#and it's just frustrating that i take on the feedback ive been given i ask what i can do more i get told im doing that but i still never ge

[gaytobymeres]

it doesn't seem to matter how much effort i put into assignments i never improve my grade :/

[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.

[roguestarsailor]

ranting more about my job while im crying in frustration and anger

im still mad! im mad the tiny pieces of GD work i've been given i cannot fucken do. i have to tear my attention away from what i actually WANT to learn to focus on stupid install guides.

and then when i do get the chance again to do the GD work i want, i make soooo many mistakes. they aren't always big mistakes but they are still mistakes and can cause delays and extra cost to re-print and/or ship and it makes me upset and ashamed. nobody gives me that much shit for it but its so unprofessional and i dont like messing up. i think i was frustrated with myself for a long time and being afraid of that work because i didn't want to mess up and have everyone be disappointed in me.

no now i firmly believe that im making these mistakes because i was never taught to look for these errors and don't do enough work to solve these mistakes on my own!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! G takes over all this work and i never get a chance to look at it and the only time is when hes on PTO and the responsibility gets placed on me and i have to pretend to think like him so that i can produce something that's similar to his work. but i cannot do that well because i simply DO NOT KNOW WHAT HE DOES. i just see what he produces and i copy that. what kind of fucken designer am i if i continue to do that??? where i cant fucken think for myself??? that i can't trust my own judgement? where im constantly insecure about my choices because its different than what it has been??

i resent him. he talked so up and down about being a mentor figure to me and that his title means that he had intentions to be a leader and yet????? ?????? hello!! im just a junior version of him and i am NOT learning shit and i DON'T feel supported and I don't feel included and ALL I AM IS MAD. all im building is resentment and im going to explode!!

im also going to rock the boat so hard when i suggest that the IDers take back their responsibility. i know for a fact when i suggest this, everyone is going to be like "well young lady calm down now lets be rational here" (ok no they won't but it'll be that same energy) cuz NOBODY WANTS TO DO THIS TYPE OF WORK! its brainless!! BUT YET these IDers CREATED this product from the start to finish and work closely with engineering; they will know which screw goes where and it is just easier. i have to learn every product from scratch and have to ask them to create assets for me if i need certain views and then constantly get dog piled on by feedback that says oh that screw doesnt move but that screw does, oh that isn't the right screw, oh this wire is suppose to move here and all this shit. then on top of G's feedback where he's like give me this view of this product doing XYZ and then more details shot of ABC, oh this detail is off, this detail is also off, copy from this previous install guide we did it this way so now do it the same way despite not having the asset for it (and what i'm suppose to go dig through all those folders from years past???) all of it!! its just piles and piles of comments from everyone demanding i do all these things and i want to cry (no i am straight up crying)!! nobody outside of this internal team respects me for this and theres just so fucken many of them.

none of this makes me feel accomplished. this makes me feel SAD.

--

i hate that ive been crying so much about this. this is why my job sucks and this is NOT what i signed up for. i have to go fucken job hunting now just so i have a cushion if i bring these things up and our talks go south. i do like it here and i want to stay but at what cost??? i literally have to find meaning outside of work to feel like my life means something. walking into work to do this shit is not it and not worth it. i left my first job because i was so unfulfilled and learned nothing so why the fuck am i doing the same. this time when i fall into depression, i dont have support i'll literally just rot and im so scared of that.

[cellophaine]

Lingered Affection (Chapter V)

Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IV

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Word Count: 5309

Series Summary: You thought breaking up with Matt was the right thing to do. For his sake and yours. Life went on as you navigated through it with the lingered love and affection you still had for each other, neither of you could let go.

Chapter Warnings: Brief depiction of domestic violence, family issues, sexual harassment.

Author's Note: I got distracted while looking for Matt Murdock in a tuxedo GIFs because this man is so DAMN fine. I wanna spread him on a ciabatta bun. Okay I'm done.

Also, I'm sorry for the angst.

Any likes, comments, reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter :)

Taglist: @juniebugg <3

Gif Credit

------

You spent days alternating between the coffee shop and the little studio in your apartment. You poured your heart and soul into the painting, letting your frustration, love, and this confusing, conflicted feeling worked the brushes and colours for you. You weren't sure if doing this would help, but you felt the speck of relief you so desperately sought after. At this moment, you'd settle for that. 




At home, on a snowy day, the frail sunlight filtered through your window felt cold and distant; you were putting more paints on the palette when you received an unknown number on your phone. 

'Could this be Matt?'

You had his numbers saved, his daytime phone and the one on his burner he used every time he went on a patrol. If he had to contact you with a different number, something could be very wrong. However, to your relief and a hint of disappointment, the voice speaking up at the end of the line was a woman, asking for a confirmation of your name.




"Yes, this is her. May I ask who's calling?"




"Hello. My name is Josephine Vandewalt. You can just call me Josephine. I'm an art curator for the Augora gallery. Have you heard of us?"




"Yes, I have. I've been to a few shows at your gallery. I'm sorry, how did you get my number?"




"That's awesome. Then I think you have an idea of our overall vision. I got your information from Archie, who hired you to do the 'Silent' mural in Chelsea!"




"Oh! Right. Uhm, what do you need me for?"




"I've looked you up, and I'm very impressed with your works. Therefore, I want to feature you in our next show. I think your paintings can go well with the theme of the exhibit. However, I would like to see your other works as well, everything, including those that are in progress."




Your eyes widen at the offer. You'd given up this route long ago since your paintings were denied at every gallery you applied to, ones with free to inexpensive exhibition fees. To be presented with an opportunity like this was something you never thought possible. Yet, you were skeptical. So you decided to hear what she had to say first. 




"Of course! When are you available?"




"Great! I was hoping you'd say so. How about tomorrow at 2? I can drop by wherever you store your works, take a look, and we'll go from there."




After giving her your address, you hung up. You pondered the possibilities of how this might go. You'd get a chance to promote your work, but that didn't always mean more clients, more paintings sold, more money. Nevertheless, Augora was a well-known gallery with a steady stream of visitors, clients and donors, so this could be a great chance at gaining exposure, selling your works and networking. You sighed, telling yourself to take one thing at a time, turning back to the painting in front of you.




The next day, at approximately 2 PM, three quick raps resounded at your door. You opened it to reveal a woman dressed in a long trench coat that brushed over her black boots, dotted with snow, a stylish, colourful scarf adorned her neck.




She said your name with a cheeriness that could brighten the gloomy weather in New York, shaking your hand with enthusiasm. After the initial greeting, you stepped aside to welcome her in and led her to your studio. 




Josephine took a close inspection on the paintings you'd set out the night before, muttering to herself and sometimes making you know which pieces you could use. You took mental notes of her comments when she stood before your easel, with your unfinished painting still on it.




"Is this completed? I think it would make a great feature on your designated wall at the show."




You hesitated before answering her.




"This piece is quite personal for me. I'm not sure if I could show it to a lot of other people, let alone sell it."




"Aren't they all, personal? The artworks, I mean. Every one of these is a part of you, and you have been selling them to strangers. So what's the difference this one makes? You could make something out of it, at least, in case it gets sold."




You didn't want to tell Josephine that this painting was inspired by your ex-boyfriend, who you were still in love with. You didn't want to admit it, but she was right. This painting was no different from what you usually do. You tried to move on from him, didn't you? Maybe if the work were sold, it would get easier. However, the thought of gaining monetary compensation from a part of him that you built, something that had helped you in the past few days, made you felt wrong. It seemed like your life had a thing for conundrums.




"What if I add it to my collection, just to display, not to sell? It means a lot to me."




"That would work. I can't guarantee that people won't try to buy it from you, but I can mark it as not-for-sale on the list. Just think about it, alright? If you change your mind, you have my number."




You nodded, feeling better. After finalizing the paintings, you and Josephine made your way to the living room to begin the paperwork and contract talks. You found their conditions reasonable and surprising for an independent gallery in New York, with a 40% sales commission and no exhibition fees or any other additional charges. Josephine explained how they had some donors with a knack for new and unknown artists; therefore, the show was funded with a generous budget.

'Just my luck.' You thought.

Josephine bid you adieu with a promise of sending you the contract on the next day. After that, you had two weeks to prepare for the show, which included getting the artworks ready for sale, packing them up to transport them to the gallery, and working closely with Josephine to mark down their prices. During that time, you put final touches to the painting, finding yourself yearning for the process that was over. You traced your finger over the dry paint, over the blurry line where Matt's eyes were, the fullness of his lips, shaped into a beautiful arc, his jaw formed a graceful line down the slope of his neck, disappeared into the darkness framing his face. You weren't surprised at how you could recreate his face on the canvas without the help of a reference photo. All those time you spent with him, with your head on his laps, gazing up at him. His unseeing eyes filled with pure love and adoration when he angled his face down to you, giving you the sweetest smile. He would use his hands to caress your face lovingly, his fingers sometimes wandering, exploring your face with the softest touches. You took all of that in, committed those tender moments to your memory. Everything about him was forged into your mind like a branded mark, the kind that had your skin scorched, but you would gladly endure the pain, to have the scar with you.

The days passed by in a blur, with you surrounded by plastic covers, bubble wrap rolls, boxes and phone calls. Today was a special day, but you didn't want to go out to celebrate since it would only remind you of this day last year when you spent it with Matt. Instead, you pushed through the workload, hoping to take your mind off the ache that had started pounding on the back of your mind. Taking a break from the craziness of your tiny studio, you grabbed a mug of tea, sitting down on the window sill by the fire escape. You took in the sight of snow falling, sprinkled on the scene before you. You thought briefly of Matt, hoping he wouldn't stay out too long in this weather. Your eyes moved onto the alley below, and that was when something red caught your attention. You squinted your eyes, head moving closer to the glass pane, staring at the red thing covered in a layer of light snow. Opening the window, you stepped out into the cold, picking the box up and dusting off the snowflakes. You lifted the lid up to reveal a brown paper-wrapped package inside; on top of it was a folded piece of paper with your name written clumsily. You recognized the strokes of the pen, the smudge of the ink from the occasional notes Matt left you with few simple words. Hastily unfolding the paper, you read:

'Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Always yours,

- Matt.'

The letters were awkwardly placed, otherwise comprehensible. There were streaks in a few places. Matt must have used his finger to track where he was writing. You wondered if he had asked Foggy for help? You pressed the piece of paper to your chest, feeling the familiar tug at your heart, much stronger now than it had been recently. He remembered your birthday. And he took the time to drop it off at your place, knowing you didn't want to see him, despite how things ended between you two. But why you didn't feel like it was over?

You inhaled sharply; the cold air entered your lungs, clearing your mind. You made your way back inside, bringing the box with you. Placing it on the kitchen counter, you set the note aside and peeled back the paper, the material crinkled in your hands. You stared at the items, dumbfounded. Inside was a box of perfume, still new with the plastic wrap. It was your go-to fragrance since the faint floral smell didn't overwhelm Matt, until the manufacture for the scent stopped, and you couldn't find it anywhere a few months back. You remembered how Matt would bury his face into the crook of your neck, muttering between peppered kisses he pressed on your skin about how good you smelled, how the perfume complimented your natural scent, and how he missed your unmistakable subtle aroma when you weren't around. You smiled fondly at the memory, feeling the knot on your throat tighten. You swallowed it down and moved on to the next object: a simple photo frame with an art print inside. You recognized it instantly. Matt had asked for one of your favourite art pieces, and you described it to him; the conversation was still fresh on your mind.

"It's a hard question, but for now, I'd say Guido Borelli's 'Un Cielo Verdolino'. I love the use of colours in it and the composition. It feels like the heat of summer bounced off the pavement, hitting you in a pleasant way. The air is balmy. The wind feels cool on your face, tangles in your hair, dancing on your skin. The citrus smell of an orange being peeled. Tiny drops of lemon juice dash off the pulp when the fruit is being cut in half. The taste of fresh grape burst open in your mouth, sugary sweet. It feels like a perfect summer. You feel free. I'm making this sounds very dramatic, aren't I?"

Matt had this adoring expression on his face then, concentrated on you. He wished he could bottle your voice at this moment, so when he missed you, he could open the stopper and listen to you again, letting your voice lull him into a sweet dream.

You put your face between your hands, holding back a sob that threatened to escape. Your tears, however, rolled down your cheeks silently. Of course, Matt would do something like this. Because he might still love you, still showed that he cared about you, even when he couldn't be with you.

'This is for his own good.'

You reminded yourself. But now, that voice faltered and full of doubts, more than ever.

The opening night arrived as you grew more anxious. You ran your hands down your clothes, a puff-sleeve dress with a sweetheart neckline, the length stopped above your knees. Your hair glided smoothly over the bare skin, brushed over the simple jewelry you wore. Finally, after the opening ceremony, the door to the gallery opened, welcoming a stream of guests. You swallowed at the sheer amount of people that wouldn't stop pouring in, offering a smile as people approached your wall and talked to you.

The first hour went by swimmingly. There was a crowd of six people who surrounded your paintings, asking you questions. One of them pointed to your central piece, the one with the features you knew too well, better than the back of your hand. The portrait of Matt with his face angled slightly up towards the ghost white light, while the darkness surrounded him, leaving some of his attributes shown. The shapes of his eyes were recognizable but cloudy as if they were out of focus. The streams of red started from the corners of his blurred eyes, moved down to his cheeks, onto his jaw, throat and disappeared into the darkness. The pop of colour was dotted with tiny pieces of gold foil, making the scarlet lines shimmer under the light. Matt's face was an expression of despair, his brows slightly scrunched up, his lips parted open as if to let out a prayer, a mournful exhale.

You thought about Matt's struggle to accept himself for who he was, what he had done to protect Hell's Kitchen and his loved ones. There was no perfect solution, not without having his hands drenched in blood. His Daredevil identity had done more than enough damage to him and those that cared about him. You had a taste of it, and he blamed himself to the point he tried to push you away. You could see the contrary in his hurtful words, putting distance between you two. Despite his fear of abandonment, he did it for your own good. You knew the feeling too well. But you stayed with him, in the eye of the storm, showing him that he didn't have to choose, and it was your choice to stay.

How ironic it was.

May spotted you, gave you a warm smile and a crushing hug, whispering words of congratulations in your ears. She took a look at your paintings; eyes stopped at the expressionism portrait of Matt. The title plate gleamed under the light of the gallery.

'HEART OF GOLD.'

Before she could say anything, a person close by required your attention. You mouthed 'sorry' to her. She waved dismissively and pointed in the direction of the bar. You nodded, grateful for the distraction. You turned to the man in the grey suit; his cologne was so strong that you recoiled internally. He flashed a smile at you, extending a hand.

"I'm Thomas, but my friends call me Tom. I have to say, I've seen all the artists and their beautiful paintings here tonight, but none of them could compare to you."

You shook his hand, huffing out a chuckle, answering him with mild amusement.

"Thank you for your kind words. I'm honoured to be a part of such an amazing show since everyone here contributes a unique point of view and vision."

He clicked his tongue, his lips shaped into a disagreement.

"Yeah yeah. What I meant to say is you're beautiful. You shouldn't be standing here with me; you should be on these walls like a work of art you are."

There it was — a pickup line, as cheesy as it could get. The smile was frozen on your face as you said nothing in return. Thomas continued, didn't notice your silence.

"I might take home one of your paintings. Or two. Putting them up in my bedroom, perhaps. What do you think?"

He got the sleazy, suggestive look in his eyes that you just wanted to scrape off with your bare hands. Forcing out a friendly smile, you responded.

"Of course! If that's what you want. You can contact Josephine regarding the payment process, the shipping details and more."

From behind you, the familiar muffled sound echoed. Tap. Tap. Tap. Why was that sound so familiar?

"Maybe I'll take this one." Thomas gestured at 'Heart of Gold'.

"I'm sorry, but that painting is for display purposes only. It's not for sale."

Tap.

A woman's smooth voice with a gorgeous accent glided in between you and Thomas, making you turn around.

"Such a shame, don't you think …."

Your posture went stiff as your eyes settled on the couple behind you, Thomas forgotten. Your blood ran cold at the first sight of the man.

"… Matthew?"

Your heart dropped when you saw how his hand gripped her arm in a similar fashion to when he held yours. You felt like all the air in your lungs had evaporated as you took in the sight of Matt, feeling like a stranded traveller gazing upon their salvation. He looked so painfully beautiful in the black suit that hugged his body just right; the bowtie sat straight and neat on the collar. He appeared to be in good health, as far as you could tell, since you couldn't detect the usual sight of bruises on the open skin of his neck, hands and face. He had the same surprised expression on his face, although he hid it well. The silence stretched on, and Matt covered it up with a rigid comment and a tense chuckle.

"I wouldn't know about that."

The woman walked closer to you; Matt's hand fell to his side as he stood still, his knuckles white on the walking cane. She held out a hand to you to shake, introducing herself.

"Elektra Natchios, and my companion here is Matthew Murdock."

You offered your name in return, not sure how this would play out. Would he pretend that he didn't know you in front of his new girlfriend?

"We know each other, Elektra. There's no need of introduction."

"Oh? How did you become acquainted?"

This time, you spoke up first.

"We used to date a while ago. It wasn't anything serious."

