward thumbs up from beneath the plaster as he dropped him off that first morning school went back into session in August.

“Give ‘em hell, Kid.” Wayne had told him as he hopped down from the truck and slung his beat-up Jansport over one shoulder, and Eddie proceeded to do exactly that and then some for the next six years. 

There are only faint traces of the boy in that photo left in Eddie now, and yet here it is identifying him as the prime suspect in a homicide – condemning him.    

Ain’t that a kick in the teeth?    

That was days ago, back when Wayne was still glued to the television set watching the story unfold, guts seizing with every repeated instance of his home standing empty beyond some talking head speculating on what could have happened and who could have been involved.

Even before any names were named, the sight had Wayne’s throat closing up with anxiety – as if anyone in this nice little backwater hamlet was going to see that place and not immediately know who lives there.   

And then there was the photo of Eddie, all sweet and smiling.  

Seeing him on the news like that was a death knell rattling in the creaky halls of Wayne’s heart — they said his name.  

It was almost fine when it was all just speculation, when it was just him and the Hawkins PD, quietly turning over stones, looking for the boy while Wayne held out the hope that you would complete the secret mission he’d entrusted to you before anyone else would find him.

If he was really lucky – which he had never been before – by the time anyone turned up any shred of evidence, you and Eddie would be hundreds of miles away, and in time people would forget about his nephew.  

But they went and said his goddamn name, and there’s no taking that back.   

Regardless of how this all plays out, whether they catch up to him or you manage to get him far, far away from here, the name Eddie Munson will forever be synonymous with that dead girl … but at least they used that picture.   

At least he was smiling.   

It was about as much solace as Wayne could take in the situation for the few hours it lasted.   

The way he figures it, some ladder-climbing station executive must’ve decided that a big smiling face didn’t make Eddie Munson nearly scary enough for their ratings.

Probably the same ratfuck who thought it was a good idea to run that photo of a six-year-old Ed and his mother posing with a mall Santa under the caption Mother of a Monster – and God damn them for having the audacity, for bringing her into this.   

Not half an hour later, every channel had replaced the school photo with something a little less sanitized, an older, harder Eddie at some party, all done up in his chains and leather and ripped jeans with a cigarette pinched between his lips, making a rude gesture at the camera – it was the version of Eddie that they forced him into when Al went away, and it seemed to satisfy their craving for blood more than the smiling visage of a fourteen-year-old boy could.   

Wayne lays a thousand curses upon the head of whoever it was that sold that picture to the media – from that moment on affected devil horns, rock music, and midwestern fears went on to paint a bastardized image of the boy he’d fought so hard to raise right.

All it took was one photo to solidify him as the monster they all so desperately craved, and one slip-up from some fast-talking news anchor who insisted “...the whereabouts of Alan Munson are still unknown…” and there it was.   

What this was really all about.  

The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children…   

God damn this town and God damn his goddamn brother.    

With morning shows all the way to Terre Haute doing segments on the Munsons like they were the Mansons, Wayne turned off the news after that. Seeing his life and what is left of his family twisted so wildly out of proportion to fit their narrative is too much to bear.  

He can’t turn the television off entirely, however, because worse than the endless chatter is the silence. In the quiet, his mind starts to race.

He starts thinking about his boy, scared and alone somewhere, lost to the gnashing teeth of the world, and about that poor girl, lying twisted beyond comprehension in his living room.  

In the quiet, Wayne starts to wonder what on God’s green earth could have possibly happened to leave her like that, and his inability to come up with any kind of rational answer is what scares him the most.  

So, he leaves the television on and focuses on the background noise of sitcoms and sports broadcasts, going to work, coming home to the new normal, waiting and waiting and waiting for the phone to ring.  

And ring it does.  

“Sir?” The voice comes again.    

Wayne’s lungs rattle with the beginnings of a smoker’s cough as he removes his hat and wipes his brow with the back of a calloused hand, trying to remember what exactly it was the woman on the other end of the line had asked in the first place – Are you the father of Edward Munson?   

“Er, no, ma’am.” He says quickly, clearing his throat, “That’d be my brother, Al, but – uh – well, he’s out at Pendleton … been locked up goin’ on seven years now.”  

Above him, a fluorescent bulb hums with a thick static that makes Wayne feel like he’s underwater.   

He received the call at the plant, and it’s there he finds himself, standing in the breakroom at the telephone he’d been instructed to “pick up and dial 9” by the omniscient voice of the God that is Powerplant Administration.   

He can’t tell if he’s relieved about that or not.

Work was supposed to be a time of distraction, the other half of his life where he could busy himself with anything and everything that wasn’t the ramping helplessness he felt, swelling like a balloon behind his ribs with every hour that passed with Eddie missing.

Electrical technicians are the happy little worker bees toiling away in their subterranean hive, tending to the lifelines that provide power to the towns beyond, and tonight they are buzzing like someone just went and kicked the hive, thanks entirely to that bizarre earthquake that went and knocked out half the power to Roane County about forty minutes back.   

