#chained supes

[bluemerakis]

⋆˚࿔ °･⌇ SOLDIER BOY HEADCANNONS .ᐟ

𖦹 SOLDIER BOY has reoccurring nightmares. He has deep-rooted trauma from both the physical and emotional wars of his past—his abusive childhood, the bloody battles fought, and the years he spent as the russians’ experiment. He’s brash and forward in most aspects of his life, but not when it comes to confronting his trauma head-on. Thus, it tends to accumulate and lay siege on him during the time when he’s most vulnerable—in his sleep. He often wakes up in a fit amidst the dead night, and the first thing he does isn’t grounding himself with a few, steadying breaths or a doing scan of his surroundings—it’s to instinctively reach across the bed to make sure you’re still there beside him. To make sure he’s not alone. He’s so plagued with the need to be loved and valued, that he’s latched onto the one person who’s shown him nothing but. So, funnily enough, losing you might be the worst nightmare of all time.

𖦹 SOLDIER BOY wears a simple, silver promise ring on his left index finger. After a year of dating, you gifted it to him as a commemoration of your relationship milestone. His first instinct was to bitch about it, but it came from a place of unfamiliarity—Ben’s not used to gifts. He’s barely adjusted to the stability of the lifestyle he’s founded within you. But he takes it, anyway—briskly slipping it into his pocket while he practically herds you into the bedroom for a gift of his own. He kept it stashed aside in a memoir box—yes, he owns one and he hoards all his gems of the past in it for nostalgia’s sake because he’s just an old-timey boy who never fully adjusted to modern life. And after gnawing his ear off about never wearing it, he looped a chain through it and wore it like a dog tag—afraid that it’d get lost to some combat commotion if he wore it on his hand. And then one day, you’d absentmindedly brought up the idea of marriage, and later that night, Ben finds himself considering the lifestyle by finally slipping that ring onto his finger. As time passes, he finds himself absentmindedly playing with it whenever he’s idling around or unwinding from the day. And it’s something he specially reaches for when he feels overwhelmed or anxious. It quiets his brain, like the mere touch of it is the calming tether that keeps him grounded in the midst of his mental storms—reminds him of the solid rock that is you.

𖦹 SOLDIER BOY often experiences the “Proust Phenomenon”—where certain smells trigger vivid memories of the past. Due to his Supe nature, Ben’s olfactory senses are enhanced—like a k9 with extensive years of training. It was a handy skill when it came to operations and the element of surprise surrounding rigged locations, where he could detect the biting scent of chemical agents and certain metals that smelled like sure death. But, ironically, it’s also a perforation in his balls-of-steel armour. And now, in the modern days—stemming from the PTSD of his past—there are certain smells that remind Ben of his time in the Russian compound. Of the torture he endured. Metal traces, gunpowder, general anaesthetic—which shares the same undertone of the novichok gas used to put him to sleep. Fun fact—when you had to get your wisdom teeth removed, Ben dropped you off and picked you up but refused to step foot inside the building. He can’t tolerate the smells—chemicals, gas, death. It overwhelms him, and it’s unwelcome on his mind. And later that night, he wouldn’t go within ten feet of you—bothered by the scent of the anaesthetic still clinging to you. Eerily familiar. It was an eye-opening moment for you and the true magnitude of his trauma. So, overtime, you both worked on a way to counter-condition the trait—using smells he could associate with better memories. Something like the scent of your perfume. Everyday, before he leaves the house, he makes sure to spurt a drop of your perfume onto the neckline of his shirt—so that it evades his nose at all times. So that there’s no room for his senses to entertain a smell other than yours. It keeps him grounded and wards off the other scents threatening to invade his fickle peace of mind. And best of all, it smothers him with every thought, feeling and memory associated with you. Another way for him to be consumed by all that you are, even when you’re miles apart.

𖦹 SOLDIER BOY craves your proximity. It’s not something he’s aware he does, but it happens, regardless. When you first started dating, it wasn’t anything too serious—mutual benefits with minimal strings attached. But unbeknownst to him, he’d come to crave your company like relentless clockwork. And he was a colossal prick when he didn’t get it—especially on the late nights where he’s taunted by his thoughts. A phone call that found you in the midst of a club amongst men—any man that wasn’t him—was a line of static corrupted with heated words. And a few minutes later, he’d show up like a relentless tractor, ploughing through the crowd with the sole objective to pluck you from the masses and lead you back to the car with a firm grip on your wrist. His possessiveness is something you helped work him through, and he’s surely dialled it down to a stinging glare and a tongue bitten raw whenever another guy spares you attention that extends beyond a polite conversation. He is refined, though—more subtle in his possessiveness. Like when you’re in the kitchen making dinner, he simply grabs a beer and sips on it while standing a little ways away from you, leaned against the counter while he watches TV from across the apartment. If you drift to the island to start plating the meals, he strays to the other end of it—all while his eyes remained glued on the TV. He doesn’t know he’s doing it—it’s like an instinct to be tethered to you at all times, following, guarding, yearning.

𖦹 SOLDIER BOY always opens doors for you. Car doors, restaurant doors, apartment door. Any door. Initially, out of habit, he’d always enter the space before you and do a quick sweep of the area—like he’s on the scout for potential danger, or like you’re the president that he’s tasked with keeping safe—before beckoning you inside. It was a prevalent routine in the initial months of his domestic life, but you’d sat him down one night to talk about it—how he doesn’t need to be on such high alert anymore. And admittedly, how it hurt a tad bit that he didn’t let you in first. Almost as though those words had flipped a switch about how unaccustomed you are to his Soldier habits—he made sure from that night onward, that he always lets you in first. He’d wanted to argue that he was doing it from a place of good intent, wanting to keep you safe from any potential hidden threats, but he’d bit down on his tongue. Because it didn’t matter. There was not a damn thing worth doing if it didn’t favour your happiness. Now, he always makes sure that he opens the door to a room and steps aside to usher you in with a jerk of his chin. But once you’re inside, he still executes a subtle scout—a brief survey tossed over your oblivious shoulder and a hasty sweep of the outside before he trails in after you. You’re his gem, after all, and he can’t risk having you stolen from him.

𖦹 SOLDIER BOY drives with one hand on the wheel, and the other on you. Whenever you’re his passenger princess—which is always because he still believes in misogynistic chivalry, his hand always manages to stray from the gear and onto the hump of your thigh. Always. He holds you there, strokes an absentminded thumb over the skin, or rubs soothing lines that sometimes dip far too close to your core. And not once will he look at you while he does it—as if it adds to suspense of his clingy encroachment—but you might catch the corner of his lip spreading with a knowing smirk. He also has one hand on your headrest whenever he’s reversing, and then it’ll trail down to tuck your hair behind your ear, or run two fingers down your jaw before settling in its rightful place amongst your thigh.

𖦹 SOLDIER BOY likes TLC. I feel like this started with one of those times he was sat on the sofa watching TV, and you snuck up behind him to run your hands through his fluffy hair—because come on. At first, he might’ve flinched away from the unfamiliar intimacy—habitually moving to seize you at the wrist and yank you away with a low muttering of “the fuck you doin’?” But you shake him off with a giddy laugh, telling him to lay off the armour of stress for two seconds before returning your hands to his hair. He still tenses under the touch, but the longer your hands spend entwined with the hairs flowing from his scalp, he starts to melt under the touch—like you’re loosening the strings woven through the very DNA that renders his every muscle tightly-knit. Scalp massages turn into neck and shoulder massages, and that turns into rubbing out his back—and it even extends all the way to arm and head tickles. Sometimes, while you’re laying in bed, he’ll settle himself down beside you with a kiss to your jaw before he’s leaned his head against the side of yours—and he won’t say anything, but there’s a newfound stillness to him that screams expectancy. And when your hand wanders up his back and around his neck to settle in his hair, you feel him start to relax—unwind. And once, he let slip a soft and strained groan of pleasure, like he was desperately trying to swallow the truth of how much he enjoys ed it. But it never escaped your notice, and it wasn’t the last time he did it.

𖦹 SOLDIER BOY loves doggy-style for a quickie, and cowgirl for a stickie. When this man is hard and craving a quick release, he does love the idea bending you over beneath him and sending you to heaven. He’s a refined type of rough, never pushing limits he knows would hurt or leave a bruise you’re not keen on sporting. However, if you ask for it, he’s happy to oblige. And he LOVES holding you at your waist—loves it. Absolutely clings to it like a lifeline—kneading, gripping, pulling you into his every thrust. And he loves drinking in the view of your back—arching and flexing with silent pleas for his touch. But on the slower, softer nights of the week, he’s quite fond of cowgirl—back against the head-board with you on top of him, riding him at a pace that suits your current mood and needs. His hold on you is firm, but open for adjustment—guidance. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t admit that the mere view of your face—contorted with pleasure and effort alike—gets him worked up in addition to your every movement. God, you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever had the pleasure of calling his, and he watches you like he’s trying to memorise every detail about you. And if he doesn’t also love watching the way you swallow his length whole—and the way he glistens with the mingle of your combined pleasure. This man loves a cream pie—said what I said. And dirty talk.

a/n ─ first ever headcannons 👊 happy birthday to pookie schnooks! can you tell i worked hard on these? pls it’s almost 1 am now and i’ve been busy since 9 pm. and it’s all 100% canon in my head idc what y’all say.

thank you for reading! all likes & comments & deeply appreciated, but reblogs go a much longer way—so please support your writers with it! <3

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @angelicjackles @deansbbyx @titsout4jackles @figthoughts @dulcescorderitas @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @honeyryewhiskey @daylighted @deansbeer @deansbbyx @figthoughts @dulcescorderitas @jasvtsc @st4rmarley @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @chi-raz @youdontknowe @misatxox @lixiesbrowniess @ilovedeanwinchester4 @beelzebzb @lunaleah @kr804573 @idontwannabehere7 @lanasgirlfr @cas-only-angel @lucky-beheaded @nperoconelcositoarriba @mahi-wayy @alidiggory92 @idk-123-0 @tuxedoe @cassiecourtemanche @rositaslabyrinth @abox-of-rocks @viluren @h8aaz @cowboysandcigarettes @bejeweledinterludes @emeraldcrs @jensenacklesballsack

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© bluemerakis ─ do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

[hughiecampbelle]

The Boys Preference: You Falling Asleep

A/N: Not requested! I just thought it would be a cute idea! Requests are still open. Be sure to read my rules in the pinned post :) Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Butcher didn't want anyone visiting him in the hospital, but you weren't taking no for an answer. He'd been sleeping on and off, but when he work up again, you were asleep. Curled into a ball in one of the visitor chairs. You looked uncomfortable and cramped, but your expression was that of relief. For a little while you weren't worried about the state of the world or the future or his health. He knows you haven't been getting enough sleep. That didn't really matter when it felt like the world was ending every other day. When the nurses come in he makes sure to warn them. He couldn't be the cause of your fears and the one to wake you up. Someone brought a blanket and he gently placed it over you. He watched you, taking in this moment. You were finally relaxed. He knew you'd only done this because you were completely exhausted, you could barely keep your eyes open. It hurt him to know that he was a big reason why you couldn't eat or sleep or take care of yourself. He never meant to hurt you like this.

Hughie notices you can barely keep your eyes open. After that night at Tek Knights, you haven't been sleeping very well. You'd been so scared, so sure you were going to die with five new holes punctured into your body. You woke up from nightmares gasping for air, checking your skin for holes, afraid you were still in the sex dungeon. That you never got out. He's not sure how to talk to you about it and the guilt eats him alive. You and him are going through his files on Neuman when your head starts to fall only for you to startle awake. He insists you take a nap in his bed. You're reluctant, but you're so exhausted you eventually give in. He doesn't shut the door completely, wanting to be there if you have another nightmare. It's the least he can do.

Annie insists she'll stay awake for the both of you. The shape shifter captured you both. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. They ended up drugging the both of you. They switched between your two identities, tearing off their skin, taking your memories as well as your faces. Annie can see just how tired you are. Your skin is raw and you've run out of tears. She doesn't hold it against you. She fights against the chains quietly, hearing your breathing turn shallow. She would find a way out of this. She would get you out of this. You'd feel better after getting a good night's sleep. You weren't a Supe. You didn't have the abilities she had. And yet, she couldn't get them to work. She cursed herself for not protecting you, not saving you, not being a good enough Supe. She was grateful you weren't awake to see her fall apart like this.

M.M. does everything in his power not to wake you. You fell asleep on a surveillance mission in the van. You'd gotten so quiet, he felt like he was talking to himself. When he looked over, putting the binoculars down, you were curled in a ball in the passenger seat, fast asleep. He knows you haven't been sleeping well. If it's not the nightmares, it's the fear, the worrying. You recently admitted you'd kept a loaded gun where you could easily reach just in case. You were petrified something terrible would happen if you relaxed even a little, if you let your guard down. You needed this. He turns the engine off and puts his coat over you. He would've loved being able to talk about your heightened stress and anxiety, ways to cope, but this was a lot better. He hoped you'd feel safer, calmer after you woke up.

Frenchie freaks out a little internally. He thought you were dead. Your head was resting in your folded arms on your desk. Once he saw your body rise and fall with your breathing, he realized you weren't knocked out or dead. You were asleep. He thinks it's a little funny after getting over his initial panic. You've been working really hard lately. He wasn't sure how much sleep you were getting, if you were getting any at all. When the others walked in, bickering and laughing, he motions for them to be quiet. You needed this. Everyone whispers, going their separate ways. Frenchie turns down the lights, leaving a lamp on so that you're not totally in the dark. He wants you to rest as long as possible. You've been giving everything to this job, this cause, lately. You needed a lot more rest than this.

Kimiko knew you'd been having nightmares. It wasn't a secret. You confided in her one night that you haven't been sleeping well. Every time you close your eyes, you see Homelander. You feel his lasers slice through you until you're two halves. He's not just angry or upset, he's furious. You can't escape him. You two are hanging out when she notices you can't keep your eyes open. She tells you to lay down with your head on her lap. You laugh it off, but she's serious. She rubs circles between your shoulder blades, trying to ease you to sleep. When she notices your eyes are closed she doesn't stop. It brings her a lot of ease and relief knowing she can help you, at least a little. If you have another nightmare, if you face Homelander alone again, she'll be there when you wake up. She'll be there.