Matt's lips slightly opened, his brows knitted in betrayal. Your heart picked up again, knowing he could tell that you were lying. You schooled your expression to be detached, brushing the nerves off as if it was nothing. Elektra didn't have to know the truth.

"What a small world."

Elektra shot you a knowing look as if she could pick on your words of deception. Matt tugged on her arm with a gentle but stern force, pulling on her attention.

"Can we talk?"

Elektra raised a brow in amusement.

"Alright, Matthew."

She gave you a nod, excusing herself. Matt didn't turn back once, walking her to the other side of the room, but you could see them still. They appeared to be in disagreement; words and precise hand gestures were exchanged. They looked good together, you had to admit. She was beautiful, in a way you knew you couldn't compare. She seemed confident and self-assured, from what you could tell. Why wouldn't Matt fall for her?

Still, why did he send you the birthday gift? Why did he show that he cared? Was it some kind of cruel joke?

'You know damn well it couldn't be any more cruel than what you did to him.'

You reminded yourself. Your nails dug hard into the palms of your hands. You were lost, bombarded with confusion and a bit of jealousy until a voice of a stranger disrupted your thoughts. You looked down at your hands, seeing all the crescent moon marks peppered your palms, some of them had turned to a dull purple. Looking up, you couldn't see Matt and Elektra anywhere.

Another hour or so went by, you didn't keep track of the time anymore. You'd talked to multiple people, shook many hands, received compliments, criticism and promises of new projects. You felt happy at the new opportunities, at the number of people interested in your art. The exhaustion crawled up your spine, and you felt tired from smiling, knowing Matt was in the same building as you, probably cozying up with Elektra. At an art show, like how you used to spend time together. You shouldn't feel this way. You broke up with him. He was free to date anyone he wanted. Yet, the birthday message kept sneaking in, making itself known, making you feel conflicted. Did he do it because he felt pity for you?

You felt a tap on your shoulder, thinking it was May. You were disappointed to see Thomas, now with a drink in his hand. He tilted his head to get closer to your ear, and you leaned back just slightly.

"I've just bought one of your paintings. Do you want something to celebrate? Champagne? Some wine, maybe?"

Giving your best friendly smile, you dipped your head slightly in appreciation.

"Thank you so much for your generosity. And thank you for the drink offering, but I don't feel like drinking anything right now."

"C'mon, let loose. Have some fun. I think it's within my rights that you have a drink with me since, you know, your work isn't cheap."

You laughed nervously.

"I appreciate your support, but I'd rather not."

He placed his hand on your shoulder, his fingers brushed over the bare skin, tightened uncomfortably. Your heart dropped to your stomach, your body frozen. The hand on your shoulder was painfully familiar, not in a good way. It reminded you of all the times your dad put his hands on you in a violent manner. Slaps after slaps, punches after punches because you 'don't listen', you 'aren't good enough', you 'are a fucking burden', you 'should do whatever the fuck I told you to' because 'you are my child' and you 'owe me'. The even worse thing was, your mom looked away. Every time.

You bit your bottom lip, trying to calm the tremor that started unfolding throughout your body. You tried to smile, rolling your shoulder in the hope of getting rid of his hand, your voice firm.

"Please, I don't think it's a good idea."

He only got closer, close enough that a sharp waft of air soaked with alcohol and bad breath fanned your face, making you squirm. His face filled your vision, red and angry, the sight you hoped to never have to see again. You pushed hard at his chest, forced him to take a step back. The scotch in his hand sloshed, and a few drops fell on his well-pressed trousers and expensive-looking shoes. He assessed the damage, looking up at you with a wave of seething anger. The relief you felt was short-lived as the dread filled in. Horrified at what you just did, you took a step back, hoping he wouldn't make rash moves in the middle of the gallery. He stomped towards you, face flaming, raising his voice in a controlled measure.

"Do you have any idea …"

"Any idea that you're about to make an embarrassing spectacle of yourself? I'd advise you to step back and not humiliate yourself any further than you already have. People are watching. I don't need to see to know that."

It was Matt. He had inserted himself between you and the man, creating a barrier between you. His cane was extended, stopped right at Thomas' feet to cease his steps. The warmth and the familiar scent radiated off his body made you sag a little in relief. Around you, people stared; some got closer. You saw Josephine speaking into the communication device clipped to her dress.

"And who are you? Just because you're blind, don't think that I'm not afraid to beat you up."

Thomas' voice shimmered with rage. A small chuckle escaped Matt. He smirked. The damn smirk that you loved so much.

"I would like to see you try."

Before Thomas could say anything else, two security guards came up and escorted him out. The man grumbled like a spoiled child, begrudgingly followed the guards, not before calling you names and swearing he'd withdraw the offer he made on your painting. Sighing heavily to yourself, you walked off and muttered 'Now I need a drink' under your breath, deliberately ignored how Matt had turned to you, no doubt to see if you were okay. You were not. And you needed to get away from the whispers, from the pity eyes that were directed at you, leaving Matt reluctantly followed your trail.

The bar was quite empty, saved for few people milling around. You waved a bartender over, asking for a whiskey. You gulped the entire glass in one movement and regretted it instantly. The alcohol burned your throat, making you recoil. But you felt like drinking more. You flagged down another whiskey, threw back half of it before setting the glass down. As you finished the other half, Matt walked up and settled beside you, with a small distance between you two.

"Maybe you should slow down on the whiskey. You're gonna regret it tomorrow. You don't have a very strong alcohol tolerance."

You huffed out a humourless laugh, retorted.

"Geez, thanks. That's the whole point. At least I could forget what just happened."

"It wasn't your fault. Don't blame yourself."

You turned sharply at him, eyes filled with anger. Because once again, he hit the nail right on the head with a few simple words. You were doing so well, even with his and Elektra's presence here. You felt like the incident ruined tonight, ruined your hard work. You were keeping it together just fine before it wrecked your crumbling composure. You thought about how you could have reacted differently so that things wouldn't have escalated. But the other part of you understood that what you did was right. Defending yourself was never wrong. He harassed you, put his hand on you, made you felt scared and weak. You swore you'd never be under anyone else's mercy again. But it happened. And you froze. You couldn't help but reprimanded yourself for it.

Now Matt was by your side after so long. You ached for him, but at the same time, you wished he didn't know you this well. It was hard enough to cut him out of your life. It hurt to see the influence you both had on each other.

"And what do you know about that, Murdock? I've got it handled. Just because we dated, we fucked, we had some sleepovers doesn't mean you understand me inside and out, okay? So why don't you scuttle back to your new girlfriend? I bet she's looking for you."

You forced the words out with the most cruelty you could muster. The words grew thorns in your throat, and the lingering taste of whiskey made it worse. Matt's brows furrowed, the corner of his mouth dipped down at your poisonous remarks. He sighed, clearly exhausted with your attempt to spite him even more.

"He could have seriously injured you. And, Elektra is not my girlfriend. I'm helping her with ... something. I know damn well you didn't mean a single word you've just said, so what was all of that for?"

You heard your name on his lips, the syllables soft and alluring.

"I know you didn't mean that. You know how much it hurts me to hear those words coming from you. You're being spiteful to make me hate you."

He gently took your hand in his and pressed it at his chest. The rhythm of his heart pounded wildly.

"I can not take it when you're being cruel to yourself."

You jerked your hand away, feeling your defences soften as the warmth of his chest pulled you in.

"You're wasting your time here, Murdock. I'm not some hopeless cause you think you can work on. I don't need your help. I don't need your charity."

He paused a beat, seemingly grew more frustrated, continued.

"I think I understand why. You're desperate to convince yourself that you don't love me anymore because you're scared. You're scared of relying on me because you think I'll leave you someday. You don't want to believe that you could be with me and things would be fine. You don't trust me. And what does that say about you? That you're a coward."

You retorted with more heat.

"At least I had the courage to leave before it could get worse. Look at us, fighting, after all this time. You should be grateful that I left. Why can't you just let me go? I don't love you anymore. You're just wasting your time with me."

"You can drop the act. Why do you keep lying and pushing me away?"

"I'm gonna keep lying until I believe in the lie itself, Matt. Maybe you should try it too. You just have to be convincing enough."

His hand on the cane tighten, almost like he could crush it at any moment.

"Fine. Lie to yourself. Believe whatever you want. When you're done moping and feeling sorry for yourself, I won't be there for you. Not anymore."

He walked off, the taps of his cane blended in with the sound of the awful relief that you'd looked for since the day you walked out of his apartment. The pain in your chest grew in size, the tears in your eyes blurred your vision, you tried your hardest not to let them fall. You didn't want to go back out there with a tear-stained face. You still had a job to do.

Before you knew it, the night was over. You said goodnight to some fellow artists; some of them asked if you would like to join them for a creative session sometimes. Josephine checked in with you, squeezed your arm reassuringly and told you to go on home safely. After changing into something more comfortable, you fell onto your bed, exhausted from the day, looked out onto the bedside table with Matt's neatly folded hoodie on top. You turned away from the garment, knowing that you didn't deserve that comfort tonight. The alcohol you had whisked you into a fitful sleep, full of red lights, smoke and him.

Three days after the opening night, you received a call from Josephine.

"Hey, darling. I'm calling to let you know that your paintings sure sell quickly. There's only two of them left, and that included the one you didn't want to sell."

You perked up a little at the news. Still reeling from the fight with Matt, you needed every piece of goodness you could get.

"That's awesome! Is there a 'but' here?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Someone really wanted to buy that painting off of you. They have offered a pretty big number."

"Josephine, I'm sorry, but I won't change my mind."

"I know, darling. That's what I told them. But they insisted. They wanted me to pass on an invitation to brunch with them to you at 1 PM on Wednesday. So, two days from now on. They seemed very determined to convince you. They also wanted to have a chat with the artist behind the painting."

You bit your lip, musing over the offer. You decided to take the bait out of curiosity.

"Alright. What's the address?"

The next day, standing at the front door of the restaurant, you took in the sight of the sight of the place. 'Fancy', you thought. The person that chose this place had money to waste. You walked in; before you could say anything, the host saw you, gave you a warm welcome and confirmed your name. You nodded, letting him take your coat and lead you to a table in a secluded but well-lit area. You settled down in the seat, speaking up.

"Hello, Elektra."

[wizkiddx]

your song blurb

hello!! sorry ive been so inactive and I have got a number of req that I am trying to work through - I am sorry, please be as patient as you can with me. general life shit and all hasn't been ideal. I am aware I reaaallly need to update my master list and will get round to it when I can I promise ;)

also have lots of asks abt the t + z situation but all I have to say is im so very happy for them and hope people respect their privacy ;)

harryhollandxreader // friends --> lovers blurb

summary: harry never sings in front of you, until you need it

//////////////////////////

There were some things that Harry, even after being friends for years, kept close to his chest. The one that you always tried to catch him out on was his singing. For some unknown reason, he was super self conscious of it. Every time he was nonchalantly humming along to himself, all it took was for you to make a single sound, and he’d immediately lock his mouth shut. From those fleeting moments, you had thought he didn’t even sound half bad, hence where your frustrations drew.

Because whilst you, who sounded like a cat being tortured, would scream your lungs out - Harry, who wasn’t even that bad, refused to make a fool out of himself.

It was exactly what had happened this evening when you had let yourself into Tom’s house otherwise unannounced. It’d been years since you’d been given a spare key by Harry - when they were both away, you often ‘house-sat’ for Tom; plus, you spent most evenings there too because that was where your best mate was.

Tom had messaged on the group chat to say he would be out for the evening, and Haz was around his girlfriends tonight, meaning on arrival, you’d known it’d just be you and Harry. So once you heard the quiet tune of a song, that you couldn’t quite place yet, safe to say you were on stealth mode. Sliding your shoes off and wincing as the floorboards creaked a little, you slowly crept through the house to find your frizzy-haired friend.

Sure enough, as you made your way through the kitchen, you found him stood over the hob, stirring round a wooden spoon of a saucepan - presumably filled with pasta he’d promised to have ready for you. Pouting as you leaned on the doorframe and crossed your arms, marvelling at him. He was dressed just in grey joggers and his favourite pink hoodie, arms rolled up to his elbow as the poor boy slaved away at the stove.

You stayed silent, to what you now recognised as billy joel, only unable to stifle a giggle when he reached a particularly high note. Like a rabbit caught in headlights, he jumped around and yelled, eyes fiery and pointed at you.

“OH fuck off Y/n!!”

“Billy Joel, an old school choice.” You smirked, now walking into the room to greet him properly.

“How long have you been stalking on me?”

“It’s not stalking if the stalkee gave me the key.”

“I don’t think that’s admissible in court.” He deadpanned back, pouting for a couple more seconds before finally shooting you a wide grin. The boy held his arms out, welcoming you into a proper greeting hug. Happily reciprocating, you inhaled deeply with your face pressed into the crook of his shoulder.

“How was work?” He murmured, already guessing the answer correctly.

“Shit. Exhausting. Hell, you want any more adjectives?” Harry just snorted back as you leaned away from his warmth.

“Nah rule of three is quite enough. Did you never pay attention in GCSE english?”

“Fuck off you can’t even spell GCSE.”

That was always how your friendship had been; it had always been a piss-taking battle. You simply were one of the boys - or at least that’s what you thought. Said boys though (meaning Sam, Tom, Harrison, Tuwaine and even Paddy) disagreed. You didn’t know, or didn’t believe, that Harry did NOT treat you like one of the boys. He cared about you differently, too. Tom thought it didn’t stop there, that Harry did in fact love you.

And yes, you might’ve admitted to Harrison on one very, very drunken night that you had occasionally thought of Harry as something more than your sarky friend. He had been since sworn to silence, though Haz had in fact, told Tom - who only replied with an ‘i told you so’.

Even though everyone else saw your relationship as complicated, to you and Harry it was just simple. You were just the best of friends.

And that’s how the evening went. The two of you were just messing around as usual; after eating the tomatoey pasta creation Harry had tried, you both made a right mess of the washing up - water ending up coating the floor and maybe one of the walls too (Tom would never know). And just like usual, it ended with you sprawled out on one sofa, Harry mirroring you on the adjacent one.

It was love island season, which meant every night at 9 pm there was only one place on earth either of you would be. On your respective sofas, watching the most trashy tv in the world.

Tonight though, no matter how excited you were for the next instalment of who-likes-who, your day of work caught up with you. Not that you noticed, but you’d pretty much passed out as soon as the opening scenes started. There were only two minutes of silence before Harry registered something was up - typically, he was trying to make you shut up so he could actually hear the TV. To investigate, he jumped off the sofa and leaned over the couch, the sight making him pout.

He knew work had been super stressful recently; and he also knew that your insomnia had been coming back with a vengeance. So instead of treating you like ‘one of the boys’ and throwing things until you woke up - Harry used a different approach. He draped the blanket that hung off the side of the sofa over you, biting back a slight smile as you huffed in appreciation for the soft quilt. Then Harry left you alone, knowing you could do with every little bit of rest you could get.

That was all good until it reached the third set of adverts when Harry heard you huff and move about on the sofa. And then again and again. Then again with what sounded like a bit of whimper too.

Brows furrowed, he paused the TV and slowly got up, rounding the sofa to see you somewhat matching his expression. Your face was contorted in one of distress, and you kept thrashing your head from side to side of the pillow. It didn’t take a genius to work out; this was your nightmares rearing their ugly heads.

Harry just wanted to stop this for you. Although the two of you were never particularly ‘mushy’ or vulnerable with each other - he knew just how much you were suffering recently. So without much thought into it, Harry knelt down to sit on the floor, side leaning up against the sofa as he looked towards you. Trying to hush you, he ran his hand over your forehead and over the top of your hair, though it seemed to take little effect. And then, again entirely without hesitation, Harry started to softly sing.

It’s a little bit funny

This feeling inside

I’m not one of those who can easily hide

Why Elton John was the first that came to mind was a mystery to Harry - except maybe that the lyrics ran true a little.

And you can tell everybody

This is your song

It may be quite simple, but now that it’s done

I hope you don’t mind

I hope you don’t mind

That I put down in the words

How wonderful life is while you’re in the world

You’d always loved old 70s music, you were the one that had properly got you into all that stuff - the beatles, billy joel, elton, even a bit of springsteen. He owed half his music taste to your Spotify playlists, even if he’d never admit it to your face.

So excuse me forgetting

But these things I do

You see I’ve forgotten, if they’re green or they’re blue

Anyway the thing is, what I really mean

Yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen

With a final huff, you finally settled down, Harry swore he could see all the discomfort literally melting away from your face. It took a minute but your breath evened out, mumbling something incomprehensible as you curled up toward him on the edge of the sofa.