He’d been fully entrenched in the backbreaking duties of repairing connections, happy to have the distraction from the endless scroll of his thoughts when new instructions came through: collect call for Wayne Munson, please proceed to the nearest telephone.  

The list of folks who would be calling this late and would know to ask for him by name is not exactly long, he can count them out on one hand, but collect means one thing: whoever is calling is doing so from outside the plant, maybe even outside the county line, and it has him scrambling.

Work is supposed to be safe, but nothing is safe while Eddie is missing.  

Wayne dropped what he was doing and all but ran across the plant floor (at least as much as his middle-aged knees and tar-caked lungs would allow) past the nearest telephone and straight to the freight elevator that would carry him up three subterranean flights to the outside world where he could speak in relative private – no prying eyes or listening ears watching the man with the murderer for a nephew speak covertly into the phone while his co-workers discussed the game or the Russians or whatever it was that presently held their attention.   

Across the moon-bleached earth to the standing trailer that served as the technician's upper deck breakroom, Wayne vaulted the steps and whipped the hollow core door back hard enough to hit the flimsy siding with a loud bang that shook the entirety of the trailer.   

There was no one there to berate him for such an excitable action as it was thankfully empty, but that was to be expected, considering how this was the smaller, less desirable of the two break rooms provided for the technicians.

His coworkers tended to avoid this one unless absolutely necessary due to its lack of vending machines and central air, and normally Wayne does too, but tonight it serves him just fine as he picks up the phone and punches the third button down on the right. 

He finds no relief on the other end of that line. There is no calm and collected “Hi, Wayne,” in the chirpy lilt of your voice waiting for him on the other end of the line, though perhaps more disappointing, there is no long, guilty pause followed by a tentative greeting from his nephew, desperately trying to gauge Wayne’s frame of mind before diving into a stream of conscious tirade.   

No, just the next in a long line of brusque, terrifying questions that continue to knock the wind out of him.   

Do you know where your nephew is? Are you the father of Edward Munson?   

He would have sat down if he’d thought there was a chair there, but Wayne doesn’t fancy putting his ass down on hard flaking linoleum, so he locks his knees to keep them from buckling and stays standing.   

“Very well, sir this is –” He forgets the name the moment she gives it to him, all sense of identity washed clean by the direct follow-up of, “–from Hawkins General Hospital, we have an Edward Munson in our custody and we’ve been trying to get into contact with his parents—”  

Wayne does his best to breathe deep against the tightness forming in his chest as he fights to string together a coherent sentence through the bevy of thoughts and words and new information whirling around his mind and refusing to gel.

He is suddenly and woefully confused. If this woman is calling from Hawkins General, why in the hell would she use that word?

Custody.

It would make half a lick of sense if he was getting a call from Chief Powell or Florence, the Hawkins PD’s resident secretary for going on fifteen years now, but neither of them would very well be asking him how to get into contact with Eddie’s parents, would they?

They also wouldn’t be so goddamn formal about this whole thing – weirdly enough, that’s almost as jarring as any of it. Nobody calls the boy Edward, except for his mother and she’s dead, so what is Wayne supposed to do, direct this woman to the prison dispatch up at Pendelton? He imagines she’d have better luck with a Ouija board.

“Oh.” he says dumbly, for a lack of anything better to say, “Right. Well – uh – it’s-it’s like I say, the boy’s father’s locked up and likely to stay that way another twenty-odd years…”  

 “And his mother? Our records indicate her name is–” A short pause punctuated by the rustling of papers is the only buffer between Wayne and the name he is still not prepared to hear spoken aloud, even after a decade of distance – he grits his teeth to try and shield himself against it, “–Sherri Munson?”  

It hits him like a fist to the gut and Wayne makes himself breathe out as slowly as possible to keep from choking as his confusion deepens.

First Al, now Sherri? Like specters of the people who once populated his life, he sees their faces before his eyes and has to blink to banish them again.   

What are they asking about her for? Everybody in this goddamn town knows what happened to her, what Al did, even if only indirectly.   

Shouldn’t the good folks down at Hawkins General have that sort of thing on file? Death certificate or something? She only went and died on a slab in their custody.   

The word settles heavily in the pit of Wayne’s stomach as the situation finally begins to dawn on him.

Custody. They have Eddie in custody, which means something has happened.  

“She’s, uh—” he clears his throat in a futile attempt to remain calm, “She’s since passed.” He says slowly, “I look after the boy–”   

The woman doesn’t wait for him to finish speaking before she starts again.  

“You look after him?” She echoes in a way Wayne can’t help but feel is ever so slightly condescending, “Are you saying you’re his legal guardian?”

He nods quickly before remembering that the woman cannot grok non-verbal responses over the phone and scrambles to correct himself.

“Ah-yes, ma’am. I took custody after his folks…” He suddenly can’t bear to make himself say it, “Well … it’s like you said. I’m Eddie’s legal guardian.”

“Your name, please, sir?”  

“Wayne Munson, ma’am.”  

Another pause, the faint sound of a scribbling pen across whatever form this woman is clearly filling out.   

Wayne swallows hard and when his mouth stays dry and cottony, he swallows again. Somehow, he can’t shake the feeling that something terrible has happened, that this is not simply a courtesy call informing him of his nephew’s whereabouts so that he can come and pick him up.