Bonus! Homelander either let's you sleep or orders you out of the room. If he likes you, he might warn the others to shut the fuck up. He'd move your meeting to another time and simply let you be. He might check on you every so often and when he sees you stirring he would gently wake you up, walk you to your room where you can sleep in a real bed instead of holding your head up in the board room. If he doesn't like you, he yells and berates and is this close to firing you before he realizes The Seven and Vought need you for your powers. You can apologize all you want, he won't listen. Either way you're completely embarrassed. You've just been so busy lately, it's been hard to fall asleep with everything going on.

[frownyalfred]

i would kill to have clark-as-supes get some kind of special dispensation to bring arkham prince bruce to the jl hideout (the watchtower doesn’t to be without batman’s engineering/logistics knowhow and WE funding, at least not until bruce is more formally considered a consultant) for help on one of lex’s more convoluted and immediate threats. it’s just not possible for bruce to solve the problem in isolation without the league’s resources, so instead of bringing league missions to bruce superman has to bring bruce to the league mission. i started imagining the team’s reaction to their unwitting reliance on criminally insane mass murderer bruce wayne and then i remembered oliver exists and now i feel only sadness thinking about that particular reunion

Oh and they’re totally chaining him like Hannibal while he’s out, right? Holy fuck that’s an image there. Bruce Wayne, in shackles and chains, holding his head high and smirking at the JL hideout, at Ollie, at anyone who tries to look at him with something even resembling pity.

He is beautiful and sharp and dangerous and no one will get close to him. And yet, when he relaxes at their table, hides his hands in his lap, they forget for a moment. Ollie leans in, remembering Bruce’s charisma. Clark is proud of his consultant’s advice, because it’s sound. Diana is reluctantly charmed by this warrior of a man, bound as he is.

And yet. He stands, rises to his full height with shackles, and the thin shirt becomes an Arkham standard bodysuit again. There are scars across his knuckles. He is not good enough to sit at this table permanently, and they all know it. Bruce included.

[yanderes-galore]

Sure! Here's a threatening Homelander who's desperate for his obsession's attention.

Prompts Here

Yandere! Homelander Prompts 49, 85, 90

“You haven’t been paying enough attention to me lately, so I had to do something about it.”

“I love seeing you so submissive. Give in to me.”

“If you beg enough I might consider loosening these chains.”

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Possessive behavior, Manipulation, Threats, Kidnapping, Restraints, Degradation, Dark themes, Forced cuddling/kissing, Creepy behavior, Some spicy moments, Forced relationship.

The worst part about Homelander is the fact you can't fight a man like him off. He's an entitled supe who's used to getting what he wants as Vought pampers him. He's a supe strong enough to take what he wants if it isn't given to him.

It baffles Homelander that you refuse him. He acts like he's never been refused in his life. Which, knowing him, was probably true due to how scared Vought was of him.

Homelander wants your attention. He wants you. So in his mind, you should be happy giving yourself to him in order to make him happy.

He originally had you able to free roam the home Vought gave him. With a little bit of convincing he managed to have Vought give him a home for the both you. After all, they'd give anything to prevent a scandal.

However, Homelander grew increasingly more irritated when you ignored him. You kept treating him like a monster, looking away when he came home and feeling tense when he held you. Your defiance drove Homelander mad.

It was hard to tell if he was oblivious, delusional, or just didn't care about his actions. Ironically his response to you thinking he's a monster... was to show he was. You just hoped he'd be nice... let you go... then you can never associate yourself with Vought ever again.

Yet instead he clips some chains to you, restraining your ability to move. Why should you have such a privilege in this house if you ignore him? Now he has to force you to look his way....

You were blankly staring down at your chains as Homelander walks in the room, eyes cold for a moment before he sits in front of you. You reluctantly return his gaze, hissing at the cold metal on your skin. Was there ever a day he didn't wear that ridiculous costume?

"We need to talk." His voice cuts through the tension like a laser, your heart dropping to your stomach at the idea. Talk... talks with Homelander always manage to unnerve you. No matter how hard he tries, they always sound threatening.

"Can we talk without the chains?" You try to bargain even now, only to hear Homelander snort in amusement.

"Without them? Do you even know why I put them on, dear?" Homelander grins, hiding his irritation. He leans closer, cupping your cheek as he strokes the skin. “You haven’t been paying enough attention to me lately, so I had to do something about it.”

You want to pull away but you know you aren't in the position to do that. The chains, now that their purpose has been confirmed, are a reminder of your "transgressions". If you want them off... you have to give him what he wants...

Just like everyone else in this world.

You force yourself to lean into his touch. The supe in front of you grins at the submission, standing up. You go to ask where he's going... only for him to settle himself behind you.

"You owe me, you know..." Homelander mutters, "I've been craving your touch for days now... It's about time you give me that."

You're harshly pulled against the supe, his strength a silent threat that if he applied too much pressure you'd break. You feel him breathe in your scent, lightly pressing his lips to your neck. You squirm uncomfortably against him yet his grip never relents.

"I'd kill for your attention..." Homelander murmurs against your skin, eyes darting over to look at your face as he presses your back against his chest. You know damn well he isn't bluffing. "Come on... talk to me... I want you to pay attention to me...."

At your lack of response, you feel his grip tighten around your waist. You flinch, feeling bruises form. Homelander kisses the shell of your ear, doing his best to get you to respond to him.

“If you beg enough I might consider loosening these chains.” Homelander purrs. "Give me what I want and I'll give you what you want... stop being so stubborn...."

The idea of the cold chains not being on your skin is tempting. Tempting enough to make you consider listening. Swallowing the little pride you have left, you lean into his touch.

"Please... I want the chains off..." You plead, trying to appeal to the monstrous man with puppy eyes. "I'll pay more attention, I promise..."

Homelander doesn't bother hiding the groan that escapes him as he grins. He then turns you around, the chains clinking against the floor at the movement. You're forced onto his lap... the supe pulling your face close.

"There's what I want..." Homelander praises, a hand snaking around to the back of your head. "Oh how I've been wanting this... now kiss me."

His last few words come out as a hissing command, his lips crashing onto yours. You can sense a hunger behind the force of his kiss. You hesitate for just a moment before kissing back.

The freedom he promised, even if it was only a little bit, was enough to make you choke down his taste. You feel him lick your lip before exploring your mouth. The hunger he has for you is overwhelming... the moment he pulls away making relief wash over you.

“I love seeing you so submissive. Give in to me.” Homelander praises again, hands roaming over you. You hate to admit it... but you're not entirely opposed to his touch. Most likely due to craving any sort of contact ever since your abduction.

"Now..." Homelander growls, holding your face up to look at him. "Are you going to pay attention when I want you to... or..."

His grip on you tightens again, an obvious threat to listen to him unless you want your hip to shatter.

"Will I have to threaten you with something in order to make you listen?"

"I'll listen...!" You answer quickly, Homelander's grip swapping to the chains around you. "I promise I'll listen..."

"Good..." Homelander praises, a devilish grin on his face. "That's what I like to hear...."

As expected...

Homelander always gets what he wants, one way or another.

[revcnqe]

Sitting here in your little share circle. Having a little whinge and a moan. Fuck "letting go." You should be out there with a fucking chain saw, going after them! Just a bunch of scared fucking rabbits. Supes are all the same. Every fucking one of them.

THE BOYS 1x06 | The Innocents

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

❤︎ first meeting ❤︎

❤︎ Butcher x Sunny ❤︎

Warnings: language.

Word Count: 1,555

Butcher met you in a fucking meadow.

No, seriously. An actual meadow. Wildflowers and all. Looked like the cover of a bloody indie folk album.

He was already in a foul mood—hay-fever, jetlag, the vague threat of another supe hiding out somewhere nearby. Should’ve been a quick recon stop near the safehouse. Should’ve been quiet. Uneventful.

Instead, you were there.

Sat cross-legged in the grass like a little gremlin hippie elf thing, bashing away on a tiny portable keyboard propped on your knees. Headphones on. Daisy chain looped around your wrist. Yellow fucking Converse tapping along to whatever sunshine bullshit you were playing.

You had a picnic blanket under your arse, speckled with sheet music, cracked-open poetry books, and two jars of honey—one already half gone. You were eating it with your fingers. Straight out the jar. Like Winnie the bloody Pooh... if he was even more of a cunt.

Butcher stopped dead, mid-step, and blinked like he was hallucinating.

Didn’t look like you’d clocked him. Too busy giggling to yourself at… something. Maybe the music. Maybe the honey. Maybe the cloud shaped like a cow overhead. He had no idea. And frankly, it pissed him off how curious he was about it.

He crossed his arms and squinted.

What the fuck were you doing all the way out here? No car in sight. No phone. No weapons. No backup. Just a yellow bag spilling with god knows what—he saw a feather boa, a kazoo, a bloody banana with glitter on it. Christ.

“You lost, sweetheart?” He called out eventually, gravel in his voice.

You jumped. Blinked up at him with the widest brown eyes he’d ever seen—like two pans of hot caramel left too long on the stove—and pulled your headphones off with a bashful little grin.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there,” you said, brushing grass off your skirt. “You’ve got eyes like a storm, huh?”

Butcher stared at you. Then at the field. Then back at you.

You beamed. And he fucking hated it.

Butcher didn’t move. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking like he was trying to decide whether to shoot you or set up camp and die quietly.

You didn’t seem bothered. Just turned back to your keyboard, tapping a few keys with honey-sticky fingers, humming something that sounded like a lullaby dipped in glitter. Not a care in the world. No fear. No backup. No fucks given.

He squinted. There was something wrong with you. There had to be.

“What the fuck are you doin’ out here?” He muttered.

You didn’t answer straight away. Just reached into that ridiculous yellow bag beside you—stuffed to bursting with sheet music, flower crowns, and what looked like a kazoo—and pulled out a plastic tub.

“I like the way the wildflowers sound,” you said, like that explained anything.

Butcher blinked.

You held up the Tupperware. “Pineapple?”

He stared at it. “You always feed strange men sittin’ in the dirt?”

“Only the ones with a jaw that could cut glass and a face like a thunderstorm.” Then you popped a chunk into your mouth and closed your eyes like it was transcendental. A little hum slipped out of you. Soft. Pleased. Fucking dangerous.

Butcher should’ve turned around. Left you to your fucking fruit and your keyboard and your absolutely concerning levels of optimism.

Instead, he stepped closer.

You opened your eyes and smiled like he’d just passed some secret test.

He crouched—grunting, knee popping—and accepted the pineapple. You watched him, chin in your hands, like he was the most interesting thing you’d seen all day.

It was sweet. Warm from the sun.

So were you.

He glanced down at your fingers—sticky with honey, glitter smudged across the knuckles. You looked like a fever dream. Like a hallucination with good taste in fruit and no sense of self-preservation.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You high?”

“Nope.” You beamed. “Just happy.”

He scoffed. “Same bleedin' thing.”

You tilted your head. “You always this grumbly or is this just for me?”

Butcher huffed out something like a laugh. It startled both of you.

“There it is,” you whispered.

“There what is?”

“That sound,” you said, grinning. “Sounds good.”

He stared at you. The way the sunlight hit your braid. The way your skirt fluttered in the breeze. The way you looked like you belonged here, in the middle of nowhere, like some kind of sun-drenched cryptid who only came out to feed people fruit and ruin their day with joy.

You pulled another pineapple chunk free, then tossed him a look over your shoulder.

“If the world’s ending, might as well eat fruit in a meadow with someone mysterious and grumbly, right?”

Butcher blinked.

Once. Twice. Then looked at you like maybe—just maybe—you were something worse than a supe.

You were hope. And that scared the ever-loving fuck out of him.

Butcher was seriously debating fucking off.

He’d had enough of this sunshine-scented acid trip. Enough of the yellow shoes and sticky fingers and the way your laugh kept slipping under his ribs like it was trying to make a home there.

You were draining the fuck out of him. Like staring into the sun too long, all squint and ache and after-burn.

But still, he didn’t move. Just sat there on the edge of your ridiculous little picnic blanket like some war-torn gargoyle, pineapple chunk halfway to his mouth, watching you play your shitty plastic keyboard with all the focus of a concert pianist.

And then—

“What’s your name?” You asked, voice like sunlight on wet grass. Bright. Soft. New.

Butcher looked at you. Didn’t answer.

Gave you the smirk instead—the one that made people flinch, the one that said you don’t wanna know, love. That sharp little curl of lip, tongue pressed to his teeth, head tilting like he was about to say something unholy.

Your eyes widened. Big. Innocent. Fucking gleaming. Then you smiled.

“You’re handsome,” you said, so sincerely it made his brain short out. Like you were complimenting the weather. Like it was just a fact you’d noticed, and weren’t planning to keep to yourself.

Butcher snorted. Loud. Ugly. Real. It ripped out of him like he’d been holding it in since the war.

“You’re fuckin’ weird,” he muttered, but he was smiling. Almost.

You held out another pineapple chunk like it was a reward. He took it.

“Butcher,” he said after a beat.

You blinked at him. “Like… a butcher?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Exactly like a butcher.”

You nodded solemnly. “Cool.”

And you meant it. Fucking hell.

He stared at you, trying not to grin, and then said, “Alright, sunshine. What about you?”

You brightened even more—if that was possible—and said, “Sunny.”

Butcher barked a laugh. Loud and sudden. Shocked even himself.

“You’re takin’ the piss.”

You shook your head, curls bouncing, that same honey-smile on your lips. “Nope. Swear. My mom says I came out smiling.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, still chuckling. “Sunny.”

You kicked your feet out in front of you and flopped back into the grass like a kid at recess. “You don’t like it?”

He looked at you—really looked. Daisies in your braid. Glitter on your fingers. Joy in your bones.

No. He fucking liked it too much.

Butcher swallowed.

Thing was… he didn’t think he’d find anyone cute again. Not after Becca. Not after all the blood and bile and blackened shit he’d crawled through. He thought that part of him was dead. Gone.

But here you were.

This mental little sunshine gremlin in a pissing meadow, eating pineapple and honey like a bear on acid, playing music like it kept you alive.

And you’d looked at him like he was something worth feeding.

Fuck.

He was in trouble.

You were watching him. He could feel it—those big, sunlit eyes studying him like he was a song you hadn’t learned the words to yet. Like you were trying to figure out where the chords were off.