This wasn't the first time he’d sang to you in your sleep - and he sort of hoped it wouldn't be the last either.

feedback is really appreciated <3

harry taglist : @euphorichxlland @lovehollandy12 @pandaxnienke @msmimimerton @crossyourpeter @hallecarey1

[yeoldontknow]

❧ check in tag

tagged by the sweetest angel @propinqxity to do this little tag. this is such a cute list of questions, and some of these i dont think ive been asked before. thank you so much for the tag and the tumblr crush mention lovely. you truly are a bright spot on this website and i mean that sincerely <333

going under a cut because im certain i will ramble ~

1. Why did you choose this url?

its sort of like a pun between yall dont know and the fact that, hopefully, sincerely, chanyeol does not in fact know that i run this blog lmao i changed to this after a long time of being bread-jinie and i wanted to rebrand. i will, however, do my best to never change URLs again because the masterlist switch over was a complete hassle

2. Any sideblogs? If you have them, name them and why you have them

i have a fic recs blog called @yeoldontknowiread. as to why i have it, i know it hasnt been updated in ages since ive been kind of on hiatus, but i think reading and sharing work on this platform is immensely important. i actually read quite a lot of fanfiction, and i try my best to share the things i read. im very very behind on recs at the moment cause i try my best to write something substantial for every recommendation i make. as a writer, i know exactly the kinds of thoughts and feedback on fics that make my heart soar so i try to put in the same energy to my recs. community is only fostered when there is reciprocation

3. How long have you been on Tumblr?

hmmm since april 2017. i actually had my 4 year anniversary this year and i did have plans for things but i got roped into real life things and couldnt celebrate the way i truly wanted to :(

4. Do you have a queue tag?

no but sometimes i think i should. i view tags as a library on top of my knee jerk response to things. most of my tags are just my initial thoughts or feelings at any given moment, so those take precedence over a specific queue tag

5. Why did you start your blog in the first place?

when i was getting into exo, i was reading fanfiction like crazy. i used to write fanfic quite a lot in other fandoms, but at that time i hadnt written anything in about 2.5 years. exo was the first re-introduction to that feeling of excitement and inspiration. after about 3 weeks of straight reading, i decided i wanted to write again. i wrote the prologue to hero in about two hours and tried logging into AO3 to post it. sadly i forgot all of my log in information because it had been years, and was getting frustrated. i really wanted to put it somewhere out of fear that id lose interest if i didnt do something with it, and everything id read had been on tumblr. so i made a tumblr just to put hero lmao i didnt have any mutuals. it was a blog with straight 0. i hadnt even created an account to interact with writers before that moment, i really thought id be a silent reader forever. but exo woke me back up and for that i am eternally grateful.

6. Why did you choose your icon?

the yours music video is...so stunning? like the colour theory throughout the whole thing is truly so inspiring and gorgeous. and this shot of chanyeol looking at the painting took my breath away, truly. tulips and the color of peach, like do you know how evocative that is? ugh

7. Why did you choose your header

my header was made by @jamaisjoons for my birthday this year because shes literally the most talented person when it comes to graphics. and this was so kind of her to do, i cried a lot

8. What's your post with the most notes?

uhm....either the body through time or truth i cant remember which but i checked recently and its one of those

9. How many mutuals do you have?

honestly at this point im not even sure. i know ive lost a bunch while i was on hiatus because i was basically a dead blog, and some people do dash cleanses. and im certain others have left, too, for their own reasons. still, i have a good core of friends though who are active and that is enough for me

10. How many followers do you have?

more than i probably deserve

11. How many people do you follow?

399

12. Have you ever made a shitpost?

uhm i guess? there was a time when nng was not updated and every wednesday id post the days go by music video in sadness and grief but im not a big shitposter. if i make a text post its usually a life update or me crying about chanyeol, theres no inbetween lmao

13. How often do you use Tumblr every day?

tbh i havent used tumblr that often, not since march i think. i used to use it many times a day, checking in on friends and stuff, but once i started focusing on my phd applications i was only here sporadically. i didnt make an announcement either, just let my blog run on queue so i wasnt totally gone. i think i was checking in twice a week or maybe once every two weeks to refill my queue and check mentions etc. but now that my interviews are done im trying to get back on here daily to reconnect

14. Did you have a fight/argument with another blog once? Who won?

ive had my share of disagreements with people and any details about those situations shall remain as they are meant to: private

15. How do you feel about "you need to reblog this" posts?

in what context? like, you need to reblog this or your wish wont come true? or like, please reblog this to spread the word/spread awareness, etc? in the case for the former, i scroll right by. in the case of the latter, if im around and see someone raising a go fund me or some major event is occurring and i find a post with good sources or charities i will reblog. mostly though, the full extent my activism isnt really on this blog. its my escape from reality. my activism is usually placed on other platforms.

16. Do you like tag games?

i doooo!!! theyre so fun i love learning about my friends

17. do you like ask games?

i love those too! theyre so cute and usually a nice way to have interaction immediacy with people in the community

18. Which of your mutuals do you think is Tumblr famous?

no one. can we please abandon this notion of fame on tumblr? arent we all here to write about some dick and some smut and some fluff and then hang out together and log off? lmao tumblr isnt reality and followers/fame is so arbitrary on this platform, no one has any control over any of it

19. Do you have a crush on a mutual?

i am in love with so many people here. let me name a few:

@yehet-me-up @kyungseokie @jenmyeons @j-pping @jamaisjoons @inkedtae @kookdiaries @yoonia @dulcetvk @kithtaehyung @imdifferentshadesofpurple @ditzymax @sugaurora @sahmbtsficrecs @junghelioseok @yeojaa @augustbutwinter @joonscore @btssavedmylifeblr @cutechim @sunshinekims @kimtaehyunq @ouvuo @delhyun @exo-stentialism @sooibian @softyoongiionly @jinseunie @zibermuda @bratkook @1kook @luffles424 @xjoonchildx

and so many other people and mutuals that i am certainly forgetting. love is such an expansive feeling, and it encompasses platonic ardor and creative desire. i admire every single person listed for so many different reasons, and cherish and treasure them or what they provide to the community. love is such an important and broad experience. truly, i hope they feel adored every single day x

[96thdayofrage]

WAR DAY 7️⃣1️⃣0️⃣3️⃣ 🍵 "Secretary of State Anthony Blinken might have been 'outraged' by a rocket attack on a U.S. base in northern Iraq – that killed a foreign contractor and wounded an American service member and several other contractors – but he shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, it’s the muddled US military mission and on-going troop presence itself that creates nearly all the conditions for current crisis. That this particular truth tablet might be rather uncomfortable to swallow doesn’t make it any less so.

"If Blinken’s boss needs proof, he might consider applying what we could call his very own 'Biden Rule:' that staffers should avoid overly academic or elitist language in memos or policy papers. 'Pick up your phone, call your mother, read her what you just told me,' he reportedly tells aides – 'If she understands, we can keep talking.' Well, does Joe really think most American mothers, or fathers, or other lay citizens, could honestly explain just what the heck US troops are doing – and may well die doing – in Iraq, almost 18 years after George W. Bush’s initial invasion? Give us a break! All that Washington wish-wash about avoiding ISIS-resurgence, 'building partner capacity,' and balancing Iran, is liable to get even a hometown boy like Biden laughed out of a Scranton pub.

"Nevertheless, such attacks could very well derail Biden’s announced intent to reestablish Obama’s Iran nuclear deal, or even lead to a military escalation. After all, earlier this week, NATO agreed to an eight-fold increase in troops for its training and advisory mission in Iraq, and Secretary Blinken has himself begun a review America’s Iraq policy – to include feedback from the Pentagon – which may reach the White House as early as next month.

"There’ve actually been three separate rocket attacks on US bases in Iraq over the last week, one targeting each of country’s distinct communal regions – Erbil in semi-autonomous Kurdistan, another on Balad in mostly Sunni Salah al-Din Province, and lastly on the Green Zone in Shia-heavy (especially since the 2005-08 civil war’s ethnic cleansings) Baghdad. It seems American troops and – more on this soon – contractors still aren’t safe anywhere inside Iraq.

"Odd, that, since I recall plenty past (premature) pronouncements that 'the surge worked,' and that 'we have defeated ISIS.' Well, the first [surge success] bit was always a farce, and, while the second suggestion is basically true – despite mop-up-ops that Iraqi and invested regional forces can handle – it ain’t ISIS that’s set to take the blame for the recently raining rockets. No, that supervillain stature shall – as ever – belong to Iran."

Bogus Boogyman Iran

"Iranophobia and Tehran-alarmism are gifts that keep on giving – if mostly to the likes of Lockheed and Raytheon – in Washington. Only there’s hardly any basis to the threat. The whole thing’s political theater, a false binary blame game meant for domestic consumption and signal-sending to America’s Israeli and Gulf Monarchy mates. Thing is, real people die behind such drama.

"It all starts with what should be suspicious certainty of bipartisan policymakers and media pundits that Tehran’s tugging all the rocket-flingers’ strings. Take Ned Price, spokesman for Biden’s polite liberal State Department. He said, after Monday’s attack on Baghdad’s Green Zone that the US holds Iran responsible for the recent rocket spurt. Then there’s Trump’s former assistant secretary of state for Middle East policy, David Schenker, who was sure – after the initial Erbil attack – that: 'Ultimately, this is all about Iran – the missiles, the weaponry, the funding, the direction all comes from Tehran.' Then again, it’s always worth considering the source. In this case, Mr. Schenker is now a senior fellow at the Washington Institute for Near East Policy – which is known for its fiercely and uncritically pro-Israel stance, and was initially funded by the Israel Lobby-top dog AIPAC’s donors, staffed by AIPAC employees, and originally located just one door away from AIPAC’s D.C. headquarters.

"Then throw in Douglas Silliman, formerly US ambassador to Iraq from 2016 to 2019, who asserted after the Erbil attack: 'I have no doubt who’s behind it. It is the Iranian-supported Iraqi Shia militias who are behind this.' Only here again an astute observer must channel the street-wisdom of Queens’ own rapper 50 Cent and thus – 'step up in' the Washington 'club' and ask 'Who you wit?' In Silliman’s case, it isn’t 'G-Unit' but the Arab Gulf States Institute that’s now his post-government service 'clique.' In fact, he’s president of the damn thing. Keep an eye on that, it might matter – seeing as from the think tank’s 2015 inception, it was funded entirely by UAE and Saudi sources. You know, it’s enough to make you wonder whether Silliman’s Gulf autocrat paymasters – locked as they are in perennial quasi-war with Iran – might have some investment (pun intended) in having ol' Doug pin the latest bombs-over-Baghdad squarely on Tehran.

"Still, setting such conflicts of interest aside for the sake of argument, both Schenker’s and Silliman’s Iran-the-omniscient assertions strike as just a little too neat, too convenient for Washington’s hovering hawks. Maybe these specific guns did flow from Iran; maybe they didn’t. However, Tehran’s aren’t the only tools available. Iraq has long been awash with weapons, as anyone who ever walked a Baghdad beat – or frightened a few families with aggressive late-night house searches – knows all too well.

"Furthermore, despite Washington’s bipartisan propensity to 'create the enemies it needs' [in order to reap profits and power, that is] – by fabricating foes that seem ten-feet-tall and bulletproof – the truth is Iran hasn’t half the armed strength, or clear control over Iraqi proxies, as the hawks would have you believe. On the military side, Tehran’s mostly weak and unable to project any real power very far at all. Furthermore, as I noted in a 2019 Defense Priorities analysis, Iran’s American-allied regional antagonists – Turkey, Israel, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and the UAE, for example – militarily outspend Tehran by a factor of ten!

"As for Iran’s ostensibly ironclad grip on the Iraqi militias allegedly launching all them rockets – if not exactly a mirage, the situation is definitely far more complex and ambiguous than all that. This much even some senior military officers occasionally admit. For example, after the Erbil attack, the U.S.-led coalition’s counter-ISIS mission deputy commander for strategy, British Army Major General Kevin Copsey, surmised that the fusillade was likely the work of an offshoot, not the core, of the mainline militias typically linked to Tehran. He also noted the crucial – if oft-ignored – concept of local agency: that paramilitaries and their associated politicians pursue personal motives and interests when deciding whether to take violent action.

"Copsey described it thus: 'You have your main militia groups, which arguably have their influence back into Tehran, and then you have these splinter groups that are self-interested. And they’re unpredictable and they’re out of control.' Allow me to surmise that the key words there are 'arguably,' 'self-interested,' and 'unpredictable.' In rebellions, proxy conflicts, and civil wars, matters are rarely clear, and always contingent.

"Here’s the basic rub: The ill-advised and illegal 2003 US military invasion caused most of the current madness; Trump’s 'maximum pressure' sanctions and saber-rattling predictably and demonstrably backfired; Iran’s offensive military capacity is actually rather limited and wildly exaggerated. Yet the one weapon it does have – as do the militias Tehran may or may not have sway over – are several variants of ballistic and cruise missiles.

"To review, then: America’s murky, no-exit, mission plays right into Tehran’s only viable military hands – not only strengthening the hardliners in their government, but turning our ever-adulated soldiers into little more than bewildered rocket-magnets."

Context Counts

"If Biden bolsters the US military’s anti-Iran proxy combat mission – which masquerades as ISIS-elimination – it will, by my count, constitute the fifth phase of America’s 30+ year war on or in Iraq. Call it Iraq War IV. Kind of has a nice ring to it, and ask any movie producer – sequels sell, even if they usually make for awful art (Godfather II aside, naturally). The cost of the running franchise has been fatal for some 2.5 million Iraqis – bombed, shot, starved, or diseased – over those three old school-imperial decades.

"Here on the tail end, in January 2020, the Iraqi government’s American friends went so far as to assassinate the top Iranian political and military figure Qasem Suleimani – on Iraqi soil, without informing the Baghdad government – thereby challenging and insulting Iraqi sovereignty. This triggered (imagine that) a not yet broken wave of political fury within both neighboring countries. In response, the Iraqi parliament voted to require the government to 'end any foreign presence on Iraqi soil and prevent the use of Iraqi airspace, soil and water for any reason' by foreign troops.

"Washington promptly ignored the democratic will of the Iraqi democracy it claimed to have built via its absurdly titled 'Operation Iraqi Freedom' 2003 invasion. There may (for now) be only 2,500 uniformed Americans in country, but these days, a big part of what’s long-bothered average Iraqis is Washington’s use of sundry – and often unhinged – civilian security contractors to do much of the occupying."

Mercenary Camouflage

"Given the tortured track record of America’s mercenary misadventures, perhaps Iraqis can be forgiven their frustration with the ongoing US presence in their country. Anger tends to come in waves and flared again last month, when dear Donald pardoned four American security contractors – from the infamous Blackwater outfit – for their roles in massacring 17 Iraqi civilians around Baghdad’s Nisour Square in 2007. I was in town for that sick show, and we in uniform sure felt some of the understandable blowback. Clearly, American policymakers aren’t exactly known for their self-awareness. Still, it hardly seems as outrageous as Secretary Blinken claimed that some locals might fling a few rockets at a few foreigner bases – and many more countrymen view it as legitimate resistance – when their own government’s Washingtonian 'friends' just let four Iraqi-child-killers off the hook. I don’t know, call me crazy.

"Either way, all this raises the not-so-minor matter of America’s shadowy security contracting apparatus in Iraq – an occupation-outsourcing as old as the adventure itself. The combat and logistics privatization factor is exposed in the composition of casualties in these ubiquitous rocket attacks. Over the last few years, more often than not the majority of the dead and injured have been contractors. For example, Saturday night’s strike on Balad airbase reportedly wounded a South African – I know, a bit on the nose for the mercenary game – employee of the US defense company Sallyport.

"This subsidiary of Caliburn International LLC – which has no less than five retired generals and admirals on its board, including former Trump White House chief of staff John Kelly and former Bush-era CIA director Michael Hayden – had been contracted to provide base services supporting Iraq’s F-16 fighter program. Caliburn is perhaps better known for another of its subsidiaries operating America’s largest facility for unaccompanied migrant children. However, as of 2018, the US government had reportedly paid Sallyport itself over $1 billion since 2014 to provide security, life support, and various training at Balad Air Base.

"There, Sallyport has been mired in past scandal. In 2019, a Daily Beast report indicated that The Department of Justice was investigating the company’s earlier alleged role in bribing Iraqi government officials in exchange for contracts costing American taxpayers billions. The Daily Beast’s earlier 2017 investigation also exposed that a clique of white South African security guards – the very nationality of the employee reportedly wounded in the recent rocket strike – had been promoting apartheid and abusing Sallyport’s minority members (along, apparently, with the base’s local dogs). By the way, the irony of Washington – amidst an era of renewed racial turmoil at home – hiring thousands of ex-apartheid soldiers to man its conflicts across the Middle East and North Africa: well, it almost defies imagination.

"So sure, there are key – if rarely reported – contractor connections to the recent rocket attacks. Yet, widening the aperture reveals far the broader and systemic mercenary madness masking – and underpinning – America’s entire enterprise in Iraq and the Greater Middle East. And unless Status Quo Joe, and a largely bought & sold (by defense industry campaign contributions) Congress, address this invisible enemy, then messing at the margins with uniformed boots-on-the-ground counts won’t measurably alter America’s two-decade-old regional adventure-fiasco. Oh, and speaking of those masters of the military-industrial complex contributions to the very congressmen with the power to end this entire hopeless crusade – recall that the F-16s Sallyport secures for the Iraqi Air Force are produced by Lockheed Martin. In the 2018 midterm elections alone, Lockheed bestowed $2,865,014 in blood money on the Capitol Hill crew.