Wayne does not have to wait long to have his suspicions confirmed.

“Mr. Munson, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s been an accident –”   

He doesn’t hear much else of what she says after, his ears are ringing too loud. 

There’s been an accident… now, where has he heard that before?  

Wayne doesn’t remember the drive from the plant to the hospital, whether he informed his supervisor or even punched out before he hit the breeze.

He doesn’t remember whether he pulled into the structure or right up to the front in the ambulance bay, he only knows one minute the phone was slipping from his hand to dangle on its chord, and the next he was flinching under the gust of frigid air blasting down across his neck and shoulders as automatic doors whisked open for him.   

Wayne is accustomed to coming to Eddie’s rescue one way or another, but walking into this hospital is shades of the boy’s childhood in the worst way – the bad old days.

One very specific bad day, in fact. The last time Wayne was here, and the last time his family was intact.  

Stepping through those double doors, he is reminded of it so completely that Wayne half expects to see his good-for-nothing kid brother handcuffed to a chair, half out of his mind on something and trying desperately to convince him what had happened wasn’t his fault, as if anything ever was where Al was concerned.   

The ER is a warzone – every inch of the waiting room is crawling with folk he can only assume have been affected by the earthquake that he has very conveniently forgotten about until now.

There is no sign of Eddie, and Wayne can’t decide if he’s relieved about that or not, though with the violent way his guts are seizing, he’s leaning toward not.

“There’s been an accident,” is actually an extremely vague turn of phrase when he really thinks about it, and a bigger part of him than he is readily willing to acknowledge had almost been expecting to find his nephew sitting slumped in a chair off in some corner, a frightening mirror image of his father but otherwise fine, sulking and awaiting collection and the subsequent lecture to follow on the long drive home.

No such luck. 

Wayne has to fight to make his way to the check-in – the frazzled young nurse stationed there visibly pales when he tells her his name, and who he is here for.  

He watches, all but dumbstruck as she jumps up and runs for a doctor. Literally runs. That’s never a good sign – that’s what happened last time.  

The room is all but the same as it was the night Al went and wrapped Sherri’s sedan around that telephone pole out on Cornwallis – the one that is still cracked and half bent over from being struck at sixty-five miles per hour by a rusty blue Volkswagen Dasher.

People leave flowers at its base sometimes, and Wayne can’t help but marvel at the incongruity of it all, that this town would condemn Eddie Munson in one breath and in another, pay homage to the spot where his mother had been sent sailing to her untimely death through the windshield of her car.  

The waiting room has remained virtually unchanged in the decade it’s been since that night, save for the way it is suddenly filled to brimming with desperate souls.  

For as familiar as it all is – the squeaking of shoes across mottled linoleum, the arctic central air chilling him through his canvas jacket as he stares out at the same cluster of back-breaking chairs, the same hotel art, and informative posters he’d spent hours staring at a hundred years and a short lifetime ago – it’s completely foreign because Eddie isn’t sitting home safe this time.

He’s here somewhere, caught in the quagmire of whatever the hell just happened to this town.  

Cursed town. Cursed family, more like.     

Wayne still remembers the look Eddie gave him that night, the last time someone had been very sorry to tell him that “there’s been an accident” after he shook him awake and informed him he’d be going next door to Mrs. Downes’s trailer. 

That news went over about as well as expected.    

“That lady smells like cat piss,” an eleven-year-old Eddie mumbled with a mighty pout and little fists crammed into angry, sleep-swollen eyes.

Wayne couldn’t even fault the boy for his language, because as kindly as she was that lady did indeed stink something awful of the half a dozen cats she kept, but among all his neighbors, she was the only one who could be trusted to look after the boy for a few hours.    

“Yeah,” Wayne muttered, snatching up the same canvas jacket he wore now and ushering his moody, pajama-clad nephew down the steps, “That’d be the cats.”  

He had no idea just how long that night would be back in the summer of ‘77, and standing here now, he can’t help but get lost in a creeping sense of Deja vu.  

It takes no time at all for the doctor to arrive, a short bespectacled man with his face pulled into a severe grimace. With a shy hand at his elbow, he coaxes Wayne into the back hallway for “a quiet place to talk”, and his removal from the public eye has him breaking into a cold sweat.   

It is a truth universally acknowledged that it is a very bad sign when a nurse runs for the doctor. And when that doctor pulls you out of the way for a quiet place to talk, it means he’s got something really hard to say, and he wants to make sure you hear every syllable of his hushed words.  

That’s another thing about hospitals that Wayne hates, how doctors drop their voices to impossibly muted tones when they know they’ve got to ruin your life, leaving you hanging on their every word.

It was true back then, and it’s not different now, standing in the hallway behind the nurse’s station, watching the Doctor’s lips move in a desperate attempt to make out what Wayne cannot hear him saying.    

It’s a lot of medical jargon, most of which goes right over his head, but he gets the cliff notes.   

Your nephew is in the ICU. Severe trauma. Emergency surgery. Touch and go…  

A lifetime and only a few years ago, he’d been told more or less the same thing in the same way.   