It made his skin itch.

Then you said it. Casual. Kind. Catastrophic. “You look like someone who’s forgotten how to rest.”

Butcher froze. Just for a second.

Like you’d cracked something open without meaning to. Like the words had found a wound and pressed.

He coughed once—gruff, sharp—then looked away.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You always go ‘round psychoanalysin’ strangers in meadows?”

You just shrugged, smiling like you hadn’t just kicked him straight in the ribs. “Only the ones who need it.”

He hated how warm that made him feel. Like a sip of whisky you didn’t earn.

So he changed the subject.

“Right,” he said, glancing around. “How the fuck did you even get out 'ere?”

“Oh!” You sat up, brushing grass off your skirt. “I rode my bike.”

Butcher blinked.

You pointed vaguely toward the treeline, all cheerful and useless. “It’s somewhere in the forest. Maybe near a big rock? Or a log? Or… maybe a weirdly shaped stump. I dunno. I left it when I found this spot and kinda wandered off.”

“Wandered off,” he repeated, flatly.

You nodded, popping more pineapple into your mouth.

He stared at you. At the glitter on your face. The scuffed-up yellow Converse. The sheet music fluttering in the breeze. He tried—really tried—not to find you adorable.

Failed.

“Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “You need a fuckin’ lift home?”

You lit up like he’d offered you a puppy. “Would you?”

“‘Course I would,” he grumbled, already regretting it. “Not lettin’ some mad pixie keyboard goblin get murdered in the woods on my watch.”

You beamed at him. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me.”

He shook his head, but there was a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth, and you saw it.

He hated that.

He hated you.

He also thought you might be the most dangerously lovely thing he’d seen in years. And that scared him more than any supe ever had.

A/N: AHH! My first ever Butcher x Reader fic (obviously I've written him before, but never as the main character/main love-interest.) I hope I've done him justice. I think I have. It helps that I'm also British, but we'll see what you guys think! I am SO excited for this storyline, guys. Honourable mention: Sunny is largely based off of Zoe, because she is actual sunshine, and massively gives me Sunny vibes. <3 I hope y'all likeeeey! Please let me know. All the love.

@losers-clvb @drakulana <3

[zepskies]

Wake Me Up - Part 3

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

Summary: A few weeks after you and Ben celebrate your first Christmas together, Ben is returning from another mission with the Supe Affairs team. When he discovers that you’ve been taken, he’ll do whatever it takes to find you. And then, to help you heal.

AN: Get ready for some angsty, but fun attempts at memory jogging. 😅

Song Inspo: “I Can Read Your Mind” by the Doobie Brothers.

Word Count: 4.3K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only for some...mature talk lol. Angst and hurt/comfort, fluff, PTSD, protective Ben, tinge of spice~

💚 Wake Me Up Masterlist || Break Me Down Masterlist

Part 3: “When You Hold Me”

Those first few days were the hardest ones.

Marie ran out of paid time off, which meant she had to go back to work. That left you alone with Ben during the day.

He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, and glaring at you after you’d just pushed away the bowl of bland instant oatmeal he’d “made” for you.

“We’re not gonna have this discussion again. You need to fucking eat,” he said. “I could feed you, though I promise you’re not gonna like it.”

His surly, frowning face was annoying you. His deep voice was annoying you. His tall, ridiculous wall-of-man body in your line of vision was annoying you, clothed in the rumpled shirt and sweatpants he’d slept in.  

Everything about him annoyed you right now.

But that could also have something to do with the pounding ache in the back of your skull, radiating forward and between your eyes.

“Bro, I’m on like, three kinds of medication,” you replied in weary irritation. “With what appetite do you expect me to eat?”

Bro? His eyebrow twitched. He saw the pain and tiredness written across your face though, and the way you were sitting hunched at the breakfast bar, arms crossed on the counter. He softened a little.

“Look, I get it,” he started to say.

“No, you don’t,” you snapped. Your eyes closed as the pain sharpened. You lifted your hands to either side of your temples. “You don’t know what this feels like.”

You huffed and dropped your hands flat on the counter in frustration. Your eyes opened, and you looked down at the various healing scars littering your arms. You knew there were a few more across your neck and chest, and even your thighs. No matter how you stood, sat, or laid, it was painful to move your body. Even your face still hurt, with the fracture and bruises.

“You’re not the one who looks like Edward Scissorhands had a party,” you said, gesturing at yourself as you glared up at Ben. Emotion began to rise in your throat. “Or for a reference you’ll actually understand, how about this: I’m the Bride of goddamn Frankenstein. A fucking patchwork quilt.”

Ben hardened again, even with the deep pit forming in his stomach.

“That’s enough—”

“And despite what little you, or my mom, Grace, Annie, or even the doctors have told me, I can’t even remember who did this to me or what the hell happened,” you said. Hot tears welled up in your eyes. You wiped at them furiously and turned your face away.

“So no, the indestructible supe doesn’t understand. You literally can’t!” You pushed away from the counter and did your best not to lose your balance when a wave of vertigo hit you.

Ben started toward you, but you held up a hand against him.

“Just leave me the hell alone,” you muttered.

It wasn’t the first time you’d ever said that to him, but somehow, this one cut into him worse than the last.

Over the next several weeks, you did begin to heal from your injuries. Your doctor even noted that you were healing better than she expected. Bruises faded, wounds slowly became scars, some of their stitches removed, and with the right topical medication, a couple of them began to disappear.

The memories remained—at least for Ben. Finding you in that dark, disgusting place, breaking your chains, seeing how thoroughly that piece of shit had worked you over…

It still made him angry at times. He’d broken a couple of mugs, and one near-empty beer bottle. (You’d only caught him once, though he’d given you some bullshit excuse as to why.)

Your memory, on the other hand, still didn’t return.

And you weren’t an easy patient. That episode in the kitchen wasn’t the first, nor was it the last. Often the pain made you crabby and irritable, whenever your medication wore off. The head injury was also causing vast mood swings that Ben could barely keep up with.

It was all he could do to stop himself from snapping back at you at times (and sometimes he failed). He wasn’t exactly Mr. Rogers.

Marie was the only buffer. At least, when she was home. On more than one occasion, she’d had to try and diffuse the tension.

She was working during the day though, which of course, left you with Ben.

You were prone to headaches and dizziness, so he was careful with you, more than he’d ever been. You were starting to notice how he sometimes had to correct himself before he touched you, or forced himself to be deliberately slow when he helped you. 

Your mom had also been doting on you, laying out your clothes, brushing your hair, trying her best to cook for the three of you in the evening. Apparently, she’d been taking lessons, though she still couldn’t cook for shit. Ben often suggested takeout, since he was also no “Betty fucking Crocker,” in his own words.

Still, it was a foreign feeling to be taken care of. It often left you unbalanced, even after your vertigo settled, or your headaches eased.

You considered it while you and Ben were channel surfing together from opposite ends of the couch in the living room. Your mom had just given you a blanket to cover your shoulders, before she went off to water your potted plants on the balcony for you. It was a Saturday, so she had the day off work.

You watched her go with a measure of disbelief.

“Look at Mother Theresa go,” you remarked. “You’d think they replaced my mom with one of the Stepford Wives.”

Ben snorted, because he actually knew the movie you were talking about. You’d forced him to watch it with you a few months ago, mostly to tease him.

“She’s never babied me this much in my life,” you said. “Not even when I was still old enough to be babied.”

Instead of commiserating with you, Ben just sighed, shaking his head a little. He glanced away from the History Channel on the screen to shoot you a glance.

“Maybe you should cut your mom some fucking slack,” he said. “She’s doing a hell of a lot for you. Even more than I am.”

You raised a brow at him. While you had a feeling that wasn’t so easy for him to admit, something about his words annoyed you.

“You clearly don’t know her like I do,” you said.

Your childhood had been no picnic. While you didn’t necessarily blame your mom (anymore) for staying with your father when you were a kid, you had never truly been a child. Your self-imposed job had been to protect your sister’s childhood, and sometimes, your mother too.

Ben gave you a more direct look.

“I know plenty,” he said.

And in his eyes, you saw that he did know something. Perhaps too much. You gathered the throw blanket closer around your body and sank further into your side of the couch.

The last thing you wanted to talk about was your messed up childhood, let alone your father. You couldn’t even remember his death, though Marie told you that you had been there. And so had Ben.

You snuck a look at him while his attention had returned to the TV. He’d settled on Ice Road Truckers. You weren’t impressed.

“Ugh. Can we watch something else?” you asked. “Something funny maybe, like How I Met Your Mother?”

Ben shot you a look. “Sounds like a chick show.”

“Not true! It has universal appeal,” you argued. Slowly you raised yourself from your corner of the couch, grimacing just a bit as it disturbed the delicate equilibrium of your still-fractured skull. It was healing, but that, of course, would take the most time. Your headaches would turn into migraines if you weren’t careful.

Ben knew that full well as he watched you move towards him across the couch. He couldn’t help but reach out a hand to steady you by your arm. You gifted him with a smile and grabbed onto him.

“Please?” you implored.

Ben tried to remain unaffected, but that smile of yours was endearing. Plus, it wasn’t often that you willingly reached out to him, touched him.

“I’ll do you one better,” he said, turning off the TV with the remote. You gave him a curious look. He turned to you with a smile.

“Let’s go for a ride.”

Of course this man would have a Benz, you thought. The car was black and sleek with beige interior, and it was both comfortable and decked out with all the modern bells and whistles.

You wondered if he knew what half of these buttons did as you gazed across the dashboard, but the path of your eyes continued until you settled on the man himself. Ben was casually dressed in a burgundy sweater and dark brown slacks, a silver Rolex on his wrist. He had one hand casually on the wheel and the other resting in his lap.

Part of you itched to take his hand, but you decided against it. You could admit, if only to yourself, that you were warming up to him.

Maybe you even liked him.

You knew you didn’t always make it easy, but he had been as patient and gentle as he could be with you, for a man who clearly wasn’t used to being either for anyone.

Despite his gruff exterior, however, you knew he had to care about you to put up with all this. It made you more willing to trust him…and even more curious about him.

“What’s my favorite color?” you asked.

Ben gave you a furrowed look. “What?”

You crossed your arms over your blouse.

“We’ve supposedly been together for a year,” you reasoned. “You should know what my favorite color is.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“Come on,” you nudged his arm, trying to get him to smile. You succeeded, just a little.

“I don’t know…blue,” he guessed. Your mouth fell open in shock.

“How do you not know my favorite color’s red?” you said. “That’s the most basic thing ever.”

“What are you, five years old? Who fucking cares?” he said, rolling his eyes.

“I do!” you said. “Well, fine, Mr. Grump. When’s my birthday?”

With another shake of his head, he did correctly answer that question, at least.

“What’s my favorite food?” you asked.

“What’s with the goddamn quiz?” he retorted.

“I’m seeing how well you actually know me,” you countered. “Come on. Impress me.”

Ben slowed to a stop at a busy intersection. He’d been trying to jog your memory by passing certain landmarks he thought you might recognize, like the grocery store you two always shopped at, or the park where you liked to go for walks. So far, you seemed disinterested in the sights and more interested in grilling him.

Despite his longsuffering sigh, he had to wrack his brain in order to come up with something for you.

“The Beatles are your favorite band. Specifically the Abbey Road album,” he said. 

That didn’t exactly answer your earlier question, but…he wasn’t wrong. 

“Okay, you get a point there,” you said.

“And you fucking love Christmas,” he said, somehow with both annoyance and fondness. “Tacky as hell, with the…the ribbons, and the red flowers, and the jingle balls, and whatever the fuck else you can get your hands on. You love that shit. Because when you were a kid, that was the only time of the year your family got any peace.”

You were smiling at his description, but you sobered when he got to that last bit. Ben met your gaze. 

“I know that you’ve had three boyfriends before me,” he said. Then, a smirk grew across his face. “But I’m the only one who’s made you come. Every time. Like a goddamn faucet.”

You gaped as your face grew red with a hot blush. “Excuse me—”

“You claim to like getting taken from behind the best. And you do. You’re all too happy to get bent in half for me. Hair pulling, ass-slapping, the whole sticky nine yards,” he continued, with an even fonder gleam of memory in his eyes. His hands caressed the leather wheel of his car, long fingers flexing.

“But you actually like it better when you can see my face, watch me work. I don’t blame you,” he added, smiling. “I mean, if there was an Oscar for laying it the fuck down, I would’ve taken that shit year after year. Would’ve beat out Burt Reynolds by a fucking landslide.”

You thought you were about to combust, whether from indignation, or straight up embarrassment, you didn’t know. (And you were going to ignore the little tremble of heat between your legs.)

But just as you were about to blow your top, figuratively speaking, Ben’s expression became more serious when his gaze returned to you.

“I know that you’ve had to take care of yourself. And that you’ve been alone all your life,” he said. Then a slight pause, before his attention went back to the road. “That’s something you and I have in common.”

The light turned green. Your anger and embarrassment settled, somewhat, into contemplation. You didn’t know what to make of this man.

He was infuriating, with all kinds of audacity. He was crass, and at times, he grated on your very last nerve.

But somehow, he knew you. He seemed to know the parts of you that you didn’t even want to know.

Sensing your angry gaze on the side of his face, he turned to you with a devil-may-care grin.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Ben, I’m not dressed for this,” you said, leaning in close to whisper to him.

He’d taken you to a nice steakhouse for dinner, on the even more affluent side of town. You still couldn’t believe you’d moved out of New York City to Scarsdale, of all places.

Ben wrapped an arm around your waist and guided you closer, enough for you to feel his body heat.

“You’re just right,” he looked down on you with a teasing wink. It made you blush, despite yourself, with a small smile.

You went with him to a secluded booth in the back, by his request with the hostess. They seemed to know him, so maybe he was a regular. Or more likely, both of you were regulars. This place was only vaguely familiar, but when you saw the menu, you knew you were going to get the salmon.

Ben snorted when you said so.

“Yeah, that’s what you always get,” he said.

He smiled though—at the fact that this little outing was helping you make progress after all.

He didn’t need the menu either. He always ordered the dry-aged porterhouse steak. You couldn’t drink on the medication you were on, but he ordered a glass of bourbon for himself.