"Only that ain’t the half of it. Consider the scale of the US contractor apparatus, by-the-numbers: In 2019, the Pentagon spent $370 billion on contracting – in other words, more than half its total discretionary spending. By the DOD’s own reckoning – during 1st quarter of FY21 – that translates to 38,164 contractor personnel supporting Pentagon operations in just the US Central Command (CENTCOM) area of responsibility (AOR – from essentially Egypt to Afghanistan). That includes 4,677 in the Iraq-Syria sub-theater – 2,300 of them American citizens. Which is to say, contractors now maintain more than a 2 to 1 ratio over US military members in the CENTCOM sphere.

"There’s a design, and a cost, to all this. According to her June 2020 report, what Heidi Peltier of Brown University’s Cost of War Initiative called the contracting 'Camo Economy,' has been used by the US government to conceal the costs – in cash, killing, and American blood – of its endless, meandering, military missions. The proof is in the mortality pudding: since 2001, some 8,000 US contractors have died in America’s Greater Mideast adventures – that’s actually more than the Pentagon’s official tally of 7,056 uniformed troop deaths.

"That few people know this, exposes its enduring political utility. A one minute Google search offers precise, to-a-man and up-to-date, statistics on US military deaths – but I wouldn’t wish the required Department of Labor archive-mining to find contractor casualty details on my worst enemy. Take it from me, it’s a maddening enough rabbit-hole-spiral to garner a grin from Kafka. And, as matters now stand, more deaths of those once invisible contractors could end up pulling the US into yet another phase of hopeless, wasteful war in Iraq. Now that’d deserve the American foreign policy tragicomedy award for 2021.

"Look, I like context and nuance as much as the next guy, but sometimes the simplicity of 'Sutton’s Law' – a medical mantra that, when diagnosing, one should first test for the obvious – is the best policy prescription. The dictate derives from real-life famed criminal folk hero Willie Sutton, who when asked why he robbed banks, replied – perhaps apocryphally – 'Because that’s where the money is!' It’s a hell of a story, the sort Biden’s sure to like.

"And in a sense, it tracks today’s mess. Ask an ayatollah or a local militiaman why he allegedly attacks US bases in Iraq – and a clever one might accurately quip: 'Because that’s where the Americans are!'

"In other words…because we’re there."

###

Danny Sjursen is a retired US Army officer, senior fellow at the Center for International Policy (CIP), contributing editor at Antiwar.com, and director of the new Eisenhower Media Network (EMN). His work has appeared in the NY Times, LA Times, The Nation, Huff Post, The Hill, Salon, The American Conservative, Mother Jones, Scheer Post and Tom Dispatch, among other publications. He served combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and later taught history at West Point. He is the author of a memoir and critical analysis of the Iraq War, Ghostriders of Baghdad: Soldiers, Civilians, and the Myth of the Surge, and Patriotic Dissent: America in the Age of Endless War. Along with fellow vet Chris "Henri" Henriksen, he co-hosts the podcast “Fortress on a Hill.” Follow him on Twitter @SkepticalVet and on his website for media requests and past publications.

_____

🍵 All Risk, No Reward: The Perils and Absurdity of Iraq War 4.0. By Maj. Danny Sjursen, USA (ret.), Antiwar.com, Feb. 25, 2021.

https://original.antiwar.com/Danny_Sjursen/2021/02/24/all-risk-no-reward-the-perils-and-absurdity-of-iraq-war-4-0/?fbclid=IwAR0URXJQNDvEP5zpVqk6hlEiAGapknSZ6vhg5jHMZ_1nI-Zg7Y0h3uyuRjk

[ninvic-rbs]

Day 22

Boy i’ve been waiting for this one. So i decided to do some really weird aus, meaning ive been rewatching some stuff and hallucinating lol. Okay so in order you have the bbc version of sherlock (10/10), the greatest showman (10/10) and money heist (11/10, strongly recommend). And then an old reapertale doodle bc ive seen literally zero reapertale grillster fanart and its so aesthetically pleasing i just had to

And as a little extra i guess, i wrote this thing for @silverskye13‘s bodyguard au, which has been pretty active lately, so lets keep the ball rolling. Please keep in mind that 1. i don’t really write and 2. this is the first time i try to write in english, so any feedback is appreciated. Enjoy, i guess

Gaster bent down to reload for the third time already. In his frenzy he almost fell out of his seat, or maybe that was the way the car was moving. Normally they wouldn't really have to run away, with Grillby being able to either kill or scare the others enough to be left alone. But whatever gang was so adamant on capturing the doctor had quickly figured out that normal magic attacks wouldn't get them anywhere. So now, the people on the car chasing behind them were wielding bright orange water guns. Which looked about as ridiculous as one might expect, but had proved efficient; if the way Grillby was hunched and clutching his chest with one hand was anything to go by. The elemental was driving, and he had given Gaster his gun and he was trying to lose them. It was the first time he was shooting with anything that wasn't his blasters; and he was quickly realizing that he had really bad aim when shooting with his hands and not his soul. Between that and how small the targets actually were from the distance, he hadn't hit a thing in the last ten minutes. He was getting frustrated, which didn't mix well with his growing anxiety for the elemental. Grillby looked like he was in agony; most of his shirt completely soaked and sticking to his body. From where he was, Gaster could see almost half of his face had been completely put out. And he wasn't even allowed to pass out. "How's that going?" Gaster could barely hear him above the howling of the wind around them. The elemental sounded tired. "I can't hit them! They're moving too much!" "S'a bunker nearby. We need some time... try to aim for the tires." The skeleton immediately lowered his aim. Even thought the target was considerably bigger, it still took him a few attempts before the tire exploded and the car suddenly started made a sharp turn right and out of the asphalt. That was such a good idea! How had he not thought of that before? He decided to blame his panicked state. Before he sat back down, he saw the vehicle come to a stop and the monsters inside immediately get to work on changing the tire. The skeleton knew it wouldn't stop them for long, but hopefully for long enough. He decided to focus his efforts now on helping the elemental as much as he could, before he realized that he had no idea how to heal that sort of thing. The only thing Grillby had had to recover from before had been exhaustion. How did you tend to a put out fire?! Should he pour gasoline over him? He didn't know! "Grillby, how can I heal this?" He asked, his anxiety for the other's life making his hands shake. "How can I heal you? What do I need?" He wished he could just use green magic. "Just... anything flammable. And liquid. That normally... works..." he was getting weaker. Suddenly, the car screeched to a stop, almost throwing Gaster off his seat. Before he had time to react, the elemental had already opened the door on his side and was painfully getting out, carrying the small bag that contained his belongings. The skeleton quickly followed him, remembering to pick up his own bag. When he caught up, he noticed Grillby could barely walk. Without thinking, he put his arm around the other's and let him use his body as a crutch; although the elemental barely noticed. "Are you okay?" which was a stupid question, of course. "Yeah" he slurred, as if it was fooling anyone. "S'not too far, but we can't leave the car near the entrance." Gaster nodded. Although they were only walking for a total of three minutes, it felt like a small eternity. The skeleton's anxiety at an all time high; constantly looking over his shoulders and checking if the gang had managed to catch up, and trying to keep Grillby steady; even if his walking speed was declining and he put more and more weight on Gaster as they advanced. When they finally stopped, the elemental slumped to the ground, and the skeleton would have thought he had passed out if it weren't because he had started digging around some bushes. Just when the skeleton was about to ask what he was doing, he heard the sound of metal, and in a few seconds a small hatch had opened before them on the ground. It was dark inside; the only discernible thing a ladder leading down to it. "You go first, s- Gaster." The skeleton wanted to argue, but he knew from experience it wouldn't get him anywhere. So he just nodded and climbed down as fast as he could, almost falling once. It wasn't as deep as it had seemed, and he still couldn't see any light switches or anything of the sort. But that didn't worry him right now; as he was looking up and anxiously waiting for the elemental to get to the floor so he could work on healing him. As Grillby started climbing the ladder down, he stopped a second to close the entrance behind them; and the mechanical whirring that followed assured the skeleton that no one was going to follow them down there. Slowly, Grillby made his way down. But when there were only two steps left he collapsed, and he would have fallen to the floor if it weren't for Gaster's lighting fast reflexes in grabbing him with blue and yelping in surprise. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no...!" he murmured in a panic, moving the elemental and settling him on the first surface he saw; which happened to be a couch in the nearest room. "What's... wrong?" Grillby's voice was barely a whisper. The skeleton quickly looked at him, only to have his soul-wrenching fear grow when he noticed that the elemental looked barely conscious. "Nonono, don't fall asleep! You hear me?! Hey, Grillby, c'mon, stay with me!" "...t hurts..." Gaster almost wanted to cry. He had never seen the elemental in such a weak state, and he had to act quickly if he wanted to keep him alive; because a quick stat check confirmed the alarming rate at which Grillby's life was fading. He prayed to every god he had ever heard of that there was some alcohol in the bunker. "I know, I know, I'm going to fix that. Just... stay here. Try not to move, and don't fall asleep." He had already turned around to leave when he felt a weak hold in his wrist. "P-please don't leave... it's cold... I'm scared, Gaster..." came an almost inaudible plea. The skeleton's soul could have broken right then and there. He felt a knot on his non-existent throat when he spoke again. "I'll be back in a minute, okay? Don't worry, I'll be right here if you need me." He softly let go of the elemental's hand and took off running without wasting another precious second. He quickly realized that the bunker was a bit more like a subterranean house than a refuge. It had too so many rooms; it was probably thought out to be lived in for at least a couple of months. He hoped they didn't have to stay that long. Without stopping for a second, the skeleton stumbled somewhere he suddenly realized was the kitchen. He almost fell twice in his rush to open every single cupboard; his hope growing when he found most of them were full of either nonperishable food or utensils. He finally found what looked like a minibar next to the fridge and immediately grabbed the biggest bottle he saw, which turned out to be whiskey. Within the next three seconds he was already back by Grillby's side, feeling a wave of relief when he didn't see only dust on the couch but still rushing to open the bottle, knowing how close the elemental actually was to it. The way his hands were shaking made him take a few more seconds than necessary. "H-hey, Grillby, are you awake?" Gaster was sure he wasn't, but he seemed to wake up at this. When he saw the open bottle, he took it without a word and started downing it desperately. The skeleton blinked, and before he could react the elemental had already drunk more than half of the liquid. He separated the bottle from his mouth and for a few seconds his flame flared up in deep blue colors before settling back down on reds and oranges that were duller than their normal color, but worlds better than how it had been before. And upon checking his stats, Gaster sighed a breath of relief at his slowly growing health. He sat on the couch next to Grillby's legs, suddenly feeling all the exhaustion of the day hit him at once. He could have fallen asleep right there, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the elemental just yet. The elemental that, when he looked up again, he realized was staring at him, even if groggily so. He immediately became worried again, and quickly asked; "Is everything okay? Does anything hurt?" But Grillby only continued staring. The skeleton was about to check his stats again when he finally spoke. "You shouldn't have to... do stuff like this. I'm sorry I'm so bad at my job." He was said it slowly, his voice barely a whisper. He looked like he was falling asleep. After a small pause, the elemental added, his voice even lower; "I wish I could make you happy." Gaster suddenly froze. He didn't know how to react. What had Grillby meant by that? Was that about his job? But he only had to keep him safe, nothing else. And he wasn't bad at it; Gaster was alive, wasn't he? But that other phrase... was... was that...? But there was just no way that was what was going on here... right? He felt his face grow hotter. But, if not that, then what had he meant?   "B-but that's not your job" was the only thing he could blurt out after a few seconds. Not that it was important, since, he noticed, the elemental had already dozed off. The skeleton wasn't sure what to do for a couple of seconds. Eventually he sighed and settled back down, getting as comfortable as he could. He tried not to think about what had just happened as he finally let himself drift off to sleep; the soft crackling of the fire next to him the only sound in the room.

[choicesfanatic86]

TTS:  Part 35 (Liam x MC)

DISCLAIMER:  All characters belong to Pixelberry Studios, except characters unique to my story.  Those belong to me. ;)

PAIRINGS:  Riley (MC) x OC, Riley (MC) x Liam, Liam x Riley (MC) x OC, Olivia x Drake, Bertrand x Savannah, Maxwell x OC

SUMMARY:  Riley sees Maxwell for the first time since learning about her pregnancy.

If you are new to the series and would like to catch up by reading previous parts, please check out my master fan fiction listing.  CATCH UP HERE

Permanent Tag List:  @umccall71 @drakelover78 @jamielea81 @bobasheebaby @speedyoperarascalparty @hopefulmoonobject @theroyalweisme @gardeningourmet @jlouise88 @hamulau @traeumerinwitzhelden @blackcatkita @mrs-simmy @kaitycole @alwaysthebestchoice

Tag List for TTS Only:  @herladyshipxx  @devineinterventions2 @captainkingliam @pbchoicesobsessed @cocomaxley @queencatherynerhys @mfackenthal @boneandfur @spetstoof @grapefrults @pessimystic-fangirl @dralenamax @mspaigemoore @jayjay879 @hhiggs @penguininapinktuxedo @topsyturvy-dream @decisso @pnhanga @ladynonsense @mrsdrakewalkerblog @crookedslimecreatorpasta @liamxsworld @flowerpowell @bruteforcebears

5/26/18 - Guys! I’m soooo sorry it’s been like 4 days since an update!  I got so sick a few days ago, and it really knocked me out.  I still had to go to work so I was juggling that as well, but I’m back and feeling tons better! Thank you for all your well wishes.  I had thought I would get to spend my sick days in bed catching up on all the awesome new fanfics in the fandom, but alas sleep won out. ;)  Anyway, we’re back with the gang in New York and we’re one step closer to Liam learning about the lima bean. :)  Hope you enjoy Part 35!

As always thank you for the awesome feedback.  If you want to be added to the tag, just let me know! :)  I updated the permanent tag list and individual story list.  If I missed someone, just let me know! ;)

PART 35 - Is it Catching?

Riley’s mouth gaped open a bit.  Forgetting herself, she went to run a nervous hand through her hair, but the sharp tug of the IV prevented her from doing so.  She winced from the pain, placing her arm straight on the bed.  She paused, inhaling deeply.  “Flew in?  As in he’s with him right now?”

She wasn’t ready for this.  She thought she would have at least a few more weeks before she had to make any major decisions about telling him about the pregnancy.  She wanted to at least get her head wrapped around it herself.  Liam couldn’t find out this way, not along with everyone else.  That wouldn’t be fair to him.  She didn’t even know what she was going to say to him.  She hadn’t quite figured things out with the baby just yet, and she had hoped to have a game plan before telling him about their lima bean.  “If he’s here . . . I can’t see him,” she said fearfully.  “Not like this.  Not here,” she emphasized.

Andy shook her head.  “I know, don’t worry.  He’s not here at the hospital, but yes, he is in New York.  They all are.  Drake . . . Bertrand.  It seems like everyone but Maxwell knew it would be better to wait until you got stabilized before coming to see you,” she shrugged.  

She sighed heavily.  “Andy,” she shook her head in dismay.  “Things are complicated enough as it is right now.  I thought I would have time to figure things out before everyone found out about the baby,” she said sadly.

“I didn’t expect for him to come.  I didn’t expect any of them to come,” she said apologetically.  “I didn’t want to complicate things for you, Ri.  You can still keep things quiet . . . it just might be a bit trickier now,” she said quietly.

“I know . . . I know,” she nodded, leaning her head back into the pillow.  She wanted to scream.  Of all the rotten timing, all of this had to be happening now.  

“Look, I better go meet him downstairs before he starts trying to peek into every hospital room trying to find you.  Are you sure you’re okay with him coming up here?” Andy paused at the room’s door.  “Because I really can tell him to go to the hotel,” she added.

Riley shook her head.  “It’s fine,” she waved her off.  It wasn’t as if she really had a choice.  She couldn’t turn him away after he came all this way just for her.

“I think I’ll head back to the apartment now.  Give you guys some privacy.  Want me to grab anything for you while I’m there?” Alicia asked.

“No, I think I’m okay for now.  Thanks, Alicia.  Sorry for all the chaos . . . I really do appreciate everything you’re doing,” Riley said gratefully.  “I haven’t forgotten about our talk.  With everything going on . . . it just kind got pushed to the back burner, but I promise, we’ll talk soon, okay?”

“Whatever it is can wait until you’re better.  I better head out . . . long day of consults tomorrow.  Take it easy, get lots of rest, and I’ll swing by tomorrow before the first consult of the day,” she said as she left the hospital room.

With Andy meeting Maxwell downstairs and Alicia gone, Riley’s thoughts began to consume her.  She was worried.  Scared.  Anxious.  All the emotions she shouldn’t be dealing with when she and the lima bean were already having so much trouble as is.  She had hoped to be in a better place health-wise before springing the news on everyone.  It looked like that idea had flown out the window.  Liam being in New York complicated things even further . . . although perhaps it was for the best.  She couldn’t imagine telling him something so life-altering over the phone or through a video chat.  And in her present physical state, hopping a flight to Cordonia didn’t seem to be a remote possibility.  Him being in New York could possibly be the best turn of events since she learned about the lima bean.

Riley’s thoughts were interrupted when she heard Andy and Maxwell bickering outside of her room.  They sounded like an old married couple.  She couldn’t help but smile.  As crazy as they drove her, she was fortunate to have two amazing people like Andy and Maxwell in her life.