Your sister-in-law is in the ICU. Severe trauma. Emergency surgery. Touch and go…  

“Can I see her?” the Eddie who belonged to that different life whimpered, looking so small, still in his pajamas with the soundtrack of Saturday morning cartoons playing in the background as he sat stuck among the fraying couch cushions with wild hair and big wet eyes — his mother’s eyes.  

“‘Fraid not, Bud…” Wayne had told him with a quavering voice, speaking softly as he ruined his nephew’s life.   

It feels like some kind of karmic justice, having to relive this moment, tragically reversed. Wayne’s never felt so small, so helpless.    

“…C-can—” He clears his throat with a harsh grunt that echoes much too loud in the silence of the hallway, “Can I see him?”  

The doctor pulls a pained face that Wayne imagines is meant to read as sympathetic.   

It skews more indigestion than apology.    

“Ah—hmm… I’m afraid not, Mr. Munson,” The man says, skipping over the syllables of his name like most folk do when they extend him the courtesy, “Not until we can get him stabilized… your nephew has lost a lot of blood…”   

It’s the vagueness of that statement that hits him, like a fist to the gut – it’s only then that he notices the sleeve of the doctor’s coat, the faintest hint of red staining the hem. He feels his knees wobble and lies to himself that it’s just pen.  

Doctors carry lots of pens, the cheap kind that leak if you look at them wrong – only ink doesn’t have the funny little way of drying dark, and the stain on this man’s sleeve is suddenly much more brown than red.   

Wayne manages to stay on his feet, though only just barely, because Sherri didn’t do any of her bleeding on the outside, and he doesn’t realize just how fiercely he’s been clinging to the terrible familiarity of that night until its cold light is snuffed out, leaving him shivering in the dark.

The conversation fizzles from there. The doctor scurries away as he receives a page and leaves Wayne to find his meandering way back to where he belongs.   

He is in shock as he makes his way out of the hall, relying heavily on muscle memory as he takes the long march back to the slow doom of the waiting room.   

Waiting… waiting… waiting…  

The door whooshes quietly shut behind him and the din of half a hundred people all in varying stages of the worst day of their lives comes rushing back in, giving him an instant headache.   

He needs a smoke – more than that, he needs an excuse to get out of here, at least for a little while, but his legs have turned to concrete, and he can’t make his feet move far enough to carry him out to the curb, so Wayne slumps into the nearest chair he finds and stares blankly at a frame of muted pastels he thinks is supposed to be some kind of pastoral scene.

If he had been cognizant enough, he might have noticed that it was the exact one he’d spent hours staring at last time, but he’s too caught up in his racing thoughts and his thundering heartbeat as he braces against the misery roiling over him in crashing waves like the high tide as he tries to untangle the web of everything that has happened in the last week.

He stares at the picture, watching it begin to shift and move and blend together, and he’s reminded of a story he’d once read, of images of women creeping behind swatches of grotesque yellow wallpaper, rattling their bars, demanding to be let out. He’s reminded of Sherri.   

Folks like to say that Misery loves company, but she doesn’t love anybody like she loves the Munsons.   

Wayne never pictured himself as a family man, partially because of his natural proclivities, but mostly because of the funny little way that the men in his family tend toward turning into raging monsters when they have children, if they stick around long enough to even meet those children, that is.    

Even before Wayne knew he didn’t like girls – which he has known since he was old enough to realize there is a difference between boys and girls – he swore he would be different, and more to the point he wouldn’t give himself the chance to prove himself wrong.      

Al could never be bothered to worry about shouldering the task of breaking that cycle of violence and apathy, he was too busy indulging in his worst whims. Al Munson’s top priority had always been and would always be Al Munson, and everybody else could choke. 

Wayne knows he should have been a little more worried about what was to come when Al met Sherri, but he wasn’t. At the time, he didn’t rightly care, he was just glad someone else was finally going to be in charge of cleaning up his brother’s messes.

They got married fast – too fast if you were to ask him, but nobody was, and it was none of his business, anyway.

When they picked up and moved to Indianapolis, just a couple of wild and crazy kids in love, Wayne shelved the matter entirely, relieved that he could finally go back to living his own life, free from the responsibility of collaring his brother and once again safe from the monster in their genes that made life unsafe for anyone who hadn’t already survived a childhood as a Munson.

It was less than a year before Wayne received that first call, like some kind of bad joke, run ragged and kept in the closet to be trotted out at family gatherings: Al got drunk and had knocked the shit out of Sherri, busted her lip and broke a couple of her ribs, because of course he fucking did.

What else did anyone expect?

Their grandfather had been a monstrous alcoholic who regularly beat his family within an inch of their collective lives before dying thankfully young of cirrhosis of the liver, and the terror of his youth had turned their father into a flighty man who could never seem to make up his mind about staying or going.

And now here was Al, falling dutifully into place, continuing the cycle of violence.

Sherri was frantic when she called, talking a mile a minute through a bad connection from some payphone halfway between there and Indi. She was out of gas, and she’d run out of the house without stopping to grab her bag. She had no money, no plan, and not even a pair of shoes as Wayne would see when he went and picked her up.