When the meal eventually came out, you glanced at his enormous plate with wide eyes. That had to be the biggest damn steak you’d ever seen, along with a huge loaded baked potato and a side of broccoli. You doubted the greens would do all that much for him, nutrition-wise. 

“Whoa. Did they cut up a stegosaurus back there?” you quipped.

Ben chuckled. He’d actually missed your sense of humor, no matter how dumb it was sometimes. He unwrapped the steak knife they gave him from his napkin and started to carve a big piece.

You raised your brows, but shifted your attention to your fish and mashed potatoes. It was delicious. Like melt-in-your-mouth good, and you weren’t sure fish was supposed to be “melty.” No wonder you two liked coming here.

But then, your thoughts were entirely derailed.

Hearing the sound of his knife hitting the plate, carving into the meat—it struck a discordant note in your mind. You looked over, and the sharp, silvery gleam of it caused a vision to flash across your eyes…

Of a blade sliding against your skin, over and over. Along with questions. The same questions being asked of you, over and over.

You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.

“Tell me!” a man demanded. “Give me something.”

He grabbed your face, squeezed your neck until you choked on blood and spit.

“Hey!” a more familiar voice cut through it all. “Come on, sweetheart. Answer me.”

You blinked and caught yourself mid-gasp, staring into the deep green of Ben’s eyes.

Your head was resting on his shoulder, his hand pressed to the side of your cheek, which stung slightly, as if he’d had to try and wake you. His arm was wrapped around your waist in the booth.

He was gentle in sliding your hair away from your face, but his own was hard and almost angry, as his brows were knitted together. His gaze then traveled across the room, and you realized that there were other people in the restaurant now watching you and Ben. Even the servers stopped what they were doing at the sound of his shout.

He gave them all a pointed glare.

“What? Nothing to fucking see here,” he snapped. Most of them were wise enough to turn away, back to their meals and conversation. Ben focused on you as you caught your breath. You were finally able to support yourself, though you stayed leaning on his shoulder. He wasn’t about to let you go either, until he got some answers.

“What the hell happened?” he asked. You frowned at his gruff tone, until you met his eyes. Somehow, you could see that there was worry there.

You glanced down, and you closed your eyes when you saw it. You pressed your face into his arm to steady yourself.

“The uh…the knife,” you whispered. “It made me see something…remember something.”

“What did you remember?” he asked quickly. You sucked in a shuddering breath, squeezing your eyes shut tighter.

“Nothing good,” you whispered.

You felt him pause. You heard the shuffle of silverware, a thump on the table. Then his hand came up and cupped your cheek.

“It’s okay. I put it away,” he said.

Tears burned behind your eyelids, and you buried your face harder against his chest. At this point, it wasn’t just about seeing the knife. It was knowing that whatever had happened to you, it had truly been hell. Unlike anything you’d ever been through before.

“You want to go home?” came Ben’s voice, deep and steady in your ear.

You sniffed and nodded, as your tears seeped into the fabric of his sweater. He rubbed your back, holding you more securely.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Unfortunately, the episode at the restaurant led you to a migraine. Ben carried you to the master bedroom and laid you down, helped you undress down to your underwear, and gave you a shirt you liked to sleep in. He turned all the lights off and made sure the curtains were closed tight.

Marie brought you your pain medication with a glass of water. Ben hoped there was enough in your stomach that the pills wouldn’t make you nauseous as well, like they occasionally did.

After you took the meds, you curled up on the bed and closed your eyes tightly, trying not to whimper like a child. You’d dealt with pain before; that was nothing new. But this was getting ridiculous. 

Ben gave Marie a certain look. “I’ve got it from here.”

She gazed at you with sympathetic tears in her eyes, but she nodded and touched his arm.

“If you need anything, just call for me,” she whispered.

Ben nodded, but he closed the door behind her and began by taking off his watch, then his shoes, pants, and sweater. He changed into a pair of sweatpants and a loose shirt.

You were too busy hugging your pillow and pressing your face into it. You didn’t realize he was still with you until the bed dipped behind you.

Ben turned you around and gathered you into his arms. You inhaled sharply, but then you clung to him. His chest and middle were warm, a bit unnaturally so.

“You’re hot,” you muttered, splaying a hand against his chest. “Like a radiator.”

Ben quirked a smile. “Yeah, you tend to complain about that.”

You shook your head and pressed yourself closer to him. “Not today.”

He wiped the tears from your cheek and laid a kiss on your forehead. He held you that way for a while, just silence and the sound of your breathing covering the room. Eventually, the pain medication began to kick in, helping to ease your pounding skull.

You pulled back enough to see Ben’s face. He was still awake, but he opened his eyes and met yours in the dim light. You reached up and touched his bearded cheek, hesitantly.

“Why can’t I remember?” you asked, in a broken voice.

Ben’s brows furrowed. He curled his hand around yours and let out a breath.

“I don’t know,” he said, but all he wanted was for this to be over.

“I could take this from you,” he said. “What’s the big fucking deal about a blood transfusion?”

Your fingers stilled against his cheek. Your tearful eyes averted from his, but you weren’t as opposed to the idea as you were before.

“The last time, it healed me?” you asked.

“Within the hour,” he said. His hand tightened a fraction on yours. “It’ll be like it never happened. And your memories could even come back.”

You sighed, briefly closing your eyes. Your hand fell from his cheek, but you nodded.

“Okay. I’ll think about it,” you said.

Ben’s frown remained, but at least it was a step in the right direction. He took your chin and slowly tilted your face up to his. You stared up at him with shining eyes. He didn’t like the pain he still saw there, but he did like the way you glanced down at his lips.

He took a chance, and he leaned down to meet you with a kiss. What first was a gentle touch, soon became heady as your hand slid up his arm and into his hair. He brought you flush against him and deepened the kiss, when his tongue swept past your lips and brushed against yours. You welcomed him in with a surprised moan.

He hadn’t tasted you in so damn long, it was like indulging a craving he’d been denying himself. It was even harder to slow down and ease away from your lips.

You rested your forehead against his chest afterward.

“Wow,” you breathed. “Okay.”  

Ben chuckled. But unlike the movies, a kiss didn’t break the spell. You were his, but not completely. 

He wanted nothing more than to show you how much you could be…but your body was still weak. He would have to continue protecting you, even from himself. 

“I want to stay here tonight,” he said. 

Despite his earlier thoughts, he didn’t think he could take one more night of not being with you in this bed. He could control himself. He just wanted to make sure you were all right, and safe with him.

It took you a moment to decide, but you nodded. 

“You can stay,” you agreed, with a more teasing smile. “I don’t think your old man back can handle the couch anymore.”

He snorted in amusement. There was some more of your sense of humor peeking through. 

Meanwhile, you still weren’t totally convinced that him sleeping in the bed with you was a good idea. A good part of you craved his nearness, and how he made you feel safe…but you also weren’t sure if you were ready to continue being so vulnerable with him. 

Just when you were about to put some distance here between you and tell him to stay on his side, Ben rolled you back around so that your back was pressed to his chest. He slid a warm, strong arm around your waist. His lips pressed to your bare shoulder. The sleep shirt you wore (one of his old shirts) had ridden down your arm.

“Just relax,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

And you actually believed it.

You felt comfortable and secure in his embrace. Soon enough, you relaxed into him.

Sleep wasn’t easy, but you got there in time. It even lasted for a while.

Just not long enough.

In your dreams, there were flashes of things that didn’t make sense. They were jumbled together like white noise on a TV, occasionally screeching with color, and mostly red with blood.

You woke up shaking and sweating.

Ben was a light sleeper at best. He was startled awake in confusion, disturbed by how you had been tossing and turning and making sounds of distress. He turned toward you and moved his arm to make room for you, but he decided he would let you come to him this time.

You didn’t disappoint him. You reached for him and buried your face in the crook of his neck for a while, trying to ground yourself in him. He held you and rubbed your back until you calmed down.

When you pulled away slightly, and spoke his name in the dark, Ben looked into your eyes. For a moment, he could’ve sworn you were there. The real you.

“Thanks for staying with me,” you whispered.

Ben was disappointed. This wasn’t you remembering. But at least, this was you being you, thanking a man like him.

He just nodded and guided you back into his arms. You let him hold you for the rest of the night. 

AN: So close, but yet so far. 🥲

But just wait for the last part...

Next Time:

You brushed your fingers over that picture in wonder. You didn’t remember that day, even though you were sure you must have been there…

It was so odd to see so much of your life in pictures, yet it was all still so fuzzy, or entirely blank in your mind.

You paused, blushing once again when you saw the picture of you getting out of the shower with the towel barely wrapped around your body. Why the hell would this be in a photo album?

You quickly moved on. Though you stopped next at a picture of you and Ben in what looked like a dark nightclub. The way he was holding you, looking at you like he was ready to devour you, and the way you were looking up at him, with a smile that said he’d better damn well try…

It made a sharp pain lance behind your eyes.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 4 (Finale!)

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Break Me Down Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

BMD/Series Tag List (Part 1):

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26

@spnwoman @syrma-sensei @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @muhahaha303 @123passwort

@mrsjenniferwinchester @lyarr24 @xoxovienna @lollag0w0 @globetrotter28

@nancymcl @ashbatz @secretdreamlandmentality @kristophalis @wonderland2022

@emily-winchester @shelh93 @sl33pylilbunny @spoonmynoodle @chernayawidow

@buckybarnes-1917 @asgardprincess97 @sometimes-i-sing @itsyellow @theonlymaninthesky

@kimberleymjw @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @iamsapphine @sanscas @se-fucking-hun

@lassie-bird @jessjad @yepimthatperson @fromcaintodean @stoneyggirl2

@spnfamily-j2 @im-a-slut-for-fluff @lacilou @venicesem @mimaria420

@tearsfortheyouth @agalliasi @chriszgirl92 @kazsrm67 @deansbbyx

[dianesdiaries]

what you are| Homelander x Y/n

-After getting ahold of Homeland's animalistic nature, Vought's international decides to hire a psychiatrist to examine his behaviours. But he can see right through yours

NOTE: no smut! this short fic contains convo w/tension, suspense/ js a fun piece on the boys!

In the three minutes it took me to take in my situation, I could feel his gaze getting warmer. The aroma filled with the silence of a faint fan, the distilled white walls that caved into his head. My eyes slowly met with his, intoned into the rage that conceived into madness.

"Surprise visit?", the supe seemed unamused with my presence, the silent creaking of his chair rocking back and forth. We both knew damn well those cuffs could come off any second. We both knew Vought could do nothing if he killed me. I think it excited him. I sat down cautiously, leaving a gradual space between his palmed hands and my worksheets. "You seem- out of it lately. More or so then often. I'm here to help you through these times but you need to cooperate with me", my words held stern through my fear. The rapid pumping of my heart thumped with every crack of a smile he made. "Fix.. You want to fix me? that's ironic", the man scoffed and leaned back into his chair. his eyes met mine once again, demanding an answer to the quiet that held curiosity. "You seriously think you can walk in here and try to fucking fool me? What a joke. They want to hold me in here like some sort of mutt- while you have more to be scared of then you think". The room fell still again. I desperately looked for somewhere to avert my gaze, but fell back to base one. But I held my ground. As long as he left me time to stall, I could do my work. And leave. I worked mercilessly at my sheet, writing down whatever could come to mind to seem productive.

"Wasting my fucking time with this..."

I darted up to check my client, watching him carelessly stare into space. The plan was working. The more he could keep thinking, the more I could write down. I never admitted it, but being a super in silence had more benefits than you think-

"I know what you are".

My vision blurred in circles. My heart was alive in my stomach. "Excuse me?..-"

"Let's be honest, okay?", his words were empty, his hair hung low below his eyes as I could feel my body overheating. "You were given the gift, of being a better being. Of being superior to a world of sheep. And you're fucking ashamed. Like a waste of good product". I slowly stepped back from my chair, collecting my sheets that scattered onto the ground in the whip of a chain. The cuffs dangled, and scraped slowly to the rhythm of its fall. The floor swarmed my gaze, small trickles of tears bubbling in my eyes. Torn cloth met the warmth of my body, his presence towered over me. At this point, his thoughts were unreadable. I couldn't possibly make out how he felt in this moment but vast- nothingness. His breath was cold, the brace of his hand on my shoulder gripping. "Look at me. I said, look at me when I'm talking to you". I could feel my breath tremble as I raised my head to meet his gaze, the grin he had wiped off slowly. Homelander laughed at his irony, the madness breaking with every breath. "You come in here, and you tell me I have fucking problems? You can read people's minds and still choose a minimum wage fucking job!", my tears looked crocodile in his presence. His fingers slowly met my chin, tilting my head upwards in a jolt. "But it happens to the best of us, right? Nothing wrong with some slack. You wanna live serving them? Or a life of serving your kind?", my head shook up and down vigorously at his statements, my words entrapped in my throat. "Then you'll do the right thing, yeah Y/N?", his eyes began to light a crimson red, a smirk drawing on his face at the sound of fear in my cries.

His hand slowly made its travel down to my throat, grasping at the grooves as my hands searched for my keycard in a survival instinct. His grip tightened at every second I wasted, his soft chuckles at the heinous act sent chills down my spine.

BEEP!

My body collapsed at the release of air, grasping onto every breath I could take. The vigorous buzzing of his eyes fell into a still blue, looking down at the fawn of a supe he was looking at. His steps marched slowly out of the room, the sound of metal the door cranking open at his sight. "Thanks for the chat. It was a cute try, at least".

[spnbabe67]

Fire Up The Night

Kinktober Day 30: Against The Wall (B.B.)

Pairing: Billy Butcher x Original Female Character

Warnings: Smut, Throw away character gets a little handsy, PiV, Sex in an Alley,

Summary: Butcher can't stand the sight of seeing Samarra flirt with someone else. But she isn't his, right?

Word Count: 2233

Authors Note: Title is the title of a song by New Medicine

I know I wrote something similar to this with my last Jake Seresin entry, but I what can I say? I'm a sucker for the possessive type, and I hopefully made this different enough to count. I also decided halfway through I could have written it another way, but by that point it was too late for me to go back and change it because I still had to study for an exam the next day.