“I told you not to come,” Andy scolded.  “She needs her rest, and you all coming out here is just going to stress her out.  And did you really have to bring him?”

“You called me, remember?  Screaming.  What was I supposed to do?  Sit by and wait for a call that something awful had happened?  And really, did you think that Liam would sit by knowing that she was back in the hospital?  He cares about her, too.”

“You could have given me a chance to figure out what was going on before hopping on a flight,” she said.  Riley could hear the frustration in her tone.

“My Little Blossom needed me,” he argued.

“I had it under control,” Andy argued back.

“Will you quiet down?  You’re the one telling me she needs to rest.  She could probably hear you all the way down the hall,” he whispered sharply.

“I think the whole hospital can hear you,” Riley called out.  “Why don’t you just get in here already?”

“Little Blossom,” he walked somberly into the room, his eyes never leaving Riley’s face.  

She could read his thoughts.  She looked awful.  Over the last few days, the gash on her forehead had healed enough that she was able to leave off the gauze bandaging that had been covering it.  The stitches hadn’t dissolved yet, and her earlier description of looking a bit like Frankenstein was even more accurate.  Her facial bruising darkened and as Dr. Diaz had warned her, she was left with a fairly nasty black eye.  All in all, she looked like someone had taken a bat to her face.  She could understand Maxwell’s alarm.  She even found it hard to look at herself in the mirror without gasping a bit.  She knew her injuries were all superficial and that things could be so much worse, but it didn’t stop her from feeling a bit self-conscious about how she had currently looked.

“Oh,” he murmured in surprise.  “I’m so sorry,” he began walking up to her bedside.  “You . . . you look,” his eyes couldn’t meet hers any longer.  He was unable to find the right words to describe her present state.  “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

“It looks worse than it is,” she reassured him.

“There’s so many wires,” he murmured, his voice catching with a bit of emotion as his eyes wandered toward the many screens and tubes that surrounded her.

She looked around at the various monitors and IV lines that were hooked up to her.  She supposed he was right.  She had lines coming out from everywhere.  She didn’t even really know what was what.  All she knew was that all of this was making her feel ten times better than she had been feeling, and if it meant having all of these wires and lines stuck in her, she’d gladly put up with it.

“Maxwell, I’m okay,” she emphasized.  “They are just monitoring me, making sure that I’m okay and hydrated.  You didn’t have to fly all the way here,” she whispered.  “Andy really did have things under control.”

“Of course I needed to come here.  When Andy called me she was screaming.  She was a wreck.  In turn, I was a wreck.  She said she had just called the ambulance and didn’t know what to do.  I didn’t know what to do myself . . . being so far away.  I had been so scared, and I couldn’t just hang back when there was so much going on with you.  There was never a question about me coming to see you,” he said genuinely.  “Are you feeling better?”

“I am feeling a bit better,” she nodded.  “Much better than yesterday,” she admitted.  

“Did they figure out what’s wrong?” He asked seriously.

She had never seen Maxwell so solemn before.  He had dark circles under his eyes; he looked worn out.  She wondered if he had managed to sleep on the plane.  She barely knew what time it was here in New York, she suspected it had to be rather late in Cordonia.  He was probably running on fumes . . . just like Andy.  She suddenly felt so guilty.  Everyone was so worked up about her being in the hospital, that they weren’t taking care of themselves either.

“They have,” she nodded.  “I’m okay.  Everything will be okay, eventually,” she said vaguely.  She wasn’t sure if now was the time to let Maxwell in on the news about the lima bean.  He looked so distraught and worried; she didn’t want to add to it.  Although . . . he had already suspected what had possibly been going on with her.  Maybe knowing that he in fact was right would alleviate some of the concerns that were so clearly written on his face.  But she still worried about him telling Liam.  Could she really risk that happening before she was ready?

“Riley . . . you don’t look okay,” he said honestly.  “And . . . all these wires and machines they say you’re very much not okay.  Level with me here . . . you know you can tell me anything, right?  You’re my best friend,” he pleaded with her.

She paused, biting her lip.  She didn’t know what to say.  She was nervous.  She wasn’t ready to tell the whole wide world about the lima bean.    Her eyes drifted to Andy who had been standing quietly in the corner watching the exchange between the two friends.

“I heard you vomiting in the background when I was talking to Andy . . . the passing out . . . the dehydration . . . you always being too tired to do anything . . . everything Andy’s told me only adds up to one thing . . .” he trailed off.

“Maxwell . . .” Andy warned.

Riley shook her head.  “No, it’s okay,” she murmured quietly.  “I think you may have already figured it out,” she whispered, placing one of her hands lightly against her stomach.  She looked up to meet his gaze, giving him a half smile.  “So, I guess you’re going to be an uncle,” she whispered.  The anxiety and nerves increased.  The only other person she had actually told about the pregnancy was Alicia.  Andy didn’t count because she had figured it out on her own.  She wasn’t certain how he’d take the news.

He paused for a moment, blinking several times, before a huge grin spread across his face.  “I suspected,” he said honestly.  “A lot of those symptoms sounded similar to Savannah . . . But I wasn’t sure until I heard you vomiting in the background yesterday,” he explained.  His eyes drifted to her flat stomach.  “A baby,” he smiled brightly.  “You’re going to be such a wonderful mother, Little Blossom.”  He reached for one of her hands, squeezing it tightly.

“Aww, Maxwell,” she blushed.  “Thank you . . . I’m still getting used to the idea.  I haven’t really had a chance to think about much of anything except feeling so sick,” she admitted sadly.  “They think I have hyperemesis gravidarum . . . which I guess is a bunch of fancy words for vomiting until I feel like I’m going to die,” she said, a bit dramatically.

He looked at her with a baffled expression.  “Is it catching?”

She covered her mouth in laughter.  “Oh my gosh, Maxwell.” She shook her head.  “Some women get it during pregnancy.  You definitely have nothing to worry about,” she shook her head.  God, she had missed him.  His playfulness, his humor.  It was nice to truly laugh for a change.

His attention turned to Andy, a bit of sadness in his eyes.  “You knew?  This whole time?”

She shook her head.  “I found out the day I got in,” she admitted.  “I hated not being able to tell you, baby.”

“Don’t be mad at Andy, okay?  I asked her not to tell anyone.  I wanted to talk to Liam about things first, but I guess my little lima bean had other plans,” she sighed.  “Pregnancy is no joke.  Where’s this glow I keep hearing about?” she sighed.

Both Maxwell and Andy chuckled a little.  The tension in the room decreased quickly.  Maxwell’s energetic personality seemed to return a little, as he animatedly talked about how excited he was to be an uncle . . . again.  He looked at Andy and smiled.  “We’re going to be the best aunt and uncle ever, Tiger Lilly.  We’ll take him or her to all sorts of parks and I’ll teach him or her how to break dance!”  

Andy nodded in agreement, a small smile playing on her lips.  For the first time since finding out about the pregnancy, she seemed to be genuinely excited.  Riley supposed that keeping the news from Maxwell had weighed heavily on her mind.  She mistook her friend’s stress and anxiety over lying to Maxwell as disinterest in her pregnancy.

“Ri, you’re gonna be a mom,” Andy walked to the opposite side of Maxwell, squeezing herself next to her on the narrow hospital bed.  “And I’m going to miss most of it,” she suddenly realized.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Riley reassured her.  “We will still Skype and I’ll send you baby bump pictures,” she laughed.  “And maybe you can fly back down for a visit before he’s born?” She asked hopefully.

Andy shook her head.  “It won’t be the same,” she sighed.  “Not like if I were here with you,” she murmured sadly.

Maxwell tilted his head a little in confusion.  “The baby is Liam’s right?” he asked suddenly.  “I know what with everything going on with your ex-boyfriend . . . and what happened with Liam . . . but . . . you’re going to stay here . . .” he rambled on and on, his words not making much sense.  He started to blush when he realized that nothing he was saying was coherent.  

“Yes, it most definitely is Liam’s.  He’s been the only one in the last two years.  And it certainly isn’t the next immaculate conception,” she sighed, a bit annoyed with the implication he was making.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, Little Blossom.  It’s just . . . why aren’t you coming back to Cordonia then?  If the baby is Liam’s . . . you two can get married, and everything will go back to how things were before,” he reasoned.  His eyebrows were still furrowed in confusion.  “Right?” He looked at her for confirmation.  He had so desperately wanted his two friends back together.  He’d made that clear during her time back in Cordonia.  Maxwell was a hopeless romantic, and he wanted Riley to have her happily ever after.

“Maxwell . . .” she trailed off sadly.  “Things are a bit complicated right now . . . and I haven’t even had a chance to figure out how everything is going to work out.  I just want to take it one day at a time until me and the lima bean are out of the woods health-wise,” she said honestly.  “I know that Liam has a right to know what’s going on, and he will, but when I’m ready,” she said firmly.  “So that means everything we’ve talked about in this room doesn’t leave here, got it?”  She stared at him.  “I need your word on this.”

“Of course,” he nodded in agreement.  “Understood.  But . . . Riley, he flew in with me . . . don’t you think he’s going to want to see you at some point?  He loves you . . . a lot.”

Riley shook her head.  “The guy that I saw before I left wanted nothing to do with me.  He wanted me out of his life for good, Maxwell.  He flew her because of a guilty conscience.  I know things are going to change when he finds out about the baby . . . but people shouldn’t just be together for the sake of their child.  They need to love one another . . . respect one another . . .  trust one another.  I don’t think Liam feels that way towards me,” she said sadly.  “I still love him . . . I probably always will, but that doesn’t mean being in a relationship with him is the right decision for me or for the baby.”

Maxwell sighed.  Riley could tell that there was so much more that he wanted to say, but he was holding back.  She was almost certain that he didn’t want to upset her while she was stuck in the hospital.  She knew that this wouldn’t be the end of this conversation, but she was thankful that at least he had put a pause on things for right now.  Liam was still a touchy issue.  Add in the baby news, and things were going to get extremely complicated in a short amount of time.  She just couldn’t deal with it right now.

Sensing the change in tone, Andy hopped off the bed.  “You should get back to the hotel, mister.”  She pointed her finger at Maxwell’s chest.  “You can let the rest of the guys know that she’s okay, and that they should wait until she’s out of the hospital before visiting.  We don’t need the baby news getting out to the others just yet.”

He nodded in disappointment.  “I suppose you’re right,” he got off the bed, gazing softly at Riley.  “I’m so glad you’re okay, Little Blossom.  I’m so glad both of you are okay,” he corrected himself with a light smile.  “Are you getting discharged tomorrow?”

“That would be ideal . . . I have my first obstetrician appointment the next day, so it’d be nice to spend the night in my own bed,” she said hopefully.

“Well . . . if you get released tomorrow, we’ll all come over.  Help you get settled,” he reasoned.

“We’ll see,” she shrugged.  “One day at a time, remember?”

Maxwell nodded slowly before walking out of the hospital room, Andy followed behind him, pausing at the door.  “I better see him out before he gets lost,” she smiled wistfully.  “We don’t need a repeat of Paris,” she laughed.

“Thank you,” Riley smiled weakly.  “I know things have been a mess over the last few days, but hopefully they’re going to get better from here on out.  And I know I put you in a tough spot with him . . . but I hope I didn’t screw things up too badly for you . . .” she trailed off.

“I loved you first,” she smiled faintly.  “I’m not saying it was fun keeping this from him, but at least he knows now.  I’m going to head out, too, okay?  I’ll see you in the morning.  Hopefully we’ll get good news that you’ll be released.”

“Cross your fingers and toes,” she called after her, before sinking her head back into the pillow.  She hated being in the hospital.  She hated being poked and prodded and moved around here and there, but she’d deal, because she needed to make sure her little lima bean was well.

The next morning, Riley had felt a whole lot better.  The IV medication had given her the boost she needed.  She only hoped it would stay that way.  The last time she was in, the IV fluids had kept her going, only for the morning sickness to hit her like a freight train.  She still felt queasy, but not nearly as bad as she had felt at the apartment.  She was thankful that whatever medication they were giving her seemed to ward off the vomiting.  She was beginning to think the vomiting spells would never end.

“Knock, knock,” a tall, slender woman pulled back her curtain.  “Remember me?”

“Hi Dr. Roderick,” she smiled brightly. “Hopefully you’re here with good news for me?”

“I am indeed,” she nodded, scanning through the chart.  “So, yesterday when you came in they did another transvaginal ultrasound, and things looked good.  Baby was about the same size, but the heartbeat was strong.  So we don’t have any real concerns with the pregnancy as a whole.  What we’re worried about his the hyperemesis,” she looked up at Riley.  “It’s been known to last the whole pregnancy,” she explained.  “And from how severe your symptoms have been, that’s the direction things may be headed in,” she said honestly.

“Okay, so what does that mean?” Riley asked with a bit of concern.

“More nausea, vomiting, and low blood pressure,” she said sadly.  “But it looks like the IV Zofran is helping, so I don’t see anything wrong with prescribing you some of it in the pill form.  It should take some of the edge off of the hyperemesis and stabilize your symptoms when you get released.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Riley said happily.  “That’s the best piece of news I’ve heard in the last week,” she said with a deep exhale.

“If that doesn’t work, we may need to continue the IV treatments . . . so that may mean coming back here.  Don’t wait so long to come in next time you can’t stop vomiting.  Dehydration can happen very quickly, and with baby on board, you don’t want to risk any further complications,” Dr. Roderick explained.

“Got it . . . feel crappy, come back to the ER,” She nodded.  Riley could just imagine all of the medical bills after all of this.  This pregnancy thing had certainly thrown her for a loop.  Every day was a new adventure with its own set of challenges.

“Good.  We’re going to be discharging you, and defer further medical management to Dr. Scoggin.  You’re still scheduled with her tomorrow correct?”

“Yes, I’ve been looking forward to it,” she nodded happily.  “Can’t wait to see the bean again,” she smiled lightly.

“Well, Ms. Lawson, let’s not meet back here under these circumstances again, okay?  Next time I see you, I hope it’s to hear that you delivered your healthy baby,” she smiled brightly.  “Give me an hour and you’ll be out of her,” she said pleased.

True to their words, Andy and Alicia had shown up that morning shortly after Dr. Roderick had left, and Riley was oh so eager to see them.  She happily told them she was getting discharged, and together they made plans to head back to the apartment.  Alicia volunteered to drop both of them off since she had a few consults to go to in the city.  That sounded great for Riley.  All she wanted was a nice shower and her own bed.  She was also pretty ecstatic that she didn’t have all the cords and wires hooked up to her anymore.  Those were starting to be a pain.  Andy wheeled Riley out of the hospital to the parking lot in a wheelchair, much to Riley’s dismay.  Her crutches had gotten left back at the apartment in all of the hustle and bustle of being transported by the ambulance, and with her busted leg, she couldn’t exactly walk without the extra support.

Once they got into the car, Riley let out a long sigh.

“I feel like such an invalid,” she shook her head.  “You guys shouldn’t have to do everything for me.”

“Hey,” Alicia said.  “It’s fine.  That’s what friends are for, Riley.  They have your back when you need a little extra help,” she said

“Alicia’s right.  That’s what we’re here for.  God only knows how many times you’ve come to our rescue.  Thing of this as us finally being able to return to the favor,” she assured her.

“I guess,” she sighed.  “I just hate feeling so helpless.  At least I’m going home.  I have a very important date with my shower, Netflix, and my nice, comfy bed,” she mused.

Andy grew quiet, suddenly looking away from her.

“What?” Riley narrowed her eyes at her best friend.  When Andy couldn’t look her in the eye or grew quiet, there was something wrong.  There was something she wasn’t telling her.

“So, you can totally say no,” Andy started to say from the backseat.  Alicia had taken to driving Riley’s car since she needed to use it to get to the various consult appointments throughout the city.

Riley looked at her, raising an eyebrow.  “What did you do?”

“Not so much me as it was Maxwell.  They guys miss you and are so worried.  When I let him know that you were getting discharged today, he wanted to come over tonight.  Spend some time with you.  With the rest of the guys of course,  just to hang out, maybe order some dinner,” Andy said nervously, watching Riley’s face.  “You hate the idea?” She asked.

Riley exhaled deeply.  “I don’t hate it . . . I’m just . . . not ready yet,” she admitted.

“All topics of baby will be off limit.  Maxwell’s a vault.  He hasn’t said anything to anyone,” she assured her.  “They just want to see you, Riley.  They’re our friends.”

“That include Liam?” she asked hesitantly.

Andy nodded.  “He’s very worried.”

“Huh,” she said thoughtfully.

“If you’re not ready to see everyone, I get it.  I can text Maxwell and let him know that tonight is not a great idea,” she said firmly.  “We can do this on your own terms.”

Alicia looked back at Andy in the rearview mirror as she pulled into their apartment building’s parking structure.  “Maybe you guys can do it another night when she’s feeling a bit better?  She has that big appointment tomorrow, so she should get some rest.”

Riley looked at her gratefully.  “You know, I just want to get through tomorrow, and then we can go from there,” she said.  “Sound good?”

“Definitely.  I’ll text Maxwell when we get upstairs.  It’ll be a girls’ night in.  We’ll join you for your Netflix date,” she joked.