She didn’t take a breath in the forty minutes it took to get back to Hawkins. Anyone who thought Eddie could talk and talk and endlessly talk until he was blue in the face had obviously never met his mother.

That woman spent the duration of the ride to safety working herself into a tizzy.

She was practically foaming at the mouth, ranting and raving about what a bastard Al was, how blind she’d been, and how she wasn't going to stand by and let him treat her that way.

She swore she’d kill him first, and by the time the headlights hit the front of the trailer, Sherri had made up her mind about leaving Al. Wayne advised her to do exactly that if she knew what was good for her, and he warned her, perhaps too late, that the only thing you could trust Al to do was disappoint you, and the safest way to love him was to do so at arm's length.

Of course there was no way he could know that by then it was already too late. In all the talking she did from Indianapolis to Hawkins, she very conveniently failed to mention that she was pregnant, already nearing her second trimester, and ever the smooth-talking snake that he was, Al pulled out all the stops to convince her that this was their second chance at doing it right.

One last second chance for Al Munson, just so he could slam the bars shut on his wife before she could escape, trap her behind the peeling yellow wallpaper. 

Sherri’s disappearing act began slowly during her pregnancy. Suddenly she was styling her hair differently and wearing big thick sunglasses in a blatant attempt at covering the bruises Al put there.

There was nothing Wayne could do to save himself from the guilt that ate at him, watching as the months and abuse chipped away at her until there was almost nothing left of the woman he knew.

His friend. 

They met while working at the plant. They were friends, and he knowingly fed her to the gnashing teeth that was his kid brother. Some part of him knew better, that there would be nothing but misery waiting for Sherri down the line with Al, but after a miserable six-month stretch of letting his brother crash on his couch while he got clean, Wayne was desperate to foist him off on someone else.      

He’d stupidly thought it would be different with Sherri. She was tough in a very kind and endearing way – she didn’t take people’s shit, and he’d thought that maybe she could straighten Al out, be a gentle guiding hand to lead him back up the destructive path he’d been headed down since he was fourteen, back to the person Wayne knew and loved. Back to his brother. 

He should’ve known better than to hope for something like that. He made a choice, and Sherri paid for it.  

If he had been a little kinder, a little braver, maybe Wayne would have taken responsibility for his actions and done everything in his power to free Sherri from his brother’s captivity.

He would have put her on a bus with her baby boy, sent her somewhere far away from his cursed family, and done everything in his power to keep his brother from ever finding them again, but he wasn’t, and he didn’t, and as a result his hands would never be clean of Sherri’s blood. 

Al was driving the car that night, but Wayne was the one who introduced them, who stood by, who put his head down and minded his own business while the bruises got bigger, darker, more prominent, so which one of them was truly responsible for her death?

And who is the one who continues to pay the price for the sins of the past? Eddie.

Wayne was never supposed to have a family, but he fought like hell to make sure he got custody of the boy when Al lost it. Call it penance for what he did to Sherri, he was going to do right by that boy, even if it meant he was never going to get his life back on track, even if it killed him.

He never wanted kids, but the moment Sherri thrust Eddie into his arms, Wayne would have done anything for that boy.

Six weeks old, red-faced, and screaming his little head off like he was absolutely furious at the very act of having been born, Wayne knew.

Without a shadow of a doubt, without a thought for himself or what was right or even decent, he knew.

He would do anything for that boy, including but certainly not limited to beating his kid brother within an inch of his life in front of God and everyone in attendance of Sherri’s funeral.

Thankfully, all the good folks who had been decent enough to remember her had extended that decency far enough to put in a word for him when the police were called, and the only one of the Munson brothers to be taken away in handcuffs that night had been the younger. Al went to sleep it off, and Wayne went to find Eddie, because Wayne always went to find Eddie — his boy, from that first moment he'd held him and looked down into those big, wet eyes.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sherri had muttered, half out of her mind with exhaustion, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was your boy, right there.”  

She was joking, even if only half so, but never had a truer statement been spoken into words.  

This was his boy.  

His boy — who was always too kind for the world he’d been thrust into.

Who stayed out all night tending to stray kittens, waiting for their mother to come back when he knew well enough that he’d seen her carcass spread flat on the road on his way home.

Who shared his meager lunch at school with the kids less fortunate than him, even though there arguably were no kids less fortunate than him in Hawkins.

Who at the age of six turned world-weary eyes up to his uncle and told him in a voice wise beyond his years “I wish you were my dad,”. 

Who lives a little too loud and feels everything a little too big. Who tries and tries and tries so hard, bashing his head against the powers that be, trying not to be vulnerable, to protect himself, and still getting his heart broken wondering “Why don’t they like me?”  

Eddie is the last of them, and in spite of all their efforts, the very best of them.    

All Wayne has known his whole life is loss, he can’t lose anybody else. That boy is all he has left in this world.   

He can’t lose Eddie.    