Butcher was two seconds away from crushing the tumbler full of whiskey in his grasp. He didn’t know how long Samarra had been across the bar talking to a sleazy looking guy, a Supe high up in the Vought chain if the info they were given had any credibility. Not quite as god-like as one of the Seven, but definitely had enough clearance that if they managed to snatch the wanker, they could get some good intel off of him. But fuck, if he had to watch Samarra flirt with him for any longer, Butcher was gonna kill someone. The Supe, Steve or Tony or something, had her leaned back on her elbows against the bar, shooting her a thousand-watt grin, plying her with a seemingly endless supply of alcohol. Butcher could help the twinge of satisfaction he felt every time the Supe bought her some fruity little drink. At least I know what she likes.

Samarra, to her credit, seemed to hold her liquor well, holding out through the conversation like a champ. Maybe a little too well. Butcher gritted his teeth at the nagging thought. Her smile looked just a little too bright, laugh sounding a little too real for his liking. From his vantage point in the corner of the club, he could see the way Samarra didn’t balk from Tony/Steve’s hungry gaze devouring her body on display. Butcher had argued the dress made of gold-accented black gauzy material that hung off every curve and dip of her body was too damn revealing, but Annie had insisted, and Samarra had agreed with her. He knew she was stunning, but why choose that dress in particular; she could seduce a sworn celibate in a pair of week old sweats, she didn’t need all the makeup piled on her features or the glitz and glam. It was simply adding insult to injury.

The worst part was he knew he wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Wasn’t supposed to feel this raw and grating jealousy every time Samarra trailed her finger up the Supe’s arm. They were fuck buddies for fuck’s sake, not going steady. So all Butcher could do was watch on in silence, doing his best to keep his cool as she worked her magic, every tinkling laugh and featherlight touch on the poor sap’s arm, chest, shoulder, only pulling Tony/Steve further and further into her web of lies. Butcher should have been disturbed how easy this was for her, but instead it had the opposite effect. Maybe it was the atmosphere, the pounding music and flashing lights, mostly naked bodies grinding on the floors and poles, but he’d had to readjust his pants more than once watching her seduce Tony/Steve. 

After what Butcher deemed too damn long, Samarra’s gray eyes caught his, disappointment and anger ebbing over him at the subtlest shake of her head. Not necessarily at her, but at their informant for giving them wrong intel, wasting their time and needlessly putting them in danger. He’d definitely be killing somebody later. Maybe now, Butcher thought as Tony/Steve’s hand landed on Samarra’s waist. Way far past having enough, he downed the rest of his drink before weaving his way through the crowd.

Samarra kept the preformative smile plastered to her face, looking up at Steven beneath heavily lidded eyes, playing the drunken bimbo to a T. She had to stop herself from viscerally recoiling from his sweaty palm on her waist, feeling his humidity through the very delicate fabric of her dress. 

“Oi, cunt. You messin’ with me girl?”

That feeling of disdain and exasperation quickly faded as Butcher’s familiar accent came from her left. She had to bite her lip to keep from bursting into laughter as he muscled his way between her and Sleazen, as she’d named him in her head, Sleazen’s eyes going wide at the intimidating figure Butcher cut, immediately stepping off her. His familiar scent wafted over her, putting her nerves less on edge as they’d just been. She had full confidence she could drop Sleazen if she had to, but knowing she had back up only helped matters. 

“I’m alright, Baby.” Samarra turned to Butcher, feeling her heart pounding in her chest as she gave the quickest sidelong glance to the Not-Supe before passionately, and loudly, kissing Butcher, hoping he understood the angle she was playing.

He clearly got the message, big hands falling to her hips, replacing the same area where Sleazen had just had his own grip. After a second, Samarra peeked an eye open, checking to see if the coast was clear. When she saw Sleazen was nowhere to be seen, she pulled away taking a breath, giggling to herself.

“Holy shit was he a loser.” Samarra adjusted the strap of her dress, the satin strip having almost slipped off her shoulder. What she missed was the way Butcher’s dark gaze caught on the movement, pulling his attention back to her face. 

“I bet.” He guided her by the waist away from the bar and through the throng of people. “You can tell me and the others just as soon as we get back.” 

Samarra didn’t think too much about it when Billy led her out one of the side exits, the dark doorway leading into a small alleyway behind the club. The fresh air was welcomed, Samarra breathing it in deeply as the chill of the night sent a shiver down her spine. She damn near ran into Butcher’s back, her gaze skyward to look at the stars speckling the pitch black backdrop. 

“Butch, why’d you stop?” Samarra wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m freezin’ my tits off out here.”

Her brows furrowed as Butcher looked at her over his shoulder, turning around to face her. His pupils were blown wide and the way he was looking at her had heat pooling in her core. It was so different from the entitled gaze of Sleazen, this heated look was welcomed, encouraged even.

“What?” Samarra asked, laughing awkwardly as Butcher took a step towards her, making her step back. Or she would have had the cold stone of the brick wall hadn’t bit into her back, making her flinch at the harsh temperature contrast.

“Do you,” Butcher took another half step closer; if Samarra tilted her head up and leaned in just a little, their mouths would touch. “Have any idea, what you do to me.”

Samarra ran her tongue over her lips, her mouth parting open slightly as her breath hitched as he got closer. “I have an idea.”

All it took was Butcher dipping his head to capture her lips, kissing her deeply, sweeping his tongue into her mouth. Samarra let her eyes fall shut at the sensation of his mouth on hers, his body brushing up against her arms. He took hold of her wrist, unfurling her arms from around her body and a small noise escaped her as Butcher guided her hand down between their bodies to press her palm against the very obvious bulge in his jeans. 

“Alla that just from watchin ya work your magic on that sleazy cunt.” Butcher groaned against her skin, trailing his mouth down her jaw to her neck.

Samarra bit her lip, palming him through his jeans. “I think that says more about who you are as a man than it does about my skills.”

She felt him snort a laugh against her neck, nipping playfully at the junction of her neck and shoulder. Samarra tipped her head back against the wall, rolling her hips against the thigh he’d nudged between her legs, pinning her against the brick. Butcher’s hand slid up the outside of her thigh, teasing under the thin fabric of her dress, the hem having fallen about mid-thigh. A cheeky grin tipped the corners of her lips upward as Butcher cursed against her neck as his hands slid high enough on her thigh and hips to realize that she was not, in fact, wearing any panties. 

“Fuckin’ diabolical.” Butcher growled, kissing her harshly. “Gonna give this old man a heart attack pulling shit like this.” 

“Who said it was for you?” 

Butcher’s answering swat to the inside of her thigh had Samarra laughing breathily. The teasing was short lived as he palmed her ass, kneading the softness there before hoisting her upwards, wrapping her legs around his waist. The leather of his trench coat was cold against the bare skin of her legs, but the heat pooling between her legs more than made up for it, along with the warmth of his torso through his dress shirt

Samarra knew her arousal was soaking into the bottom of his shirt but she couldn’t find it in her to care as Butcher’s hip chased her hand as she deftly undid his belt and the button of his jeans. His beard chafed at the side of her neck as he worked to kiss and suck dark marks into her skin, his hand coming up to knead her breasts through her dress He groaned deeply, the sound reverberating into her body when as he went to kiss her, Samarra brought her hand to her mouth, licking her palm wrapping it around his length, pumping her hand up and down him loosely as she pulled him free from his clothes. He bucked his hips against her hand, rutting his cock through her fingers as she guided him to her center. 

They both groaned as the head of him slid inside of her. Butcher leaned in, reclaiming her mouth. Samarra’s desperate moans lived and died on his tongue as he slid in and in until his hips sat flush against her. Butcher slid back out, almost all the way, before slamming back in, making her cry out, the sound swallowed by his mouth. Again and again he rocked his hips back just to slam back in, driving her into the wall. Samarra could feel the roughness of the brick at her back digging into her skin, scraping and scratching every time he bottomed out with a sharp thrust. 

Samarra slid her hands up and down his torso, trying to find someplace to steady herself against the onslaught of harsh thrusts, ending up on his shoulders. She rolled her hips back against him, keeping up with his punishing rhythm the best she could. Her head goes hazy at his seemingly omnipresent existence; he’s around her, he's inside her, even as her breaths grew into ragged pants she breathed in his scent. Butcher’s lips migrated back down her jaw, ending up on her neck as he braced a hand on the wall beside her head. 

“Fuck, Mara.” Butcher mumbled, nearly inaudibly, and Samarra wondered if his utterance was meant to be incoherent as he continued. “I shouldn’t be jealous. You aren’t even mine.”

Samarra bit her lip hard as the revelation was punctuated with a harsh thrust, his movements becoming more uneven, snapping up into her harder and harder until she started to see stars behind her eyes. Samarra clung to him as that coil in her belly grew tighter, her thighs starting to go lazy around his waist. Butcher came with a string of curses into her shoulder, hips stuttering, gripping her thigh to keep it in place on his side. Samarra rolled her hips against him, garnering the friction of his still-on pants against his clit to supplement the change in rhythm. He continued to fuck into her until her inner walls squeezed around him, a keening moan falling from her lips as she came.

Butcher pulled away just enough as they both panted harshly in the post-climax high. He helped set her back down on her feet, holding onto his arm since her legs were still shaky. Samarra straightened the skirt of her dress back down her legs, running a thumb under her lip to swipe away her smeared lipstick. 

“You got-” Butcher gestured to her mouth as she did.

“Here?” She rubbed a different spot.

“No, a little more over-not that far.” Butcher huffed at her before grabbing her wrist. “Just, let me get it.”

Samarra stood still as Butcher reached up, dragging his thumb along the side of her lip, his minstations gentle as he removed her smudged lipstick before pulling his hand away. 

“Thanks.” She said quietly, suppressing a shiver as the loss of heat reminded her just how cold it was outside. “Shall we. I’m sure M.M. and the others are thinkin’ we got ourselves into trouble.”

Butcher nodded, gesturing for her to walk ahead of him around the back of the building. Samarra flinched when as they rounded the corner with the parking lot in sight, something warm encased her shoulders. Butcher’s cologne filled her nose as she realized it was his trench coat, patched many times over and warm, that he’d plunked down on her shoulders. She looked up at him with pinched brows, but his only reply was a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. Samarra opened her mouth to say something, anything. Maybe address what he’d muttered into her body minutes before. But in the end she shut it, chalking it up to the heat of the moment; it wasn’t like she knew how to broach the subject if it wasn’t anyway. Instead she stayed silent, sliding into Butcher’s car as he pointed the headlights back to the apartment.

[richea]

[Translation] Kratos of the Expiation: Chapter 1 parts 2-3

This update brings us to page 28/317. As I mentioned in my prior post, please think of this as a first draft translation. Starting with this post, I'll be linking to a playthrough (both dubbed and subbed) for those who wish to watch along to the corresponding game cutscenes as they read. Dubbed / Subbed (video picks the wrong choice, here's the choice in Japanese)

Chapter 1: Part 2 of 6

It has been 15 years since Kratos last descended onto earth.

Long ago, Kratos betrayed Cruxis and defected from the organization. He had since then rejoined Yggdrasill’s side, but only on the condition that he wouldn’t be allowed to descend onto earth as he pleased.

Northwest of the Tower of Salvation lies an area thick with trees. Along the shoreline, at the foot of a small mountain, a village can be seen. It’s Iselia, which was known to be the headquarters for the Church of Martel. This is the place Kratos set off to visit.

The entire world has its watchful eye on Iselia. This is due to the fact that the Chosen One was born within its hold, of whom would set off on the Journey of World Regeneration, saving the world from destruction. On the Chosen’s 16th birthday, she is to receive the oracle from an angel of Cruxis and set off on her journey. Today is that very day.

Thinking of the phrase “World Regeneration” brought back harsh memories for Kratos. It was as if a pain pierced his heart. However, there was nothing Kratos could do at this point. He had become completely void of any way to fight against Mithos. In a way, maybe that was for the best. Even if the path there wasn’t pretty, so long as the world would be regenerated, then―

The sound of people fighting grated Kratos’ ears the second he looked at the plateau to his left. He has a heightened sense of hearing. The range of which he can pick up sounds is expanded, and he is able to hear things with clarity that are not normally able to be processed by the human ear. The same is true for his vision. By focusing his attention on something, he is able to see things far away, down to their very texture. Thanks to this, he’s able to tell that there’s a rather intense battle happening atop the plateau.

Kratos took a deep breath before spreading a radiant blueish-white light from behind his back. It glistened and swayed, like the shimmer of hot air. Protruding from his back were wings of condensed mana which allow him to fly. A circulation of his bodily mana takes form and is expended from his body in the form of radiation.

Kratos’ body lifted into the air, and he beelined it towards the plateau. Below him, he could see a cluster of corpses spread about. They were all priests of the Church of Martel. It seems a scandal unbefitting the Day of Prophecy has taken place here.

Atop the plateau lies the Martel Temple. A fight was breaking out there. Kratos landed at the base of the plateau without a sound, put his wings away, and dashed up the stairs towards the temple.

What he found in front of the temple was a band of infiltrators that seemed familiar, and a group of kids who were picking a fight with them. It was immediately clear to him that the kids were at the disadvantage.

“Man, this guy is really tough!”

One of the boys had floundered about in his stance, and the enemy took advantage of that. The giant man he was fighting was swinging around an iron ball above his head, and brought it down to strike the boy.

In the nick of time, Kratos put himself in between the iron ball and the boy, unsheathing his sword to strike at the weapon. He cut the chain that held the ball in a flash, rendering the weapon useless.

“Huh? Who are you?”

“Get out of the way.”

Kratos ordered the boy to stay put and closed the gap between himself and his opponent. He leaped towards him and thrusted the tip of his sword towards the man’s throat.

“Are you the rats I was told to exterminate?”

“Rgh...”

The large man froze and awkwardly turned his gaze towards his superior. That was enough of an answer for him. Without hesitation, Kratos plunged his sword deep into the man’s neck, and then pulled the blade out as he kicked his body backwards. Using the recoil he hopped back, as a rain of blood poured onto the spot he had just been standing.

“I never thought you’d show up.” The man’s superior stood on the other side of the pool of blood, glaring at Kratos. “Retreat for now!”

At that order, all of the soldiers left in a hustle. The remaining survivors carried the corpses of their fallen allies and skillfully scampered down the stairs of the plateau. Kratos shook his sword to fling the blood off of it and sheathed it.

I see, so it’s just as I heard. This Chosen is a perfect match. That must be why the “rats” are making their move.