As both girls helped Riley through the parking structure and into their building’s lobby, Riley couldn’t help but think how fortunate she was.  If Andy hadn’t have flown back and Alicia hadn’t have been willing to help her until her injuries healed, she didn’t know what she would do.  She had an aunt in Jersey, but she couldn’t exactly picture herself giving her a call asking to crash on her couch for a while.  Her other friends all had their own lives dealing with jobs and significant others.  She’d end up doing this on her own.  She wondered how she was going to do all of this alone with a baby.  Andy and Maxwell’s words echoed through her head.  Andy would eventually go back to Cordonia, and she was right, she’d miss a whole bulk of the pregnancy, maybe even the birth.  She had always imagined she’d have her best friend by her side.  Not to mention a husband.  That would have been a much more ideal situation.  She had always thought she’d have children after getting married.  She was certainly doing things rather backwards.  She shrugged the thoughts off.  So what if she was doing things a bit backwards.  So what if life isn’t turning out exactly the way she had planned. Her life wasn’t ruined.  It would just be a tad bit different than she had pictured it.  She could do this.  She’d have to for the lima bean’s sake.

“Oh no,” Andy sighed.  “I thought I told you I would call you when things got settled,” she scolded as they walked out of the elevator.

Alicia looked up first, seeing the tribe of men in front of her.  “Wow,” she murmured.  “I’m guessing they’re here for you,” she said softly.

Riley could feel her heart beat rapidly in her chest.  She wasn’t ready for this.  For them.  For him.  Of course they wouldn’t wait.  She should have known better than that.  Her friends were anything if not persistent.  Liam included.  Even though she had Alicia’s sturdy arms helping her hobble around, she still felt as if she were going to fall from the sheer surprise of them being here.  Her eyes scanned the group of men in front of her.  It didn’t take long for her eyes to find his.  It had been just about two months since she had seen him last, and her heart couldn’t help but skip a beat.  Why did he seem to have this power over her?  Damn him and his stupid good looks.  It didn’t matter how upset she was at him, she’d always swoon a little at the sight of him.  “Hey,” she murmured to the group, her mouth forming into a thin line.

“Hey,” Liam said, moving forward apart from the rest of the guys, their eyes locking on one another.  She had to tell him.  

And suddenly, Riley realized that she was about to change his life forever.

[taetae-tea]

The One (Part V)

Part IV <- Part V –> Part VI

Genre: Hybrid!Taehyung, (soul)mate!Taehyung, Fluff, Angst, smut

Paring: TaehyungXreader

Word-count: 1.7K

Warnings: Abuse, unjust, anxiety, force, animalistic feelings, panic-attacks, indication of mating, Heart/brein-dilemma

Summary: You’ve never liked the idea of hybrids, since it’s straight up abuse from a owner to a hybrid, they aren’t treated like humans. But what happens when your boss gave you a hybrid as a gift?

A/N: Sorry this part took me a while, because I had a week of tests and parties and shit so sorry fam. Also no smut yet >.< NEXT PART I PROMISE. Hope you still enjoy this one!

Masterlist

What happened in Pt.IV of The One

Although all his senses told him to take you right then and there, he knew that you had to be in your right mind for this decision. A human blinded by lust will never make the right decisions, although it was your body making you crazy, he still knew that he shouldn’t take advantage of that. He wants you to choose fairly and to choose for the person he is and not because of your body.

But, this decision has to be taken quickly, because looking at his calendar, his heath will arrive in a day or 3. The pills they got him will certainly not work on a guy in heath with his soulmate in the same room. So, let’s just say, you need to get mated quickly or he needs to get out of that house before hell takes over and he quite literally won’t be able to hold himself back like that anymore.

Things has changed since yesterday evening. You can feel it in your house, quiet and an unconfortable vibe ghosting through the rooms. Everything suddenly seem less nicer, as if something went horrible wrong and the decision you made yesterday wasn’t right.

Taehyung hasn’t been out of his room, not even for some food. But you haven’t called for him either. To be honest, you feel quite himuliated for what you did last night. It was something out of place to you. You would never and had never once in your life once graved someone this bad, and it creeped you the fuck out.

You were and still are very glad Taehyung stopped you, even though the lion inside of him almost took over his body. He was aware of what went through your head at that point, thank god for his abilities to be able to sence certain things like that. Maybe it’s also the reason for him to lock himself away, so he wont be able to effect you and himself in such a way again, not untill you are really aware of the concequenses of being with him, a lion.

Lions are most affectionate to their like-sexed companions. Females spend their lives in their mothers’ pride or with their sisters in a new pride; males may only spend a few years in a given pride but remain with their coalition partners throughout their lives.

You’ve been wondering a lot about this big cat within Taehyung. You’ve looked up a lot about lions and lions behavior. It appears that lions are very territorial, sometimes aggresive but also a sweet creature. He shows his love to the once that really matter, therefore only his own pack. Other packs aren’t welcome, they will get defensive and aggressive towards the others that threats him. You question if Taehyung might be like this too. You haven’t seen him doing anything like that. He must be more of a human than a lion after all.

You closed your laptop with a big sigh, hands wandering through your strands quite frustratingly. Your head hasn’t been able to focus on anything beside Taehyung for the past 6 hours that you’ve been awake. And honestly, it is really getting to your head.

You stand up while looking at your large klock hanging on your wall, seeing that it’s 6 pm and Taehyung and you would be needing to have dinner at this time. You begin to worry for a split second, knowing that Taehyung hasn’t eaten anything in the past day and you know that an hybrid needs to be fed well.

You walk up to the kitchen, immediately getting all the stuff you need to prepare the meal for the both of you. You’re making a steak with some potatoes and some vegetables. It’s easy and fast to prepare, something your prefer.

15 minutes past and dinner was all ready to be eaten. Now the scary part came, you had to get Taehyung out of his cave and to be honest, it’s something you’d like to postpone a little longer. But, reminding yourself to his health, it just has to be done and over with. It’s not like you’d have to talk with him or anything.

‘Taehyung?’ You try to call for him, knocking gently on his door. You couldn’t hear any motion on the other side, there with also no response. Still, you go on with your sentence. At the end it would be his choice wether he would want to eat ot not. ‘I.... dinner is done. You can eat if you’d like to... You don’t have to though.’

You almost slap yourself by the broken sentence that past your lips. You feel so uncomfortable and you didn’t knew if that was because you had to confront him or because you maybe... miss him?

Though the awkwardness in this house, your mind never left him. Though it might have ended quite wrong yesterday, it didn’t mean you stopped graving his attention, his touch and voice...

You wriggle your fingers, nervousness not missing to dawn over you for this whole minute that you’ve been standing in front of that door. You decide on walking away after a while, realizing Taehyung wouldn’t be going out of that room. Not when you’re there and you know exactly why, because even when you walk away from his door, you felt the strong affection towards him.

‘Fucking hell.’ You breathe out, walking to the kitchen to get your own food to eat. Needless to say that Taehyung didn’t went out of his room for the whole night too. It made you quite worried, questions constantly shooting through your head. Did he not like you anymore? Did he feel this uncomfortable? What is he dies because he hasn’t eaten all day?

You let out a last sigh as you finish your foot, now deciding on calling Iris in your bedroom. It’s a thing you do when you don’t know what to do anymore, you call Iris. Though she’s just as old as you, she still has seen and done way more in her life than you. Those horrible stories of Iris’s life is another story which will be told soon or later. Right now, you need her advise. Though she might not understand you situation, she always tries to place herself into your position and comes with a few tips that might help.

‘Hey! What’s up? Anything happening?’ You can already hear her concern from the other side of the line. You let out a sigh and nodded, though she couldn’t see it.

’Tell me.’ She says now 10 times more serious and you let out a chuckle, suddenly realizing how well she knows you.

‘Is it Taehyung?’ She asks and you nod again. Like some magical force had send her your thoughts, you can hear her sigh too. ‘What did he do?’

Your talk took at least 2 hours, you trying to explain your thoughts, feelings and everything that comes with it. She hadn’t laughed, though it certainly is something you would laugh at. It would sound so weird, hearing someone say they are sexual frustrated by an hybrid. There with, developing real feelings for such a extraordinary person, it’s not how it’s supposed to be. You always thought you would end up with a nice handsome guy, have a normal family and a normal job. You never asked more than that, but Taehyung is far from what you’ve thought about when you were younger.

‘Okay, I understand now.’ She finally says. ‘And I also kinda know what you should do.’

‘Okay, fire your tips at me.’ You giggle.

‘Okay, to what I understand, is that you’re scared of what will happen to you and the effect it will have on your life. Personally, I think you should listen to your heart and give into your feelings towards him. When it comes to love, you shouldn’t think too much, you should let it wash over you.’

The feedback is exactly like you’ve been telling yourself and like Emma told you. And of course, it’s the right thing. But anxiety just sometimes gets the best of you. You’re scared of the relationship, of the way your parents will react to it and how you would be living on.

‘I know you’re probably scared, but really, you should just give it a try. You will most likely regret not choosing him.’

Suddenly everything made sense within you. Like a switch that happened within you, you suddenly knew what to do. She was right, you need him in your life, you want him in your life. 

‘Fuck it.’

It was silent for a second before you could hear Iris laugh.

‘Get’m tiger!’

‘Lioness.’ You correct her words and laughed with her.

Like Taehyung had heard your whole conversation, you heard a door swing open from the other side of your apartment. You gulp as you stared at your door as you suddenly heard a beep from your phone, signaling you that Iris stopped the call.

You almost jumped off your bed as your own door suddenly swung open and a dark-looking Taehyung stood in the doorway, lust dripping off his expression. His tail was slowly sweeping behind him and his ears were focussing 100% on you. He knew it, he had felt your switch of thoughts.

‘I’m going to fuck you until you are full of my cubs in your belly.’

Oh boy

A/N: The next part will include a lot of smut, so y'all just wait a little bit!

[thatjwguy]

Everlong... (Schizophrenia Episode)

Feeling a wide range of emotions and even lack of emotions at this moment. How does that work, one can only wonder. I can only imagine how the geniuses of yesteryear and currently must feel in a moment like this. Read something in a magazine purchased probably over a year ago that said something like this. Intelligent people who go through mental breakdowns or have schizophrenia. Many people go through phases like this in their life, not having the ability to fully understand it at times. Why the episodes occur in the first place is a mystery to me. Could be a multitude of things that throw you off balance mentally speaking. Overthinking, environment, people etc, could be defining factors that’s spark it. Right now its hard to tell but i may be having a feedback loop or something like that. Repeating thoughts or voices that don’t seem to have any rime or reason. 

Figure right now is a great time to make a post cause i feel spontaneous, plus for some odd reason im getting feelings of inspiration. When the mood strikes i suppose i run with it. So today im going to go through what i feel right in the middle of one of these mental episodes. Attempt to keep it together long enough to get this finished to see what the final outcome will be. I enjoy experimenting with things, mostly psychological things. What makes a human mind tick, conducting my own personal tests of sorts. Trial and error for the most part until i find better solutions to the problems i may be facing. Right now at this stage in my life its still pretty complicated like many things. Use myself as a baseline then work my way out. Asking questions such as “why do i think this way” or “is this how other people think”. Many others of course but for now thats the gist of it. 

Breaking down the this disorder little at a time, with the help of psychologists or internet research. Also notable that i have gone to counselors who also assist in the process. Makes this easier in the long run, having second opinions and such. Bouncing ideas off of others to see what we can figure out. One of the most challenging yet interesting things to do in life. Attempting to understand the brain and just how it operates. Such a complex task to do with the added setback of being a laymen, which means i need all the help i can get in order to comprehend this labyrinth. Another notable thing is, the voices i hear will be helpful at times. Other times it can get a little congested so you need to take a break to regroup. I only mention the voices cause they are actually part of my mind so i think if i can break it down from the inside i may be able to get to root causes.

Thinking this post as a whole is a rather strange one, just cause its so out of the blue and its about my inner battle with this monster inside me. Taking you on a deep dive to uncover my box of madness. Who knows maybe people will find this interesting, or just weird. Anyway, back to the good stuff, what is the main concern with schizophrenia. One is that i will end up dead at some point, that it will consume me and i will just be another statistic cause to be honest its like living in a tin can filled with people bickering and arguing with one another. Another is that i will cause others pain cause im frustrated with all of it, trying to escape but its permanent so im at the mercy of my thoughts. Lastly, i wonder everyday if i will come anywhere close to some kind of normalcy.  Please don’t think that this is all doom and gloom, it has its ups and downs like everything in life. Sure many who have had this have gone through with things. Then again some have had the strength to persevere despite all the chaos that happens inside the mind.  I look up to those types for the courage to keep on trucken, like a mack truck in Mad Max. Push through all the garbage, find the light and hold on tight. Trying to make the best out of a very complicated situation. Afraid to really open up all the way about the nature of this beast. Figure now is a better time then ever given the times we live in. 

How about i explain a bit about the voices such as what they say. First i will need to explain who the voices are and why they manifested in this way. From an early age i was left alone to my own devices, this is how i think things might have got started. Raised mostly by TV sets and video games, no real supersize for the most part. Eventually i grew to love the entertainment industry for everything it had to offer. Music seemed to be my go to for most of my entertainment purposes, seemed to be what i connected with the most. Fast forward to this current time, music as a whole is one of my favorite escapes from reality. The only problem is since i was hooked on media it ended up being my safe haven for better and for worse. Then when i had my first breakdown in 2015 it seemed as though the voices took on the persona of all the people i admired. Due to overexposure it seemed like my brain fragmented in some way. It threw me through a loop and then some. 

What does this have to do with this episode im having right now. Well for starters the voices only come out when i truly focus on them or when under the influence of something like marijuana. Right now im going through a period or relapse, iv dropped my spiritual routine for the most part and have started going back to drugs/alcohol. Still take the meds just not as frequently as i should be. So you can pretty much tell what could be the cause of this episode right now. Long nights binging on entertainment to escape reality instead of actually going through with the change that is necessary. Something i think a lot of us tend to do because change is hard, everyone wants to change but are afraid of failure. 

That is the cycle i find myself in right now, the never ending loop of self doubt which is prohibiting me from moving forward in life. Always thinking about the negative outcome instead of just learning from the mistake and correcting it. I find myself looking at others lives on social media and wonder how much it took for them to make changes. I may not see their path as a righteous one to follow but i still admire the strength that they have to go forth despite all the setbacks. Pretty sure thats why i follow many of them in the first place, the tenacity displayed for what they really want. Always making moves, never stopping or harping on the negative outcome. In fact i bet thats what most people follow others for, not just for what they provide to them but a source of inspiration. 

All in all im just happy to be alive for another day, even though the struggle against the forces in my head keeps dragging on. I dont want it to get the better of me, instead i want this to be something others can learn from. Everyone has a struggle of some kind, battles that we must face whether it be in our own heads or out in the real world. Past couple days have been pretty rough in my head, voices are getting pretty negative now. Subconsciously i must be feeling a certain way otherwise this wouldn't be happening at all. Hard to say for sure, all i can do is remain calm and try to stay positive as i go along. Make the most out of this predicament, move forward with changing my life once again. Just keep praying i can make it out of this thing without it consuming me completely. 

Thanks for stopping by, please check out my other posts. Lots of interesting things iv gone over in my spiritual journey. :) 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry IV

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; abuse of power, threats, chase, unwanted touching, mild violence.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You’re forgiven but only by the sins of another.

Note: Yesterday went pretty good! I have a longer day today but I will likely have my Second Anniversary Writing Challenge up on or before Thursday for all of you guys! I can’t wait and for now, I got number 4 done.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Another servant brought Lord Barnes’ first meal. You watched from the corner, huddled under the wool blanket. He had her place a bowl of porridge before you but there was no generosity in the gesture. He only sustained you for his own means. You gulped from the rim and the oats piled in your stomach heavily.

He didn’t say a word to you as he ate. He strapped on his arm and grunted as he tightened each strap. You helped him dress after he shot you a dark look and he stopped you as you made to take a step back. You were still naked and prone to his will.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said, “you understand? It doesn’t have to-- you frustrate me and it makes me cruel. You should do without me asking.”

“My lord,” you watched his hand grip your wrist tighter. He yanked you closer.

“You are not responsible for my meals anymore or tidying. Any woman with a speck of wit can do that. You…” he turned and thrust you towards the bed, “see to this, see to me, that I am happy and I will make you happy.”

You stared at the mattress. Your lips parted and you were sure you uttered “yes, my lord,” but it felt more like a cough.

He huffed and nudged you closer to the bed, “sleep, I am certain the floor allowed for little of that. Upon my return, you might seek my forgiveness… and perhaps to begin in your new duties.”

You turned and sat on the edge. He looked down at you and pulled his gloves on. He scrunched his lips and tilted his head as he thought, seemingly having a conversation with himself.

“And you will not look at me like that,” he said as he strode away and grabbed his cape from the atop the chest where he’d laid it out, “I am not a monster.”

He was gone and you were lost. You knew there was a guard outside that door, you knew the castle was crawling with them. You had nowhere to go and nothing to do but what he said. So you buried your head and tried to forget all that, if only for a moment.

🏰

You woke to pain. You lived the last day in pain but a spark in your thigh awoke you. You groaned and pushed the pillow away and looked down at the hand that crawled along the welts on your legs. As the palm brushed over the curve of your ass, your eyes found his face and you squeaked.