It’s been decades since Wayne set foot in a church. He stopped going to Mass after his mother died, she was the only reason he ever crossed that threshold in the first place, considering he and God never exactly tended to see eye to eye, but like a security blanket, like a crutch to lean on, Wayne suddenly finds himself muttering a familiar string of words under his breath.

There’s nothing he can do for Eddie; he’s got to leave it in the hands of the doctors. He won’t presume to leave it up to God, because he doesn’t believe in the bastard, but Wayne is not so jaded that he doesn’t recognize that this is one of those moments.

Those thresholds of faith that people tend to come to in times of great strife, where they must decide between two outcomes, only there are no choices waiting for Wayne on the other side of this. There’s just the darkness, the fear, the guilt.  

He doesn’t know what to do, so he prays. 

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven... 

Wayne might have been shocked that he still remembers the words after all this time, but good old Catholic guilt is the kind of thing that’s not so easy to shake, and the words fall in line one right after the other without any hint of hesitation like God’s just been waiting for him to come crawling back. He hates to give him the satisfaction, the all-powerful son of a bitch, but it's as they say, desperate times and all that bunk... 

He stares at that same pastel pastoral without seeing, twisting itself into images and faces that aren’t really there. Somewhere, the doctors work to save Eddie’s life while Wayne watches the painting move and mutters those tired old phrases under his breath – he prays.

He prays.

He prays until a commotion draws Wayne’s attention, and then – moving like he’s submerged in molasses – he turns.

There at the nurse’s station stands a handsome boy with sharp features and a half-deflated hairdo, arguing with the lady in the scrubs whom Wayne had spoken to when he first arrived – the runner.  

The boy is caked in the gray-green layers of something that can only come from having lived through a natural disaster, but much more curious is the way he’s spattered in something indiscernibly viscous, black almost like blood but thicker – darker.  

The blood on the doctor’s sleeve was dark enough… Eddie’s blood.   

The handsome boy is openly bleeding from a long cut, sliced across the expanse of his high cheekbone, and there is an angry black and purple bruise wringing his neck like he’d recently escaped the pull of a noose.   

“We can’t wait any longer, Lady,” He stresses, slapping an open palm on the counter before gesturing wildly to the far end of the room, “She’s bleeding like crazy–”  

Wayne doesn’t know why the statement catches his attention — he tells himself it’s nothing but good old-fashioned American curiosity and not the morbidly cathartic need to witness somebody else bleeding their life away.  

Your nephew has lost a lot of blood.   

He follows the boy’s aggressive pointing across the room over to a far corner where he spies a gaggle of kids, all roughly Eddie’s age, standing in a tense huddle. They’re all torn up, battered, and bruised, and dressed in a bizarre collection of costumes like they’d gone rifling through the bargain bin of an army surplus store.

Every one of them is caked in the same weird muck as their friend, looking like little commandos straight out of the bush as they stand fretting over whatever it is that has their attention, the object of the handsome boy’s tirade – someone sitting in a chair, Wayne realizes, the she who just so happens to be “bleeding like crazy.”  

He can’t see her, but he is struck as he realizes that under the dirt and grime, they are not all entirely unfamiliar, that group of kids.   

There stands that boy, the one with the braces who had been sitting in his living room with the rest of Ed’s friends, playing that game of his only a few months back – the same one he’d witnessed come flying into Benny’s like a bat out of hell looking for you.  

Strangely, it lights a fire in Wayne’s belly and breaks up the stone casing holding him to the spot.  

He moves with no real idea of what he means to do, pushing up from his chair and shoving past the handsome boy, still arguing with the nurse. That curly-headed boy, whatever his name is, has got a guilty look about him, and somehow Wayne knows he’s wise to what happened to Eddie.  

That boy knows something.   

He’s not looking to blame someone – he learned long ago that it doesn’t do anybody any good, shit happens, people get hurt, and pointing fingers doesn’t change that.  

But answers — answers change everything.  

Shouldering through the crowd, Wayne makes a beeline for the far corner of the waiting room where the boy stands with the other kids – the strangers.   

Strangers are no good when it comes to Eddie, strangers can’t be trusted to do right by his boy — it makes his blood boil.   

He’s never put his hands on a kid before, but he’s got half a mind to seize the boy by the scruff and shake him until the answers start to fall into place, then he steps aside, and Wayne sees what it is that’s got the boy arguing with the nurses so worked up.   

It’s you – it stops his nervous heart in his chest.   

He supposes some part of him figured that with Eddie here, you’d be hidden away somewhere too, but he’s been too caught up in the nurse’s reaction, the doctor’s words, the blood on his sleeve – your nephew has lost a lot of blood – to even remember that you exist.    

That part of him wants to be relieved to see you, that you kept your promise, that you’re here, but somehow, he can’t muster anything but blinding, gut-wrenching horror.  

It’s not your presence that stopped him in his tracks, it’s the sight of you.    

Beneath the cuts and bruises (of which there are many), you’re a hollowed-out version of yourself, pale, gaunt – the ghost of the girl he knows, sitting slumped in your chair, trembling, and staring off into space.    

Worse than that is the blood, soaked through the front of your shirt, flecked up over your face and arms, streaking down where it has dried sticky over the expanse of your bare legs to darken the scrunched cotton of your socks.   