As the enemies dispersed, the children who had been discouraged all of a sudden perked up. He kept his back turned to the teenagers who were being their typical, noisy selves, and an old woman approached him. He could feel an air of refinement from her. He could immediately tell she wasn’t just any ordinary old lady.

“How can I ever thank you for saving the Chosen?”

At this, Kratos turned his head to look at the children. The silver-haired one seemed to be in his early teens. He used magic during the battle, so he must be either an elf or a half-elf―Kratos found the latter more likely. He felt something off about the boy in the red outfit, but it was probably nothing to worry about. In any case, both of them are boys, so it’s not either of them. The Chosen of Regeneration would be a girl.

“...I see. So this girl is the next Chosen.”

Kratos shifted his gaze towards the blond-haired girl, who the two boys were guarding. When the girl met his gaze, she seemed startled for a second, but then innocently smiled at him. He wondered if she was aware of the fate set before her. Kratos frowned, and the girl’s face suddenly lit up.

“That’s right! I have to go accept the oracle!” The girl rushed over to the old woman, continuing on with a dignified voice. “Grandmother, I’m going to undergo the trial now.”

“What trial?” asked the boy in the red outfit.

“The monsters, I assume. An evil presence radiates from inside this chapel.”

He wasn’t lying. The temple was normally under a holy presence, but he could sense monsters lurking about. Since Kratos was pretending to be a mercenary, he figured flaunting this knowledge might prove useful. He needed to show off a little so they’d let him guard the Chosen.

As expected, the old woman seemed impressed by his analysis and turned to face him.

“Yes, that is correct. The Chosen is to receive judgment from heaven. But the priests that were to accompany her fell at the hands of the Desians.”

Kratos’ mouth twitched at the word “Desian.” I see, so the rats are doing a good job at hiding who they really are. But what good would killing the priests do if they just left the Chosen alive anyway? It seems like their leader’s habit of never being able to do anything right rubbed off on his subordinates.

“Then I’ll take on the job of protecting Colette.”

All of a sudden, the boy in the red outfit cut in between Kratos and the old woman. So the Chosen’s name is Colette. Kratos couldn’t believe how ridiculous the request the boy made was. He was probably self-taught, but the way he wielded his dual blades was hard to watch. Kids can really have way too much confidence sometimes.

“Lloyd? ...I would be uneasy with just you.”

Hearing this, Kratos’ entire body jumped. He whipped his head around to look at Lloyd, this time really studying his features.

The image of his lost baby son popped into his head. It was as if the memories he had tried so hard to bury came bursting out the door of his recollections.

Fifteen years ago, he had a family. It was him, his dearest wife Anna, and their son, Lloyd.

But his son is dead. By all means, he should be dead. He was 3 at the time, and had he survived, he would be the same age as the boy he sees here, but...

“Your name is Lloyd?”

“Yeah, but who are you to ask for my name?”

Lloyd gave Kratos a sharp look.

Fifteen years had passed since then. There’s no way he’d know for sure. Children grow fast, and their faces totally change. And Lloyd was only 3 at the time; there’s no way he’d even remember him. Really, he had no proof that this boy was his son, Lloyd.

As if to escape Lloyd’s gaze, Kratos turned back to the old woman. His mission took priority right now.

“...I am Kratos, a mercenary. As long as you can pay me, I’ll accept the job of guarding the Chosen.”

The old lady sighed and nodded.

“...Under the circumstances, I have little choice. Please be of service.”

“It’s a deal, then.”

Kratos nodded back at her. That was a relief. Now he could guard the Chosen. That’s the most he could do. He started walking alongside the Chosen, Colette.

“W-Wait! I’m going, too!”

Lloyd ran after them.

“Lloyd, you’ll only get in the way. Be a good boy and wait here.”

Hearing Kratos’ rejection, Lloyd’s face bubbled with anger.

“What did you say?!”

“Did I not make myself clear? You’re a burden. Go home.”

As if to prevent Lloyd from running his mouth further, the Chosen, Colette piped in.

“Um... Mr. Kratos, would it be okay to take Lloyd along, too?”

“But...”

“Please. I get nervous when Lloyd’s not around.”

There was a warm smile behind Colette’s words, and Kratos sighed. He figured the Chosen always stuck up for Lloyd like this. Well, it’s not like the monsters in the temple were that bad anyway.

“...Do as you wish.”

Kratos said this with his back turned to them and made his way towards the temple’s entrance. World regeneration can’t even begin until the first trial is cleared. And the Renegades will likely become a hindrance along the way. He really wanted to get this first trial over with, quickly.

“...Let’s go, Genis!”

“What?! I’m going, too?!”

“Of course!”

Kratos heard Lloyd and the silver-haired boy―Genis, apparently―bickering behind him.

He let out another sigh. Such a bustle brought back some memories of long, long ago.

“This isn’t a field trip, you know.”

While trying to conceal how pleased he was at the nostalgia he was experiencing from overhearing them, Kratos entered the temple.

Chapter 1: Part 3 of 6

The base of Cruxis, Derris-Kharlan, is a massive comet. The central part of the comet houses the residential area, Welgaia, as well as Vinheim, Mithos’ castle. It is rumored that a part of the facilities are recycled from when the ancient elves lived there, but the details are not fully made clear. Even among the Angel Class, only a tiny portion know the truth behind it, so there is no way that Pronyma―who is of the Desian Class―would know about it.

Holding such a massive celestial body in place above the earth would normally be impossible. What makes the impossible possible is a sword known as the Eternal Sword, which the Summon Spirit Origin gifted to Yggdrasill. This sword is capable of manipulating both space and time, so Yggdrasill used it to both split the world in two as well as hold Derris-Kharlan in place. Pronyma admires him, honoring him as such a magnificent person.

Though “respect” on its own doesn’t convey the magnitude of the feelings she holds towards him. Perhaps “affection” or even “yearning” fits the bill better. She finds Yggdrasill so awe-inspiring, and even finds herself attracted to him.

Half-elves are viewed as heretics just for existing. Humans fear them for their outstanding powers, while elves abhor them for having human blood. Among all of the people who live on earth, half-elves are considered the race that nobody loves; they’re considered the people in the middle, and are oppressed.

Pronyma was once a victim of such oppression. She was ridiculed, abused, and recruited as a weapon for battle due to her abilities. Had Yggdrasill not saved her from such a fate, she likely would have met her end on the battlefield, never seen as more than a weapon. Yggdrasill is a savior in Pronyma’s eyes, and he is her hero for trying to make a world for half-elves to live in. She would do anything if it meant helping him. Being used by him is enough to make her happy.

Pronyma is currently working as one of the Five Grand Cardinals, which commands over the Desian Class.

Cruxis is made up of two classes: the Angel Class, who are given hi-Exspheres―Cruxis Crystals, and the Desian Class, who are given regular Exspheres instead. The Desians operate to terrorize the people while the angels instill an offering of peace to them via spreading the word of the Church of Martel. Between the both of them, they have full control over the hearts of mankind.

Those in the Desian Class are given all sorts of jobs. They always operate in the declining world. By doing so, the people in the declining world will pray for salvation, while the people in the prospering world will fear their eventual decline. This setup ensures that both worlds turn their prayers to and rely on the Church of Martel.

Just recently, the Tower of Salvation appeared in the declining world, Sylvarant, marking the beginning of World Regeneration. Though describing it as “appearing” is a tad misleading―the tower is always there, it’s just hidden behind a sort of shield so that people in the declining world can’t see it. To ensure that the two separated worlds aren’t sucked up into the dimensional rift between them, there are two points in which the worlds hold contact with one another. One of these is the Tower of Salvation. The top of the Tower of Salvation is connected to Derris-Kharlan, and it’s used to allow the angels and the Desians to communicate with one another.

What made the tower visible is that Sylvarant's Chosen of Regeneration had embarked on her journey to become Martel’s vessel. Pronyma needs to hold a meeting with an administrator in Welgaia in order to move the Desian Class into action. This is just a practice that’s held every time a Journey of Regeneration begins, but to Pronyma, it means something more. It’s an exciting time, where she is able to closer visit the place where Yggdrasill resides.

Pronyma used the transporter to teleport from the Tower of Salvation to Welgaia. However, the angel that was normally there to give her the order was nowhere to be found.

“I was under the impression I was to receive orders from Lord Kratos.”

Pronyma inquired this to the gatekeepers by the teleporter, and one of them replied to her.

“Lord Kratos is currently on Sylvarant on a mission. I regret to inform you that you will not be able to meet with him.”

“Lord Kratos is down on Sylvarant?!”

Pronyma couldn’t help her face from warping with fury.

“What is the meaning of this? He is a traitor, who defected from us 70 years ago. Mi... Lord Yggdrasill may have forgiven him, but to think he would be permitted to go down to earth!”

“Not another word, Pronyma.”

“...I know. It is not my place as one in the Desian Class to speak poorly of one of the Four Seraphim.”

Still, Pronyma couldn’t accept this. Sylvarant was where Kratos fled to when he betrayed Cruxis so long ago. When he was eventually accepted back into Derris-Kharlan, he was forbidden from going back down there.

Pronyma never liked Kratos. He’s the only human among the Angel Class. Him being a human was irritating enough, but he’d also taken advantage of Yggdrasill’s trust and betrayed him without warning. He disapproved of the Age of Lifeless Beings and left the organization. In the end, all he’d accomplished was finding a lover, having a child and playing make-believe at having a family. All he did was run away from reality. The damage he did to Yggdrasill from his silly game of playing house was immeasurable. Pronyma saw his suffering up close, and due to this, she started to seriously distrust Kratos.

“Pronyma. The messenger has arrived.”

A gatekeeper called to her and Pronyma turned to look at the central part of Welgaia. Amidst the soulless looking angels silently floating about, she saw a messenger angel headed her way. But it wasn’t one of Kratos’ messengers. Based on the color of the band on the arm, it was one of Yggdrasill’s.

“On Lord Yggdrasill’s orders?!”

The unexpected development had Pronyma’s heart pounding out of her chest, and she took a deep breath to calm herself.

Pronyma wasn’t in a position that allowed her to see Yggdrasill very often. The last time she had seen him was when Kratos shamelessly came back 15 years ago.

Pronyma was determined to not let Yggdrasill suffer like that again, and she vowed to do whatever it took to ensure that.

[bluemerakis]

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

❝ i'm not going anywhere ❞

part ii/iii

read part i here

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem!supe!reader — how they met

warnings .ᐟ cussing, mild angst, mild harassment of reader via side character, described violence (nothing intense), reader being a baddie (as she should), fluff, spanking, pet names. lmk if I forgot any! :))

synopsis ─ as you make all the preparations for tonight’s plan to flee the russian compound, you run into trouble that forces you to confront your supe nature. the boys arrive shortly after to help you free ben, where you discover that he has a new, deadly power. unresolved tension forces yourself and ben to split from the rest of the group and find your own way out.

word count ~ 15.9k (i'm SO sorry)

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From the sidelines of the testing room, you watched with wistful eyes as the heavily armed guards streamed inside and fanned around Ben’s entrapped figure. He put on a display for them, writhing between the chains and hurling out all manner of insults to convey his disdain of the Russians. You knew the emotions were true, only more dramatised for the sake of make-belief; it was any other day, not the last.

Through the planned commotion, Ben slipped you a discreet glance, and you caught the slightest dip of his chin before his head was forcibly pressed against the table by one of the guards. Your heart ached at the sight of his fully-pinned figure, more guards streaming in through the door and swarming about him like an exploded hornet’s nest on the prowl for its next victim. One of the braver men came up to press an arm across your boyfriend’s neck and slapped an oxygen mask over his flaring nose and mouth, then with a single flick of the mechanism, Novichok gas streamed into the chamber.

As the nerve agent buffeted Ben’s unwilling airways, the guards had to fix his head in place with great effort as the Supe attempted to dislodge the mask with grunts of protest. His lungs were desperate to reject the debilitating gas with strong fits of coughing, but his effort was to no avail.

You watched as the Supe’s frantic movements began to dwindle, the anger framing his eyes softening with his wilting glare. He blinked many times to try and fight off the haze, but it consumed him entirely— finally stilling him into a docile puppet. His eyes lolled to the back of his head, his lids clamping shut to preserve his dignity while the clatter of chains against the steel table settled at last.

And just like that, the super-abled, invincible brute that was Soldier Boy had been subdued.

The guards held their formation for a few seconds longer, the mask suffocating half of Ben’s face emitting the last of its gas for good measure. Once they were certain that he was asleep, they slowly began to release their hold on him, the oxygen mask removed from his face. The last guard to go was the one still holding Ben’s limp head, and when he was given the go ahead, he released it without a care, causing it to topple to the side to face you.

You grimaced at the lack of respect they showed his comatose form—yeah, he was extremely short of a saint, but he was still a person, one who’d been subjected to years of torture and experiments that should have killed him at any point. If there was anything that could’ve warranted some ounce of respect, you’d have settled for that fact alone. But you couldn’t have much of a say in the matter when he was only supposed to be your experiment.

Besides, in your line of work, you’d be speaking from the place of a fucking hypocrite—what’s a little rough handling compared to repeatedly stabbing poisoned needles into his arm, just hoping it doesn’t kill him?

Taking in a deep breath, you lifted your chin slightly with a great effort to appear unfazed by the entire ordeal. You couldn’t help drinking in Ben’s expressionless features, though, noting that for the first time since you’d known him, he looked almost peaceful. You hoped that he was—that he’d been swept into some or other dream to help him pass the time of this dull, inhumane routine. You recalled the dream he’d told you about only an hour earlier, the one where’d you’d both been an entangled mess within his bed.

Despite the crude way he’d painted the picture, it had been a rather fond milestone in your relationship. It was the first time Ben had found it in himself to man up—as ironic as that sounded—and admit with his own two lips that he loved you.

You walled off your thoughts as the head guard appeared at your side, your attention shifting to where they brought in a rolling table and lined it up beside the operating table. You watched as the guards slowly began to undo the chains wreathed around Ben’s sleeping figure.

“Did everything go smoothly?” The head guard asked, his voice muffled beneath his all black ensemble. His shoulder lined up beside yours as he turned to watch Ben’s unloading beside you.