It hurt to move but you rolled away and sat up, hugging the pillow as you faced Lord Rogers. His blue eyes glimmered as he smiled at you.

“What-- my lord, where is Lord Barnes?” you gasped.

“He is withheld in the stables,” Rogers pulled his knees up on the bed and crawled over to grab your ankle, “I did seek to ask after you and your condition. His rage does make him cruel.”

“Don’t,” you pushed on his hand as it tugged on your leg, “he will not be happy if you proceed, my lord.”

“Don’t? You are bold for a servant,” he took your other ankle and yanked you hard so you fell onto your back. You dropped the pillow and swatted at him as he tried to wrench your legs apart, “he owes me, he cannot be mad at me claiming my debt--”

“No,” you wriggled and twisted around onto your stomach, your legs tangled strangely as you grasped the edge of the bed. You slipped one leg free and kicked out, your toes jabbed his chest harshly and he released your other ankle. You tumbled onto the floor and cried out as you jarred your wrist.

You heard him coming around the bed and you got to your feet unsteadily, holding the square end table for support. You were so stunned after the rude awakening you could hardly think. It felt like a nightmare, like you were still asleep and trapped in your fears.

You grabbed the heavy brass candlestick and swung out at Rogers as he came near. He dodged and chuckled darkly.

“Ay,” he bent his arm to deflect your second strike, “you don’t want to do that, sweetness.”

“Please, no,” you begged, “Lord Barnes, he said-- he would hurt me more--”

“He doesn’t need to know,” Rogers smirked and you lashed out at him again and caught his forearm. He backed up and held where you’d struck, “My word, you are a little bitch.”

“Stop, don’t come closer,” you stumbled against the wall and pressed your back to it as you sidled away, “please.”

“I just want a little taste,” he hummed, “Barnes won’t know--”

You hit him again and he swore as he gripped his shoulder. You clung to the candlestick and dashed for the door. You unlatched it and ripped it open, only to stagger back at the figure waiting for you on the other side. Lord Barnes stood with his hand still in position to grab the long handle and his brows drew together in displeasure.

“And where--” he began as he entered and his voice died as he sighted the other lord holding his shoulder, only a few inches behind you as he haled mid-chase, “Steve,” Barnes said evenly and eyed him then the candlestick in your hand. He reached down and freed it from your hold, “go,” he nudged your shoulder and pointed you to the corner.

You cowered as you passed Lord Rogers and did as Barnes bid. You stood in the corner and shivered as he gestured for the other lord to follow him into the corridor. The door closed violently behind them and you pressed yourself to the chilled stones.

“Now I know why my guard has strayed,” Barnes' voice carried through the wood, “did I not promise you a reward in due time?”

“I was only playing with her,” Rogers argued.

“She should have knocked you in the head with this,” Barnes hissed, “I should break my promise now, truly it would be your dissolution on the matter for your impatience.”

“She needs a good slap, she is far to brazen,” Steve sneered, “she struck me, twice.”

“Good,” Barnes said, “she knew better than you.”

There was silence and then a long sigh.

“Go, I haven’t the energy for this and our travels on the morrow,” Barnes huffed.

“Buck,” Rogers said softly.

“If it does not happen again, I will let it be,” Barnes muttered, “I am tired.”

The door opened and footsteps faded down the corridor. Barnes entered and tossed the candlestick so it clattered to the floor. You flinched and watched as he struggled to unclasp his cape with one hand. You saw the line between his brows as he grew frustrated. You went to him meekly and hesitantly reached for the buckle. He dropped his arm and let you free the cape.

He nodded and you slung it from the silver hook mounted upon the side of the great wooden wardrobe. You sensed him watching you and turned back to face him. You folded your hand, uncertain, and swayed slightly.

“He should not have done that,” Barnes, said, “you were right to fend him off.”

“My lord,” you replied diligently.

He let out another long breath and walked around the bed. He sat at the foot and watched you dwindle beneath the heat of his gaze. “Understand that you belong to me, first and foremost. You are mine. You do not raise your hand or your voice to me and you do only as I bid.”

“Yes, my lord,” you said.

He lowered his hand and undid his belt. He let it fall loose and unbuttoned the front of his dark vest. “Help me. I’ve already sent for hot water.”

You helped him as you did before. The layers stripped away around the weight of his metal arm. He was not shy of his nudity but he kept you from removing his arm, he did that himself and kept his scars in the shadows as best he could. He fell back, his legs bent over the bed and sniffed.

“Cover yourself in a nightshirt and let the servants in to draw the bath,” he ordered.

You pulled on one of his nightshirts and when the knock came you did as he bid. Servants carried in a large metal tub and a procession of steaming pots filled it with hot water. When it was full, you closed the door and resumed your place in the corner.

Barnes rose and went to the tub. He lowered himself into the water and his blue eyes lingered on you. His broad shoulders pressed against the beaten metal and his single arm stretched around the rim.

“Come here,” he said.

You went to him and stopped beside the tub. His eyes slipped to the nightshirt and his lips curved slightly.

“Take that off, get in,” he nodded to the tub.

You bit down and lifted the hem of the shirt. You put it aside and neared the tub again. You gripped the rim and stepped over the side. Barnes sat up slightly as you drew your second foot in and he directed you with one arm. You turned your back to him as he urged you down against him until your back was against his firm torso.

He purred and his hand fell to your stomach. He traced a trail up to your breasts and fondled them one at a time. You felt a twitch against you and he pushed his hand back down. His fingers crept up and down your body as he explored your flesh with little hums.

“Were you afraid?” he asked, “when Rogers appeared?”

You watched his hand and resisted the want to push him away. Despite the steaming water, you felt cold and distant, almost as if your body wasn’t bound to your mind.

“Yes,” you said, “yes, my lord. He woke me and I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did the right thing,” his lips brushed the top of your head, “you kept yourself for me.”

You held your breath. You hadn’t truly been thinking about him, about what he desired, you were only terrified and desperate, like that night he’d tried to have you. You trembled and let out the air as it began to burn your lungs. Your skin buzzed as it all sank in; you were naked, more so he was naked too, and you were laying there against him.

“My lord,” you eked out as his hand slipped lower and rested over your most intimate part.

He stayed like that for a time. You felt his heartbeat against you as he basked in the warmth of the water and your body. His hand would move back up and he’d hug you to him but then it would hover again along your vee and sometimes his fingers would caress your thigh.

“Are you truly sorry?”

“My lord?” you blinked as your daze was cracked.

“Are you sorry that you ran from me?”

You heard how brittle his voice was and felt the tension in his body. You touched his hand as it rested on your stomach.

“I am truly sorry, my lord,” you almost believed yourself, “I am only a foolish girl and my ignorance did scare me, not-- not you, my lord.”

He nuzzled your head and slid his hand away and twined his fingers between your. You felt his member prodding you from beneath and that scared you. You felt every bit of him against you; his raw strength and his pulsing desire. You closed your eyes and braced for what came next.

“We must begin for the capital tomorrow,” he said and your lashes fluttered in surprise, “that means we must rest. You may sleep in the bed beside me,” he squeezed your hand and moved it over chest, “would you like that?”

You thought of the cold stone and the ache in your bones, the way even now your bottom and legs seared from the welt across them. You pictured the long trek to the royal castle and the onslaught of autumn. It all fell over you like a suffocating shroud.

“Yes, my lord, I would like that,” you said.

He was quiet for a little longer as he held you against him. He groaned and shifted beneath you, “I only did what I had to,” he turned your hand over and traced the lines of your palm with his thumb, “I never wanted to hurt you.”

You swallowed through your spite as your fear urged you to caution, “I know, my lord,” another painful lie lodged in your throat, “I… wronged you and I am sorry for it.”

[caticorn61]

Sticky Notes- Part I

Synopsis: When your father is transferred to South Korea he decides it’s time for you to break out of your shell. But what do you do when your roommate doesn’t speak English?!

Genre: Chanyeol, Fluff!

Word count: 2357

A/N: I REALLY hope you guys enjoy this, ive never written a fic before and I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while and i wanna thank @shesdreamingfics for the inspiration, motivation and support (and hella good editing) with this. Please send in your feedback!

The elevator doors slid open and I shoved the last of my luggage inside. I fidgeted with my newly made apartment key and bit my lip as a sad attempt to occupy my mind. I hated this, everything about this, and I hated my father for leaving me no choice. I don’t know who told him that forcing his only child to move out was a good idea, especially to a country she had never even been to.

“This will be good for you! You need to get outside of your comfort zone. I think this is a great way for you to do that.” He would say every time I tried to protest. Of course it wouldn’t be as bad if I actually spoke the language or knew the area, but no. My dad got transferred to South Korea, and he decided that now would be the perfect time for me to spread my wings. Him and his big ideas. I sighed and threw my head back. I hadn’t even met my roommate yet. With any luck he would avoid me or just never show up, but if I ever had any luck at all, it was long gone. According to my dad he’s the son of a fellow member of the military. He’s a composer I guess, and performs often.

The elevator came to halt and I walked out, counting the room numbers as I went. I looked at the tag that was attached with my key, and beside some korean letters was the number 24. I assumed that was it and stuck the key into the lock, took a deep breath and unlocked. Here goes nothing.

Before I could even turn the knob, the door swung open and in front of me was the lankiest kid I’d ever seen. He looked beyond shocked to see me, which made me seriously doubt I was even on the right floor.

“Park Chanyeol?” I asked, the boy nodded, his brown bangs sweeping over his brow. “I guess you’re my new roommate.”

Chanyeol shuffled awkwardly and stuffed one hand into his hoodie. He blinked at me in confusion and said something in Korean. Don’t tell me he doesn’t know English. Dad swore on his life most Koreans knew enough to get by.

I wiped my palms on my jeans. I could feel my heart beat faster. I felt my body tense up in a wave, starting from my neck and crawling it’s way down my back. I couldn’t have put into words how much i wanted to run and curl up in bed instead of actually following through with this insane plan.

I introduced myself as I held up my key and dangled it in front of him. His eyes widened and he took it. He smiled in a way that seemed to take up his whole face and started spewing off fast Korean and looked at me to see if I understood.I shook my head. His smile dimmed and he stepped aside, inviting me in. I smiled shyly And shuffled past him. He walked in front of me and gestured for me to follow. It was a fairly small apartment; the kitchen was the first room we walked into immediately after entering, and it opened to the living room. It was a small but comfortable place. He led me into a spare room, lightly decorated, with some random boxes scattered about and a bathroom in the back. I set my stuff onto the bed and nodded to him. He asked something in korean and I stared at him. I hoped he couldn’t tell how scared I was.

“Roommate, yes?” He asked in English and a slight wave of relief rolled over me. It wasn’t anything significant but I’ll take what I can get.

“Yes.” I nodded with a smile.

“Korean?” He said, presumably asking if I spoke any of his language. I shook my head slowly and I could see the frustration and confusion set in. We stood there for a little bit, neither of us really knowing where to begin. How were we supposed to live together if we couldn’t even say hello?!

Chanyeol moved first, bowing his head and leaving me to my own. As soon as he was out my sight I flopped onto my bed and felt tears sting my eyes. I was out of my comfort zone, that’s for sure.

I woke up suddenly. For a minute I thought I was in a dream, I didn’t even remember falling asleep. I was still in the same clothes from yesterday, hell my bags were still on the bed. Jet lag had done a number on me.

I rubbed my face and glanced at the clock. Noon already huh? Jesus. I slid out of bed and treaded quietly out into the main area. To the left of my room was an office, which Chanyeol apparently turned into a form of studio/hangout area. Straight ahead was the kitchen and living area, which led to the balcony. For a single guy he kept the place pretty tidy, and stylish if I do say so myself.

I wandered forward and walked into what I assumed was his room. Random posters of singers donned his walls. A piano sat in the corner next to his computer. On his desk sat a massive soundboard and pages upon pages of sheet music, and I vaguely wondered if he had written it himself. I looked around his desk and scattered about were little sticky notes. Little notes and reminders scribbled on them, they even donned his walls here and there.

My thoughts were interrupted by my stomach growling. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. Thankfully dad had given me a starting fund to settle in with. I didn’t know how much it was in won but he assured me it would be more than enough.

The closest convenience store was a few blocks from my complex. As I walked nearly every sign was illegible to me, aside from the occasional English sentence or word. A lot of people stared at me and I felt so exposed. I shouldn’t be surprised, most people around me are all the same, and I’m sure my presence just screamed foreigner. If my darting eyes and nervous demeanor didn’t give me away then I️ don’t know what would. I️ felt naked and exposed to everything. Every sense I️ had was in fight or flight.

The store was small and run down but it would do. My stomach growled as I looked at all of the snacks and microwave dinners. I recognized some of the snacks they sell back home and grabbed a few of them. I lingered around, and I could feel the cashier's eyes on me. I grabbed a microwave dinner and stared at it, pretending I knew what was written on the label. I prayed the old lady would find something to do instead of watching my every move. Eventually I just shoved a few packages into my basket and sat it into the counter. I took my money and flipped it through my fingers. The cashier glanced at me with amusement, and told me my total. She pointed to the screen. 20,000 won. I looked at the money in my hand and counted out what j thought was the right amount. The cashier chuckled and shook her head, she took the stack instill held and recounted it. She gave me my change and patted my hands. “Have a good day.” She said with a chuckle. I walked out and felt relieved to be out.

I stopped in my tracks. Which way did I come from? I felt my heart skip a beat. I grabbed my phone from my jacket pocket and hit the home button but the screen stayed black. Dead. I tried my best not to cry. Everything looked the same, no landmarks or signs that would point me in the right direction. I couldn’t ask for help even if I knew how to. The thought of it made my stomach twist and anxiety spread throughout my body.

I pick a direction and walk as fast as my legs can carry me. My shoulders brushing past those of strangers as I muttered a breathless apology and tucked my arms in closely to me. I ran smack into a tall man with a mask over his face and his ballcap pulled low, causing me to drop my bag. I apologized over and over even though i wasn’t even sure he could understand me. I quickly picked up my bag and ran on.

I slammed the door to my apartment shut, thanking whatever god there may be that i actually managed to find my way. I threw my bags onto the counter top and rubbed my eyes to try and clear away my panic attack. Tears stung my eyes and my breathing shook quietly and i was silently thankful Chanyeol wasn’t home. The last thing i need is his concern and attention. How the hell am i supposed to explain that walking outside pushed me over the edge? Especially when neither of us can communicate on a normal day anyhow.

A deep sigh escaped my lips. My appetite had came back full swing with a loud, obnoxious, growl. I forgot that was why i left in the first place. I stuck my hand in the bag and grabbed the first thing i found. The little image on the container had what i assumed were rice cakes in some red sauce. I spun it around and read the back which to my surprise, had English on it. I followed the directions, microwaved my lunch and peaked around the kitchen for wherever he kept his silverware. I picked up a pair of metal chopsticks, i wasn’t the best with them but they would do.

I plopped onto the couch right as Chanyeol walked in. He smiled at me as he pulled his mask down. His face scrunched up in amusement as he watched me struggle to pick up the small morsel of food. I felt my cheeks flush softly. What’s he starin at? I avoided his gaze and aggressively stabbed my food, causing him to chuckle at me. I’ll show him, cocky ass thinks I can’t use chopsticks.

I shoved the small cake into my mouth and stared at him while i chewed. He looked at me expectantly, as if i was either supposed to die because his country had the best food I’d ever had grace my taste buds or that it was the worst thing I’d ever had. I chewed confidently, not reacting, and then it hit me all at once. Hot! Holy fuck that’s hot. I started choking and I saw his expression change to worry as he rushed to the fridge. As I fanned my mouth he handed me a glass of milk. i chugged it all in one gulp, which did only so much to kill the fire in my mouth. All of a sudden he bursted out laughing, hell he was doubled over. I don’t know why he found my near death experience so amusing but sat the dish on the small table in front of me and stood up.

Chanyeol looked at me, his smiled wide as he chuckled deeply. He muttered something and went to his pantry, shuffled through it and tossed me a small package. He pushed his bangs out of his eyes and for the first time i really looked at him. He was pretty tall, he easily towered over me but at the same time i felt comfortable with him. He was easy to be around and had this warm and welcoming prescience. And man was he good looking. He was surprisingly muscular, and he had the brightest brown eyes I’d ever seen. It was almost as if they smiled too. How he was still single was beyond me, although he looked kind of like an elf with how his ears stuck out but even those were endearing. At least my dad got this right.

“머고.” He said, making an eating motion. I carefully unwrapped what looked like a weird rice triangle and took a bite. I sighed, no spice, extreme surprise that makes me what to cut my tongue off. I swallowed and honestly nothing had felt as satisfying.

“Thank you.” I said. I’m not sure if he understood me but he smiled sweetly and tossed another to me. He gave me the sign to eat again and left into his room.

I practically devoured both of whatever they were and managed to finally get a charge to my phone. My father had left a few messages asking how I was, but i decided to spare him the happenings of my day. After all, I’d get the same response as always. “This will build character.” he always said.