There’s so much of it, too much of it, and Wayne suddenly can’t imagine that it’s all yours.   

Your nephew has lost a lot of blood…  

“Oh, my–!" someone squeaks to his left, startling him back into semi-working order – it’s that boy, the one with the curly hair and braces. "M-Mr. Munson–!"    

He’s staring at him, wide-eyed like the Devil himself just parted the crowd to approach their group, and Wayne has to take another one of those wheezy breaths to center himself, to try and remember what he was doing here.   

Answers… he was looking for answers about Eddie.   

‘Where’d, uh – when-when did you get here?” The boy stammers. “I-uh-I guess you heard about…”  

He trails off under the hard look Wayne gives him, just daring him to say Eddie’s name.   

Still, he can’t think about that right now. He can’t bear to think of his boy on a slab, tubes, and scalpels, and emergency surgeries, so Wayne pivots to the next best thing, the most pressing matter in front of him.   

You. Why aren’t you being looked at?   

He stares back at the boy as the gears in his head turn and he tries to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. It doesn’t make sense.

Folk are milling around the waiting room in varying degrees of distress, but you are arguably worse off than any of them, so what are you doing just sitting there like that?

Why don’t you have a room and a bed and your own team of doctors and nurses fretting over you? He imagines that’s what the boy at the nurse’s station was going on about.   

We can’t wait anymore, he’d said. She’s bleeding like crazy, he’d said. Wayne can see as much for himself, so why aren’t the nurses looking at you?   

The pieces of this puzzle don’t mesh - it’s the square peg round hole kind of nonsense that only comes with the Munson territory, and though you aren’t a Munson by name, you’ve certainly tied your wagon to their train, and by the looks of you you’d gone and paid for it. 

Just like Sherri – too much like Sherri.    

Wayne is still staring at the curly-headed boy, long enough that he’s starting to fidget under his steely gaze, then he thrusts an accusatory finger out to you, and the boy flinches.   

He doesn’t take his eyes off him as he speaks, mostly because he can’t bear to look at you again just yet.   

“Why’s she just sittin’ there like that?” Wayne growls, “How come she ain’t been looked at?”  

The boy pales and shakes his head.  

“S-Steve’s–” he starts before thinking better of whatever it is he was about to say, “He-he’s already… th-the nurse said–”  

“I don’t give a shit what the nurse said. That’s your friend sittin’ there bleedin’, so quit your woolgatherin’ and go and get her some help.” And when the boy remains frozen to the spot, he grits his teeth, “Now.”  

The boy takes off like a shot, hobbling across the room and fighting to squeeze through the throng of people.   

He’s got an impressive limp, and Wayne feels the first rumblings of remorse for having gone and bitten his head off like that – he didn’t realize the boy was hurt – but the thought passes through his mind without taking root and is instantly gone again because you’re in dire need of attention.   

You’re not alone, sitting in the chair. You’re flanked by two other girls and one of them he recognizes as the one who’d come asking about Victor Creel, the reporter.   

She’s got a delicate hand resting on your shoulder in what he can only imagine is an attempt at comforting you as your trembling form shakes with every ragged breath you take.    

The other kids edge away as Wayne’s attention snaps over to you, clearly not keen on receiving any portion of whatever is left of the vitriol he’d just dealt their friend, but the reporter stays where she is, watching Wayne with a cautious eye.   

He calls your name, perhaps a tad too brusque for the situation, but he’s never been great at regulating his tone when he’s scared. And if there is one thing that is true in this moment, it’s that Wayne Munson is scared out of his wits, standing there in the waiting room, still bracing against the rushing tide of misery battering him from all sides. 

You fail to respond to his call, which would be troubling even without the blood and the way you’re sagging low in your seat – there is a terrifying, far-away look in your eyes, dim and empty, glazed over like you’re staring without really seeing anything.    

When he gets close enough, Wayne kneels in front of you, despite the way his knees curse him for it.   

He steals a glance at the reporter girl, and she purses her lips in a way that seems almost apologetic – he can’t help but wonder what that could possibly mean, what she’s got to be sorry for.   

Wayne says your name again, trying in vain to bring you back from wherever it is you’ve gone. He needs to talk to you, to ask about Eddie — out of anyone here, you’ll know the truth and more to the point you’ll tell him with unflinching honesty, but you’re not answering him when he calls, and he can’t get the words out around the lump swelling in his throat.   

The guilt is creeping up his spine again, clawing at his throat. This is his fault, whatever happened. 

He asked too much of you, expected too much. He knew you wouldn’t refuse him when he saw you come stumbling out of the trailer, led by the same hands of the police sifting through his home and preparing to point the finger of blame at Eddie. You were there when you were needed, a tad too little too late, sure, but you were there all the same.

You came running without being asked to and that meant something, didn’t it? It was enough to leave Wayne feeling justified in asking a little more than was rightly fair, at least.

And was it really such a selfish thing to do? All he asked was that you find Eddie and that you don’t leave him, no matter what – keep him safe. Easier said than done, he’s sure, but what’s moving heaven and earth when it comes to his boy? His son? Nothing – child’s play.   