You heaved a subtle sigh through your nose, head fixed forward as you watched them shovel your boyfriend’s body onto the rolling table with a spiteful lack of care. Not having the energy to speak, you offered a mere nod.

Thankfully, your response was satisfactory enough, the guard returning your nod before he left your side to bring up the rear of the patrol rolling Ben toward the exit. The Supe’s arm was dangled over the side of the table, and your eyes latched onto the plaster you’d placed before he was moved through the doorway and the sight was ripped from view.

But the image lingered in your mind. Never again would you have to place another plaster—or needle—in his arm. Come tonight, there’d be no need to because you’d both be free of this rotten hellhole.

The testing room became eerily quiet as you were left alone to bathe in your emotional haze. There were a few routinely things you’d have to do before tonight’s escape. You glanced over your shoulder at the case you’d left on table, the one that had born the experimental compound you’d injected into Ben. It was standard procedure to return the case to the experimental lab following each session, along with completing a written log about the process—vitals, patient response, any hiccups in the administration.

You were tempted to forsake it all out of spite. A harsh scolding and beating for failure to comply would matter little if you weren’t here to receive the punishment. But you knew you couldn’t risk the extra attention of getting caught in misconduct—couldn’t let your emotions get the best of you when there was so much riding on your role in tonight’s plan. So you held your breath, not without scorn, and marched over to collect the case before leaving the room without so much as a last glance back.

There was no detail worth remembering about that place—if anything, you hoped its image would fade within short time.

The day was still young. With far too much time to kill, you’d fulfilled your duties by returning all the equipment to its due place. You’d been in and out of almost every room of the compound, where you’d made a point to start discreetly packing a branded corporate backpack you’d nicked from the clothing and gear room. You’d begun loading it with necessary supplies—a first aid kit, medication, clothing, even managing to procure a set of burner phones for yourself and Ben.

Throughout it all, you’d kept your pace brisk to minimise interactions with the far too chatty employees of the establishment. The last thing you needed was to get caught in conversation with a loaded and somewhat illegal backpack in clutch.

To wrap up your tedious responsibilities of the day, you were bent over one of the tables in the compound’s common room, logging all the details of your session into the designated book. The bitter aroma of filter coffee hung in the air, which you breathed in with eager appreciation. As much as this place sucked, the coffee had always been good—great, even. There’d been a pot brewing before you entered the room, and you only hoped that the person who’d put it on wouldn’t return while you were still around.

The backpack was laid between your feet as you scribbled away busily, keeping the details of your time with Ben as subtle and concise as possible. Your hand dragged along the paper to terminate the log with your signature, and just as you set the pen down with a tired sigh, a heavyset pair of boots pounded into the room.

Your heart seized on the spot with a heartfelt fuck.

“Hey, you,” an all too familiar voice greeted.

You glanced over your shoulder to confirm the worst of your suspicions, where you were faced with the guard that’d gotten into a spat with Ben. He had the beginning of light bruising all around his nose that had bloomed up the route of his sinuses, light purple crescents propping up both his eyes. You had to fashion great restraint to avoid grimacing at the sight. You were surprised he’d walk around with such a visual admittance of defeat in the first place, as opposed to signing off early and hiding out at home until the bruising wore off.

“Oh—hey,” you pushed out tensely, turning your body to fully face him before leaning your backside against the table. You crossed your one leg in front of the other and used your furthermost heel to try and slide your backpack beneath the table, bidding internal prayers that his attention wouldn’t stray to your restless movements. “Finishing off your shift?” You asked, eager to hold his attention.

The guard must’ve noticed your gaze lingering on his bruises for a few seconds too long because he dragged a hasty palm over his face before cradling the back of his neck out of hot embarrassment.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he insisted. “I’ve always been a big bleeder and bruiser—my mother used to tease me about it when I was a little boy, always falling and scraping my knees. I used to look like I’d come back from a war,” he laughed behind an almost expectant stare, so you forced a chuckle to entertain his babbling.

He took a step toward you, and there was far too little space between your bodies for your liking. “Anyways. . . would you, uh, maybe like to have a coffee with me? There’s enough in the pot for two, and I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. It should be done soon.”

You glanced over your shoulder at the brewing pot in the corner of the room, then turned back to him with a polite smile. “I appreciate that, but not tonight. It’s been a long day, to say the least. I really just need to get home and crawl into bed.”

With another smile, you leaned your hands against the table, fingers beginning to tap at the wood impatiently. Get the fuck out of here already, you groaned internally, ankle feeling at the fabric of your backpack.

During work hours in the compound, no employee was allowed to carry around baggage. It was a safety precaution to ensure no items would be stolen. All baggage had to be checked in and out at the front desks, where the guards—guards like him—would do a thorough search to ensure nobody had nicked anything time-worthy. And then the baggage would be checked into a personal locker for the entire day until closing time.

Nothing coming in, nothing going out.

The only exception is the branded backpack you currently carried, which was often used to transport equipment between rooms of the compound. But they were typically reserved for the technician assistants—as is their job to lug around equipment for the more important personnel. And you had no business carrying one around at this hour of the day, anyway—most of the employees would’ve already signed off and headed home with no further work to pursue.

It made you suspicious, to say the least. Getting caught with supplies like medication and burner phones would warrant you a one-way ticket to a good beating. There would be no passable excuse you could pluck from the depths of your ass to cover yourself against that.

You needed to get out of here. Now.

The guard looked briefly offended by your rejection, but was quick to blink away the expression before lifting a hand to wipe his nose incredulously.

“Okay—yeah, of course,” he sniffed, briefly glancing off to the side. When he turned to look at you again, he crossed his arms as he did a sweep over your figure. “Well, shouldn’t you be off, then? You seem pretty comfortable, unless you’re not in a rush to get home to a boyfriend?”

You could have scoffed at his transparency, but with a man like him, you doubted that he’d take it well, and you had no idea whether anyone would be around to hear you scream. Not that you had real reason to be afraid—you were a Supe well within her abilities to protect herself. Only, very few in the establishment still knew that. You’d been around for far too long, watching as other employees came and went with the years while you remained tethered by emotional obligation. A done deal. Love.

Besides, you liked to keep your business on the down-low, it was safer that way. Most of the employees here were as anti-Supe as most of the world—and why wouldn’t they be? This entire operation was quite literally founded on experimenting on the super-abled. There was no remorse, or love for Supes to be found here.

You tried to pass a nonchalant shrug. “I guess I’m not in a rush,” you admitted tensely, extra hyperaware of the backpack you’d now managed to successfully push beneath the table.

The guard took another step closer, now directly towering over you. “Then you could stay for that coffee, yeah?” He prompted, his voice low and dripping with distasteful intent. “No boyfriend to get back to, right?” He added more softly, teeth flashing with a lewd grin. You caught his eyes flickering down to your lips.

No way in fucking hell. Standing a little taller, you returned his gaze firmly. “No, thanks,” you reiterated, holding your ground as he glared you down. You refused to be intimidated by him; he’d have to know that, too.

The guard looked eerily thoughtful. “All right,” he relented, but his cornering position didn’t falter. “Just one last thing, though. . .” He trailed off with a smugness that tugged at your patience. You knew he was playing some sort of twisted game, and he wanted you to take your turn.

“What’s that?” You pushed out disinterestedly. You expected that he’d try and find some other angle to knead that would get you to relent to his harassment. But what he said next was far from expected, your body seizing on the spot as your heart plummeted to the depths of your chest.

“You think I didn’t notice that little bag you’ve been sneaking around the entire day?”

Your breathing became shallow, and you couldn’t do anything but watch as the guard bent his head to creep his lips close to your ear.

“I’ve been watching you all day.” His breath was hot against your chilled skin, setting off your instinct to flee. “Now, I could be asking you what you need all of those things for. . .” His hands came to trap your body on either side of the table. “Or, we could come to a little agreement, and I’ll let your little rule-breaker slip, hm?”

You craned your head away from his lips, turning to face him with a scorching frown. “Get the fuck off of me,” you spat lowly.

The guard looked mildly amused. “Or what?” He challenged.

Without replying, you lifted your hand from the table, palm facing skywards as your fingers began to curl with malicious intent. The guard’s attention flickered down to witness your gesture with clear confusion etched across his battered face—but the confusion was quickly turned to panic as your fingers began to draw into a slow first, and the Supe that you’d buried deep within you all those years ago began to resurface.

At the will of your fist, you watched the vessels of his eyes begin to thicken—gutters of red paving way through his pearly sclera until it struck his dark pupils, causing them to dilate uncontrollably with each passing second. His throat began to strain, the air in his passages thinning into non-existence until he could do nothing but splutter and gag on his empty lungs. The warm colour in his lips began to drain into a lifeless shade of blue, matching the veins that rose along his neck and face like prominent ant trails.

And then his strength began to falter.

The guard staggered backwards and fell to his knees, hands flying to grapple at his throat in desperation, as though he could grab ahold of the oxygen currently fleeing every cell of his body and hold it hostage for his exploitation—to continue fuelling his pathetic, abominable existence.

You pushed yourself from the table with your remaining hand, bending over briefly to snatch up your backpack before stringing it over your shoulder. Your other hand was drawn into a fist so tight that your skin began to whiten, almost rivalling the shade of pale that the guard currently wore. And you didn’t relent as you closed in on him, not even when you felt the first trail of blood flee your nostrils, and tasted the acrid, iron tang along the walls of your throat.

The guard glanced up at your approaching figure through bloodshot eyes, his expression a primal fear that only a situation of life or death could coax from you. The veins tracing his entire body became so prominent that they could’ve exploded with a single flick of your finger—and you were tempted.

You came to a stop directly before his pathetic form, not bothering to stoop to his level as you spoke. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” You taunted. “Hypoxia—the very oxygen in your body slipping away until all your systems begin to shut down—slowly, in agonising sequence.”

You began to prowl a circle around his dwindling stature for dramatic effect as you pressed on.

“First, your brain’s cells will die, and you’ll become all confused and disoriented until you’re as dumb as a fucking vegetable. Your heart is the next to go, taking everything down with it. And then, your lungs will start to fail, forcing you to breath deeper and deeper with the desperation to latch onto a single breath. . . but no matter how hard you try, I just won’t allow the air back in. It’s excruciating—” you paused as you watched his body begin to rock with violent convulsions, “—but I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”

You circled back to the front of his body, drinking in his frail effort to stay upright through the spasms—desperate to preserve what pitiful sense of pride he still possessed. You tilted your head mockingly, the first trail of blood fleeing your nose to splatter onto your shirt.

“And do you know what the best part is?” You continued scathingly. “There’s not a damn thing you can do about it—not when it comes to me. All you can do is watch. . . and die.”

Foam began to spill at the corners of the guard’s mouth, his eyes so comically red that it felt like an enactment of the rage he currently bore you—and the sentiment pulled through in his furrowed brows and twisted snarl. You could see the disgust in his expression—a look that practically screamed fucking filthy Supe. Rather a Supe than a rabid fucking animal—and he’d been rabid way before this attack.

“Word of advice,” you pushed on—not that he’d live to follow it. “Maybe don’t fuck with the hand that controls the very air you breathe.”

With a single, thorough jerk of your first, you heard the distinct pop of flesh as you tore through the walls of his organs, the tissues deflating into his sure death. Suddenly, all his movements halted, and there was a single, detestable glint in his eyes before they glazed over with a lifeless stare. His hands toppled to his sides, acting as a domino effect that sent his soulless body to the floor with a hard thud.

You glared at his corpse for a few seconds, the fist you’d held onto finally releasing to reveal leaking, red crescents carved into your palm’s flesh. Trails of blood streamed from your nose and into the hard line your lips had pressed into. You swept your tongue along the flesh to clear it away, swallowing back the thick clotting in your throat. You lifted your aching fist to wipe away the blood trickling from your nose, your lips falling loose to exhale softly.

It’d been years since you’d channelled your abilities, and to such an extreme extent, no less. You felt the way your body trembled, your own breath falling slightly short with the beginning of fatigue, but exhilaration kept your jittery legs firmly rooted. It felt good to tear through that wretched man—and you knew that it shouldn’t have, but it did. It felt. . . powerful.

In all the years you’d been trapped here, you’d had anything but power. Every aspect of your life had been controlled by the Russians, and you’d had no choice other than to be swept along with their will. Your gaze dragged back to the guard’s corpse.

But not anymore, you affirmed silently. Not anymore.

With a single, disdainful sniff, you stepped over the guard’s lifeless body, leaving his shredded flesh to drown within the puddle he’d bled.

You made for the room’s exit, and behind you, the pot of brewed coffee let out a shrill whistle.

ミ☬彡

In the holding room, you were leaned against the tank that currently hosted Ben’s sleeping form. The steel was warm against your back as it whirred with all the mechanisms trapping him in a steady sleep, and you had to shift a couple of times to prevent the burning of your skin. The heat soothed your goosebumps, but did little to settle the nagging anxiety within.

An hour had passed. More like twenty rough minutes—but it had felt like ages since you’d left that guard’s body in the common room and made a hasty beeline for this hold. It was already moon-high—most of the employees would have long since called it a day and gone home. So the chances of the guard’s body being discovered at this time were low—you knew this. Yet you kept waiting for that door to come toppling down, armed forces streaming in to beat you onto your knees and make you a live experiment alongside Ben. If you’d survive their outrage to begin with.

Besides you, the only other souls currently roaming the property were all banished to the outskirts, doing perimeter checks and walking tedious lines to ensure nobody would be getting in—or out of this compound. No employee had the reason or desire to stay in the building past closing time, so there was no need for the guards to do a last sweep within before setting up the nighttime perimeter.

Fatal flaw, in your humble, biased opinion.

But your eyes had been glued to that entrance for so long that you could still see the door carved into the darkness behind your lids every time you blinked. Your arms were crossed against your chest as you waited, as if to cradle your unsteady heartbeat, while your index finger ticked away busily at your bicep.

Shortly after arriving here, you’d taken a second to tend to and bandage the hand you’d unintentionally bled raw during your fit. Your palm still ached with the memory of your furious grip, but you tightened your hold on your arm in the desperate attempt to numb the area into painless submission. It didn’t budge.

Eventually, you found it in yourself to tear your gaze away from the door, your head buckling to take in the view of the floor. You caught a glimpse of the blood stain in your shirt. Almost as if that had reminded your body to pay you the repercussions for overexerting your abilities, you felt a light trial of blood trickle from your nose. Your bandaged hand flew up to catch the red droplets, and you held your fist against your nostrils for a few seconds to absorb the rest of the clot.