It was about midnight when i decided to shower. I noticed a light emitting from Chanyeol room, and i peaked through the crack in his door. I watched as he stuck a sticky note onto his wall, the last in a line of a few others. He shoved his notebook aside and slid over to his piano where he silently pressed against its keys, whatever music it made flowed through his headphones. Even though i couldn’t hear it, the rhythm of his movements set the mood of the song all on its own. He was so animated and passionate. I admired him. Forma person i couldn’t use words to communicate with o felt that i knew him more than words would provide. All from that.

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. The clock ticked in at 11:27 and i stretched out with a sigh. My stomach growled again and i rolled over. Hoping that the other snacks i bought weren’t as feisty i stepped into the kitchen. Instead of my bag i found a plate that had fresh food on it. Stuck on the edge of the plate was a tiny pink post it note.

“For you. Eat!”

[golden-plumeria]

As far as feedback goes, I don't agree with the recent trend of not giving full size artwork to people. Some of the more recent batches of coadles are positively tiny and the art seems pretty low quality (resolution), it is scandalous to expect people to pay hundreds of dollars to not provide the full size artwork out of laziness. I don't care about the "you pay for the rights to use the species" reasoning because its an excuse not an explanation, people care about this species but feel cheated.

Answered by Tay and Maho

Tay - While i can understand your’s and other’s frustration. You have to understand that many adoptables out there that go over $1000 and sometimes even over $2000 are never given a separate image with them but many people find no issue with it or feel cheated. This may only be an issue with Maho because Maho put in the extra effort from the onset to give refs complimentary to her designs but was taken advantage of. So while other artists never started out giving refs, their members never feel cheated because they never had that opportunity to begin with. Maho did, so when she no longer gives them it was Maho who was at fault. It is done out of protection of her art, and to keep other users from using the full sized refs to scam others. Some people do have the idea that a full size art = ownership and someone who can come to own one or find the posted full size can sell to multiple people using the art as proof of ownership and scamming others (Happened in other communities already and becoming a trend). Rather than referring to the masterlist, and is very unsafe. One CS artist was being bullied into refunding those who were scammed because they thought the full refs meant the person could sell it to them but never checked the actual owner’s list to verify. The full sized ref = ownership idea is was probably the worst thing to put as the standard in the community in the first place and in the community in general and has been causing lots of issues with many CS creators. To avoid the same issues it was also implemented with our species to remove full sized refs. It’s the “Someone ruined it for everyone else” sort of deal and we apologize for that. If every member was perfect and respectful of the art this would have never happened. Another thing is Maho and her admins do not always receive more than 200$ for the adopts they make let alone 100$ at most. She does not believe in charging any more than 200$ autobid for her species because she still tries to maintain fairness and allows others that can’t even go over 25$ a chance to gain one of her species for free through hard work and fun events. 

We have a master list that proves the ownership of who ever buys a certain design. Ive talked to many people of the community and most of them do not feel cheated over the recent events of not receiving files. In fact the majority understand why it happened, but as for you feeling cheated the most i can do is apologize for it and that no harm was meant by it. Also please know that as we are currently aware of only Maho is not giving out files to her adopts but the other admin still might with theirs. Just a bit of info, sorry for rambling ^^; Tried to get out as much info i knew to help out. Maho - I am willing to give out transparent files (Without BG, full size if the small batch ones since I post them at 50% size) if asked only. But it would be in my free time and not part of the design’s cost. It would be me doing it for free since the money I get from the design usually doesn’t even cover the cost of making it alone and time spent adding it to the master list, hours working to polish etc. Majority of my designs sell for less than 50 dollars and it takes me hours to do one design. From our perspective we feel that no one should say “I feel cheated” if they pay less than the work itself and expect even more for free. We don’t show how long it takes to design these so we know that outside our admin circle people don’t see all the background work we put into all this, especially if they do not run a species themself and realize that 99% of work (Admin, modding, item designing, programing, html, masterlist updating, rule making, tweeking and working to improve) all go unpaid. So I understand the frustration, but I don’t ever “Set stuff in stone” and I always am able to bend a bit for people who are willing to work with me and be patient. But the art is just complimentary (Me doing it for a good member) not owed to the designs anymore. I like using BGless refs myself from other species I own so I definitely understand and sometime in the future may find a way to post my designs in an appealing way that has no bg and is easy to crop if in a batch but still keeps some sort of small watermark.  And the tiny designs you speak of, mostly sell for 25 to 30 dollars a piece and are kept small to encourage people to make the price fair for those who cannot afford the larger sized more polished ones. So they can still get one of the species but more affordable. Think of it like fabric at a store, you get discounts if you get scraps or edge of fabric pieces. And give people who cannot afford the highest tier fabric cuts a chance to get fabric. I KNOW how it feels to be priced out of species and if I can make simple, easier and smaller designs to give less financially able people a chance at it I will give them that chance like I’d like from other species. And these designs can be drawn full size and much better at a later date to with YCHs, and rebase commissions by Myself or my admin. No one should feel stuck with tiny art when there are lots of ways to get them drawn, or even draw them yourself the size you’d like if you can. There are lots of options and I hope that our ramblings have helped in some way. People should understand both sides to this and that we are trying our best, and our best may not be the best for everyone. We do not force anyone to buy our designs, or force them to stay in the community and if refs is a deal breaker there are lots of species from really nice people who do give refs. But they may be pricier or harder to get into.Last note - Those who work for practically free when everything is calculated together and continue to work as hard as they can to create a community despite the cost/hours disparity I wouldn’t consider lazy. Lazy is not running a CS group in the first place and not having to work with strangers and avoid conflicts since you don’t get them by not doing anything.

[karlilarki]

Cobra, (Avengers Fanfic) Ch 4

ReaderPOV, Black Widow / Natasha Romanoff, other Avengers members referenced/involved, Hawkeye / Clint Barton, as well as X-Men (Professor X, Jean Grey, Wolverine)

Summary: Reader is Clint Barton’s little sister and has been captured by S.H.I.E.L.D. without Clint’s knowledge.

Warnings: Swearing, Angst. ***My first fanfic so please feel free to send any constructive criticism / feedback that you may have. TYIA.***

Word Count: 2,451

Clint Barton:

               Several days had passed and there was no sign of the asset. Professor Xavier had been warm and welcoming, Clint had been allowed to make use their practice arena with his bow and had been given a grand tour of the place by Jean. The food was delicious, the other… residents… were kind as well- but Clint didn’t really care. He was sent for a reason; to retrieve the asset and return to base. It was not supposed to take this long, and Clint was frustrated to say the least. He was headed to confront Professor X now, having decided he’d had enough of wasting his time in the mansion.

               The door before him opened just has he reached his hand up to knock. Professor X smiled warmly yet again, welcoming Clint into his office. Clint was unnerved by the Professor and Jean’s telepathic abilities but tried to smile in return as he entered the elaborate room.

               “Professor,” he began as the man behind him closed the door.

               “Yes, Clint, I know of your frustration. I apologize. Please, have a seat, and we can begin to make plans,” Professor Xavier replied before Clint could finish.

               “Plans, sir?” Clint asked as he took a seat, turning to meet the professor’s eyes. The professor propelled his electronic chair forward and around to the opposite side of his desk, his smile never wavering as he did.

               “Yes, Clint, for you to accomplish your mission here. That is what Mr. Fury refers to it as, does he not?” The skin around the professor’s eyes crinkled as he spoke, his smile never leaving his face.

               “Erm, yes, sir…” Clint responded, he was sitting on the edge of the chair with his back straight. He was wary of the X-Men.

               “Well, then, let me fill you in on your ‘asset’” Professor Xavier placed emphasis on the word asset, as if he found it humorous that Fury, or Clint for that matter, referred to it as such. He turned a screen on his desk around to face Clint, revealing a detailed map. “You see,” Professor Xavier continued, “Gambit left several days ago at my behest, as a favor to me. What I had hoped he would accomplish should have been completed before you arrived, however. His lack of return, and my lack of an ability to locate his mental signature, have me quite worried.”

               Clint had been scrutinizing the map before him as the older man spoke. Once had had finished, Clint turned his gaze to the man sitting across from him, eying him skeptically. Looking into the man’s eyes, Clint knew the answer long before he needed to ask. Professor X wanted Clint to track the man down, find what had become of him. He took a deep breath, sighed, and spoke.

               “When do I leave?”

Reader POV:

               Days had passed and I had been left to my own devices in the small hospital-like room. I was no longer attached to an IV, and I was given a pair of white scrubs to wear rather than the hospital gown I had initially awoken in. Natasha was no where to be found, nor was Fury. Nurses came by occasionally to check my vitals and provide food. This room had a separate bathroom from my bed, complete with a shower, which was surprisingly stocked with shampoo and soap. There were no windows, no clock, no pictures or mirrors. It was bleak and though the temperature was warm enough, the room was cold.

               The morning after I had been reduced to tears in front of the red-headed assassin, I had awoken with a migraine to the fluorescent lights above my bed. There was no noise to be heard, and I was stiff as a board. I had guessed from that alone that I had been sleeping for quite some time. I did not remember falling asleep, however.  I only knew that I was awake. The gown I wore was starchy and uncomfortable. It tied in the back, leaving my behind exposed when I stood. On the plus-side, I was no longer strapped down. I was free to stand and roam. What had felt like hours had passed before the first nurse came, bringing with her the scrubs and food. She brushed my hair for me, gently, which had stood out clearly in my mind. No one had ever brushed my hair for me, let alone gently. The same nurse had brought me a book the next time I had seen her. She regarded me with a mixture of emotion swirling in her blue eyes, both pity and concern, but I liked her nonetheless. The other nurse that attended to me was a heinous beast. Neither of them spoke to me, but the first was soft and kind with her movements and actions, the latter was as harsh and cold as the room I now called my cell.

               It didn’t matter, really. I would be free of it soon enough. I had found a way to roughly judge the passing of time. The lights in my room stayed steady, and there were no windows or clock to indicate whether day or night, but the amount of light that passed in under my door changed. When it became what I assumed to be evening, the light dimmed considerably. When night fell, the light under my door disappeared. There was a false wall opposite my bed with a hidden air vent behind it. The grate to the vent was not large, but neither was I, and based on what I was able to feel through the screen of the false wall, I would fit. So, now, I waited. The kind nurse would be by with dinner, and then I could get the hell out of here.

               I fidgeted with my hands impatiently. I planned to eat dinner before leaving, since I really have no idea when I will come across my next meal. I felt a stab of remorse as I thought of the kind nurse. I hoped to not cause her any issues with my actions, but I couldn’t remain here. Fury and his red-head had nearly broken me in one night just with the mention of Clint. I don’t know what lengths they will go to, but I know that I don’t intend to stick around and find out.

Clint Barton:

               Clint strapped his gear on with calculated movements. After speaking with Professor X, he had eaten and showered. The professor had suggested he sleep and leave at daybreak but Clint was done with wasting time. He didn’t want to spend another moment in the extravagant mansion if he could be doing something that might actually get him home. He missed Nat, he was sick of people reading his thoughts, and he was tired of sleeping in a bed that looked to be made for a king. It was unsettling, to say the least. The only downfall to it all was that Professor X had insisted Clint not go alone. Jean would accompany him, and if Clint would allow it, so would a man by the name of ‘Wolverine’… though Clint had no idea who that was. He barely knew Jean, but she could read his thoughts. If they got into a sticky situation, she would know without him so much as saying a word. Wolverine… Clint had no background on the man. During his conversation with the professor, he had insisted that he and Jean would go alone and that they would leave after dinner, not a moment later. Professor Xavier had, somewhat grudgingly, consented to Clint’s stipulations.

               Clint’s head shot up at the sound of a knock on the solid wooden door to his room, pulling him from his reverie.

               “Clint?” he heard Jean’s muffled voice filter through. Before he could speak the words come in, she entered, and then quickly apologized, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said, gesturing toward Clint’s head.

               “It’s… fine. Just something I’m not quite used to,” he answered while he bent, reaching for his bow. “Are you ready?” he questioned, looking her up and down. She wore tight-fitting clothes in the deepest of black, with sturdy combat boots and fingerless gloves. Her vibrant red hair was braided back and her face clear of her normal makeup.

               “Yes, however, I do think you should allow Logan to accompany us, Clint,” she was confident in her words, but not overbearing. She was not demanding that Clint reconsider, simply giving him her honest opinion.

               “Logan? Who is that?” Clint was thrown by the name Jean had used. Is that—

               “Wolverine,” Jean nodded, answering Clint’s thought. He grimaced at her action, still unaccustomed to having his inner monologue open to the public.

               “He is like us, here at the mansion,” she continued, “He is strong, a capable fighter, he heals quickly and he’s loyal to me, if not you. He would not allow the mission to go askew, nor would he abandon us or turn on us.”

               Clint thought for a moment, mulling over her words. She had addressed each of his concerns, undoubtedly, she or Professor X had overheard them in his thoughts at some point. He grimaced again, wiping his hand over his face before nodding. He just wanted to go home. The sooner he could retrieve Fury’s asset, the sooner he could go home. If this Logan-Wolverine guy helped, then so be it.

               “But I’m driving,” Clint stated, leaving no room to argue.

Natasha Romanoff:

               “Sir, do you really think that’s wise?” Natasha questioned, one of her perfect brows arched. Her arms were crossed across her chest, her weight resting on one leg while the other pointed outward.  

               “Romanoff, stand down. I understand your perspective, but I’ve got this. I need you focused. You need to be there when Captain Rogers is woken. This is imperative, do you understand?”

               “Sir,” Natasha yielded. Fury was resolute. If she was going to continue to work with him, and Clint, she needed to agree. She flashed her hands up in surrender, nodding her head.

               “Good, get goin’. Coulson will accompany you,” Fury returned his attention to a tablet held within his hand, effectively dismissing the Black Widow from his presence.

               Natasha left the room quickly and silently. She made her way to the women’s barracks, changed into her tactical gear, and packed her bag. Apparently, this Captain Rogers was going to be brought to consciousness tomorrow morning, so she and Coulson had no time to lose. She wondered, though, what Fury was playing at. First Clint, then her, Stark, (y/n), whatever asset Clint had left to retrieve, and now this Captain Rogers? Was he assembling an army? Why? Natasha cocked her gun and stashed it in its holster on her utility belt, dismissing her thoughts. She was ready, now to find Coulson.

Reader POV:

               The gentle nurse brought dinner, as I had anticipated. After she checked my vitals she left without a word and, as always, locked my door behind her. I shoveled the food into my mouth, eating as quickly as I could. It wasn’t hard, given all they had provided for dinner was mashed potatoes with gravy and some toast. It wasn’t substantial, had no protein, but it went down quickly and would give me a bit of fuel to go on. As soon as I had finished I silently crossed the room and crouched. I had socks on, the kind they give you in hospitals with the rubber tread on the bottom to provide grip. No shoes, but scrubs and socks were better than bare-assed in a hospital gown. I dismantled the false-wall, a screen that had been created to provide the illusion of a solid wall, and got to work on the air vent. I had no screwdriver but was able to use the hilt of the plastic spoon from dinner to get the screws loosened. From there I quickly un-did them completely, silently moved the grate to the side, and peered into the vent. It truly wasn’t large, but it wasn’t miniscule either. A grown man would not be able to get through, but with my years in acrobatics and my tiny stature, I felt confident I could. I quickly removed my socks and tied them up in the drawstring of my pants. I needed bare feet if I was going to shimmy through, the socks would slide far too easily. I took a deep breath before shifting and entering the small space before me, arms and head first.

Clint Barton:

               Clint sat behind the wheel of sleek sports-utility-vehicle. He had reluctantly left behind the gorgeous car that Tony had leant to him. It was a coupe and would only fit himself and Jean. Logan/Wolverine would never have fit, Clint realized upon meeting him. The man stood well over six feet tall and weighed the density of a dying star. Clint was assured his dream car would remain untouched in the Mansion’s expansive garage, and Logan/Wolverine had, equally reluctantly, handed Clint the keys to his Hummer. Apparently, Logan and Jean were a thing, so when Jean had asked for Clint’s approval of Logan accompanying them, it was really a façade of courtesy. Logan was going, whether Clint approved or not. That had also been made apparent upon Clint’s meeting Logan. The two had squared off and Logan had stared down at Clint distastefully while Clint had straightened his back and met the man’s gaze without so much as a flinch. Jean, naturally, intervened and told the two to stop behaving like emasculated children and get in the damn car.

               The lights along the gravel path leading away from the mansion shone across the glossy finish on the vehicle. GPS had been activated and each passenger, Clint included, had an earpiece firmly in place. He knew Jean could hear them both without it, but seeing as how they couldn’t hear her back, they had agreed they would all wear them.                

               “Well,” Logan stated dryly, leaning forward from the backseat of the Hummer, “This should be fun.”

               Clint rolled his eyes as he pulled off of the gravel and onto the highway that had brought him here to begin with. If Jean responded, it wasn’t verbally, and Clint was left out of the loop as Logan grumbled something about not needing a seatbelt and sat back. Seconds later Clint heard a familiar click as Logan’s seatbelt connected, and Clint felt himself smirk. Well, at least Jean could keep the guy on a leash. That ought to help, he thought to himself. Jean smacked his shoulder lightly, reminding him she was all ears. Clint sighed. This was going to be a long night.

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 5 | Masterlist