Only suddenly he is starting to realize how he may come to regret that request. The price, it seems, is far steeper than he ever imagined it would be when he’d pressed the crumpled billfold into your hand … when he gestured aimlessly to Al’s scruffy form and introduced him to Sherri.   

Wayne rests a tentative hand on your knee and gently tries one more time to rouse you from your catatonia.   

It’s the touch that finally does it, and just like that, you’re back in the land of the living.  

“Huh?” You stammer, blinking rapidly as if you’d only just woken from a deep slumber – the way you’d been staring, Wayne would not be surprised to learn that you had.   

“Where are you bleeding, Honey?” He asks quickly, heart pounding against his ribs – it's not the question he’d had waiting in the wings, what happened to Eddie was what he’d intended to say, but the state of your emergency has suddenly trumped all other thoughts in his head. 

You’re clearly hurt bad. He suddenly can’t help but get the feeling that he’s under the threat of a ticking clock here.    

You stare back at him, unseeing and unknowing, looking too long before recognition finally flashes across your features.   

“...Oh – Wayne…” You rasp.  

He does his best to smile.   

“Hi, Sweetheart.” He says gently, “Tell me where you’re bleedin’ from.”   

You blink sluggishly, brows furrowing like he’d said something unbearably cryptic, and you have to work to untangle the secret message hidden in his words. Then, you make a slow effort to look yourself over, scrunching your features like you can’t quite be sure what you’re looking at.  

You’re a visitor from Mars as you regard yourself, wrists turned to the sky, hands shaking. A glint of silver draws Wayne’s eyes down as you uncurl your fingers, and his mouth goes dry: there are Eddie’s rings, clunky burnished silver sitting in a slick wet jumble, pooling red in the palm of your hand.   

He makes himself breathe in deep through his nose to keep from reacting and lies to himself that it doesn’t expressly mean anything.   

The doctors are working on him… the doctors know what they’re doing … just like they’d known with Sherri?  

It’s the wilting sound of distress you make that rescues him from that line of thinking. When you turn your gaze back up at him your eyes are swimming with tears.   

“It’s—it’s not mine.” You rasp, looking through him rather than at him. “It’s not…”  

You get caught on a sharp intake of breath like a gasp that rattles audibly in your chest.   

Yeah, that’s what he was afraid of… Wayne can't stand to consider what that indicates, but more so he can’t stand the look in your eye, an unbridled terror like you’re seeing something beyond, something terrible.

A lazy drip drip drip of something pooling shallowly on the linoleum beneath you finally draws Wayne’s attention,  notice of the dark strip of cloth you have tied off at the top of your thigh, and more specifically, the belt pulled tight over the space above it - tourniquets.

He realizes with a start that he recognizes the buckle – the gaudy handcuff that Eddie had once argued was purposely offensive, and his chest swells with pride at the thought of his boy acting quickly, trying to save you from whatever happened, maybe at his own expense.   

Your nephew has lost a lot of blood…  

Suddenly, Wayne is awash with a strange parental clarity and he moves without really thinking about what must be done.    

He couldn’t save Sherri, and there’s nothing he can do for Eddie except try and follow in his fumbling footsteps. Wayne can finally do some good for once, break the cycle, and try like hell to do something for you.  

“...It’s not mine...” you’re still saying, a muttered utterance of those three words over and over like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to your body.    

“Some of it is,” Wayne tells you, then takes gentle hold of your elbow, “Come on, Babygirl, let’s get you looked at.”

[gatheringbones]

[“Protestantism in the United States was not simply a majority religion but a constituent militant element of US nationalism. The millions of Irish Catholic famine refugees arrived in the aftermath of the half century of Protestant fervor after the second “Great Awakening,” the first having swept through the British colonies in the 1730s and linked the separate settler colonies by fanatic religiosity up to the founding of the United States.

In the 1795–1835 Second Great Awakening, large meetings were held in small towns and big cities but also in camp revival gatherings of the mainly Scots Irish frontier trekkers in Kentucky and Tennessee, the US foot soldiers of Empire who fed their genocidal guilt with feverish evangelism. The core of this religious fervor was a personal experience with Christ, and that could take many forms—speaking in tongues, handling snakes. In 1801 in Cane Ridge, Kentucky, following bloody massacres of Indigenous farmers and the burning of their crops and towns, the settlers from the newly established white settler communities, built on the bones of dead Indians, came from a wide area to hold a weeklong revival. The event drew more than ten thousand regular attendees and many more attended for a day or two. Seven itinerant Presbyterian, Baptist, and Methodist preachers worked the crowd. The masses screamed and writhed and sang themselves to unconsciousness and oblivion, clearing their relationship with the devil. But surely the guilt remained, unnamed, even unknown. Patriotism was its perfect expression and justification. The Protestant religious awakenings formed a type of purging, in what Richard Slotkin characterizes as “regeneration through violence.”]

roxanne dunbar-ortiz, from not a nation of immigrants: settler colonialism, white supremacy, and a history of erasure and exclusion, 2021