You gave a hard exhale through your lips, your patience wearing thin with both your weakened body and the anticipative wait. You dropped your hand back to your side, still feeling the faint, sticky glaze of blood within your nostrils. But you ignored it, almost hoping your body would grow bored with punishing you and ease off for a while—just until The Boys broke you and Ben out of here.

You had no idea when they would arrive. The initial phone call that had started this entire ordeal hadn’t exactly been detailed—it was more of a quick in and out—instructions first, questions later call. And oh, the ambiguity of the plan drove you insane.

On the other side of the room, you heard the scrabble of Jamie’s nails against his glass enclosure. That wretched hamster had seen better days. You figured he was the sort of pet Ben could get along with—if their shared trauma of being experimented on was reason enough to bond.

Suddenly, a heavy clank sounded against the door of the main entrance, which instantly plucked you from your thoughts and had you drawn into a defensive position before you could process the entire situation. Another loud clunk rattled the steel, then another. It sounded like the adrenaline currently pumping your heart to an all time high.

Whoever was behind that door didn’t sound passive. Your paranoia got the best of you as you imagined Russians guards waiting to storm the room. Had somebody found the guard’s murdered body and alerted the nighttime patrol? You knew you should have done a last sweep of the compound before hightailing it toward the hold—perhaps you’d missed an employee, and now you’d have to pay for leaving a loose end uncut.

The door finally relented with one last thud, and it gave a low, trembling creak as it slowly descended to the floor—the scene so cinematically dramatic. It landed with a deafening clunk, a dust cloud exploding to conceal the doorway. You waited tensely, expecting to see the Russians stream through with defences ablaze at any second.

So, this is it, you ridiculed silently. This is how I go out. A bitter smile spread your lips. What had all these years—all the suffering been for, if not to pave way for a happy ending? Did you and Ben not deserve it, after everything?

Tsk. Fate, thou art a heartless bitch.

But the first man to step through the haze was tall and heavyset with dark, messy hair and a thick beard—but most importantly, lacking a guard’s uniform entirely. The sight laid your internal monologue to rest. You wouldn’t be dying today.

The newcomer narrowed his eyes and did a scan of the room. When they landed on you, a devilish smirk hitched up the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” he called out in a thick, English accent—the same one that had driven you crazy through the digital line. He took a dramatic step past the collapsed door, his shoulders rocking side to side before stilling to face you. “‘Ello there, Love. Fancy finally meetin’ yer in the flesh.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you spat out, all the breath you’d been hoarding in anticipation channeled into that single sentence. “Ever heard of a fucking knock?” Your tone was hostile, but your hands fell to your side with relief, your heart rate beginning to settle into a steadier rhythm.

The dark-haired man glanced around him with calculation—likely scanning for any hidden traps or accomplices, then popped a glance to where the door laid needlessly discarded onto the floor. He turned back to you with a done deal grin, hands spreading in an innocent gesture.

“Sorry ‘bout tha’, Love,” he chuckled, that charming smirk becoming far too comfortable on his rough features. “But it do make for one diabolical entrance, done it? And The Boys don’t deserve nuffin’ less.”

As if that did the trick in summoning the rest of the group, more figures slunk through the door to take up formation behind the Brit—a dark-skinned man with distrust woven into his features as he glared you down, a tall, scrawny, kid that looked as jittery as a hostage, an Asian girl that glanced about the room with interest, and a fair-skinned man with what looked like a mullet in bad taste.

The Brit tossed a nod in your direction. “We haven’t formally met. Name’s Butcher,” he said, strolling further into the room to make better acquaintance.

You trailed closer to meet him halfway, coming to stand perfectly in front of Ben’s sleeping tank—as if to shield his helpless form from any potential danger. You were met with the Brit’s outstretched hand, and you glanced down at it with a brief narrowing of your eyes before your attention flickered back up to him.

“It don’t bite, Love—promise,” he jabbed.

You flashed him a wry smile, but you were still hesitant as you slipped your bandaged palm into his. He held you firmly to deliver a polite shake, and you were ready to slink away from his hold when he trapped you in his grasp with a curious study of your palm.

“Blimey, did yer give a knife a good ol’ wank?” He huffed.

With a light scoff, you curbed his prying nose and offered him your name, to which the Brit grinned in a manner that felt forced.

“Lovely name yer’ve got there.” He released your hand and pivoted on his heels to address the rest of the group. “Right, you lot, we don’t got a lotta time. Them red cunts out there know we’re in ‘ere, and they’re gonna come lookin’ for us with ten rounds o’ fuck yer stuck up them fuckin’ guns. So keep yer wits about yer, and keep off each other’s throats, all righ’?”

Your attention drifted to where the Asian girl turned to Butcher, her hands lifting to portray a series of symbols that you could recognise as sign language, but the words were lost on your uneducated eyes. The fair-skinned man beside her turned to face her.

“Don’t worry, Mon Coeur, we can handle them,” he reassured her—a distinct, smooth slur to his words.

French, you noted with a hint of surprise. What an interesting group of people.

“Uh, guys,” the scrawny boy spoke up. You caught a hint of alarm on his features before he turned away to face the door. “I think more guards are on their way.” You strained your ears and heard the faint commotion of Russian phrases and thudding boots in the distance.

“Great,” the dark-skinned man commented sarcastically, head swinging over to face the French. “Ya just had to go and say that, didn’t ya, Frenchie? Should’ve touched wood, man—now we’ve got the whole fuckin’ armed guard about to come down on our asses.”

Who the fuck came up with the name Frenchie? You thought with a scoff. If it was a given nickname within the group, there was a severe lack of creativity amongst their ranks.

Frenchie looked confronted at the man’s attack. “I didn’t do anything! Blame Butcher for frying le whole fucking grid and sending his fist directly into the guard’s face!”

“Oi!” Butcher interjected, taking a step toward the bickering men. “I didn’t see yer lift yer bloody finger to help, now, did’cha? And it don’t matter now. So lay off the fuckin’ tiff, boaf o’ ya, and brave yer bollocks f’a righ’ burnin’.”

You couldn’t help but smirk lightly at the group’s dynamic. One thing was certain—with them, there was never a dull moment.

You could hardly acknowledge that thought for a second longer before armed guards were rallied at the door, causing The Boys to pivot toward the entrance in alarm. Gun were pointed into the room before bullets began flying in scattered chaos.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell! Take cover!” Butcher yelled, and The Boys all scattered to various ends of the room to avoid the rapid fire.

You attempted to do the same, when time seemed to slow at the prospect of a bullet heading directly for you. Your breath roared in your ears, muffling all the sounds around you into a single, shrill ring as you lifted your hand into the air out of instinct. With a single twist of your fingers, the bullet making a direct line for your face curved through the air, and it deviated from its path to strike glass some ways behind you.

You let slip a relieved, breathless chuckle, but didn’t waste another second as an easy target out in the open as you scampered to hide behind Ben’s sleeping tank. You pressed your back against the tank, your head collapsing against the metal with a wide grin.

You hadn’t pulled off that trick for quite some time—and it was bold to assume that it would’ve worked when your body was severely out of practice. Guess the Supe in you never leaves, does it? You remarked with silent appreciation.

But still, you cursed your unpreparedness. For all the things you’d remembered to pack, a gun had somehow slipped your mind entirely. Having powers was good and all, but the ability to withstand gunfire was beyond your biological pay grade, and without your long lost Supe uniform, you were as vulnerable as any other human in this room.

Something small levitated into the air ahead of you, drawing your attention into a bewildered stare. Jamie, the hamster, gravitated through the air, whisking directly past you and into the chaotic storm of bullets. You had a good guess of where the bullet you’d redirected had gone.

“It fucking flies?” You scoffed in amazement.

You heard a guttural scream followed by a string of Russian pleas, and you guessed that the hamster had his own personal vendetta to fulfil. That makes two of us.

You heard The Boys calling to one another as they came to terms with their depleted bullets, but the Russians were still keenly at it, the shots bounding off the walls of the room until it sounded like a drawn out melody of war and sure death. You risked a glance past the tank, outstretching your hand to drain the lungs of one of the Russians raining hell on where Butcher and the scrawny kid took cover.

The Russian seized on the spot, hand flying to clutch his chest before he collapsed to the ground and didn’t stir again. Butcher caught that stunt with an impressed glint to his eye, his chin dipping in the slightest gesture of approval. You returned it with a smug grin, but what came next whisked the amusement clean from your lips.

The Brit discarded his emptied gun, stepping into the clearing with a loud-ringing “evenin’, cunts,” and then you witnessed his eyes ignite with a red, bustling flame. He strolled into the open fire, the bullets bounding off his skin like they’d never stood a chance in the first place. And then you saw it—beams of molten lava searing through the air to decapitate any and all bodies caught in its destructive path.

The Brit’s head panned around the room to exterminate the Russians one by one, until nothing but silence filled the room, and the unpleasant scent of scorched flesh bombarded your nose. You slowly rose to full height, stepping out into the clearing just in time to witness Butcher’s red eyes simmer into their normal dark shade. He glanced about his companions in waiting—for what, you had no concrete idea, but you could guess that the rest of the Boys were as shocked as you.

You glanced around at the rest of their faces to gauge the group’s reaction. The scrawny boy appeared behind Butcher with a look of amazement and admiration bright on his features—stupid fool would likely get himself killed gawking after that reckless Brit. You glanced over at the dark-skinned man, who looked furious as he glared down the leader of The Boys. Frenchie, and the Asian girl attached at his hip, exchanged puzzled glances that quickly turned curious once they glanced between Butcher and the dark-skinned man.

There was definitely some unspoken tension lingering between those two men—some ongoing war for leadership. But before either of them had a chance to speak, the scrawny boy let out a yell.

“M.M.—behind you!”

The dark-skinned man spun around, and your attention flitted to where a Russian guard had snuck up onto him with his gun armed and ready for attack.

He’s not going to make it, you thought with a jolt. Instinctually, your hand whisked into the air, and a second later, the guard staggered in place to paw at his chest—some pathetic attempt to remove his gear and undo his gradual smothering. But before you could sign off on the murder, the scrawny boy appeared behind the Russian with his fist impaled through the guard’s chest.

You had to blink twice to solidify that scene—the boy was naked, and he’d been on the other end of the room, fully clothed, only a second ago.

“What in the fuck is going on?” You muttered, hand falling back to your side. The Russian guard, now void of a heart, mimicked the gesture as he planted onto the floor, his gun clattering to the ground beside him. You squinted at the naked boy—first Butcher, and now him. Just what crackhead group of Supes had you gotten tied up with?

The scrawny boy glanced down at his bloodied hand in a fit of ragged breaths, his expression a mixture of confusion and amazement, as if he couldn’t believe he’d just done that. You wondered whether his reaction was toward his power, or the murder—though he didn’t seem like the type that went around killing often, or at all, and he sure as hell didn’t look like somebody who enjoyed it.

“Jesus!” The man—M.M.—breathed out, hand lifting to cradle his head in denial, acceptance, and then defeat. “I can’t—I just can’t,” he muttered, turning away from the scene to take a heated second for himself.

You left the tank’s side to approach Butcher, and the Brit spun to face you with a smirk—always that damn smirk.

“Well, tha’s a nifty li’l power yer’ve got there, innit?” He praised in something akin to admiration.

You couldn’t return the sentiment. “You’re a Supe?” You exclaimed. “You didn’t think to mention that when we first spoke?”

The Brit beamed with some emotion beyond you. “Tha’s the best part, Love,” he said, head tilting in exhilaration. “I ain’t no bleedin’ Supe. I’ve had me a good hit of Temp V, is all—it gives me the wankin’ wonders o’ Supe powers without all the stinkin’ cameras and promos stuck up me arse.”

“Yeah,” M.M. spoke up in a tone lacking amusement, turning to face the group once he’d blown off enough steam—but honestly, he only looked more peeved. “And it’s only killing you, ya stupid motherfucker.”

Butcher flashed him an unfazed glance. “Well, we’re all slowly dying, ain’t we, M.M.?”

The dark-skinned man crossed his arms in what looked like disappointment. “Yeah, but you just had to go and take the fuckin’ crown on that one, didn’t ya? Goddammnit, Butcher, I can’t with you.”

“Then don’t, mate, ain’t yer concern,” the Brit replied simply, then turned his attention to the scrawny boy with a proud grin. “Nice one, Hughie—laid one on tha’ wanker in a heartbeat.” His head lowered to where the guard’s heart lay on the ground, and he beamed a little too hard at his pun.

Hughie seemed flustered at the compliment, but cleared his throat self-consciously when M.M. flashed him a glare.

“Put some damn clothes on,” the dark-skinned man scoffed. “I don’t needa see any more ass today.”

Frenchie crept up behind Hughie holding the outfit the boy had discarded in the wake of his teleportation. “Here, Petit Hughie,” he said through an amused grin.

“Ah, thanks, Frenchie,” he chuckled awkwardly before accepting the uniform and turning away to become decent.

Turning to face you, Butcher gave a nod. “Right, then, why don’tcha show us the way, Love? We’ll get yer nuclear heartthrob outta this place in no time.”

You harboured an eye roll before beckoning curtly over your shoulder. “He’s in there.” You stepped aside to give the Brit a full view of the sleeping tank.

Butcher’s expression turned solemn as he brushed past you to inspect the container. “What the fuck,” he drawled. “They’ve got ‘im wrapped up tighter than a priest’s chaste cock.” Your brows furrowed at his acquired taste for humour—but in that way, he and Ben were quite alike. “How do we open this fuckin’ thing?” He asked distractedly, moving around the frame to inspect the reinforced locks.

“Good question,” you told him, watching him from the same position as you crossed your arms in frustration. “If I had any idea, you wouldn’t be here. They’ve got that tank reinforced like hell—I’ve tried everything to get it open. It’s useless.”

The Brit tossed you an incoherent glance over his shoulder, then tuned his focus back to the tank. “Well, let us have a go, then.”

You cocked your head in smug doubt, watching as the Brit wrapped his large palms around the rim of the tank’s door. Who does he think he is? You scorned silently. He released a loud growl, the muscles of his upper body flexing with strained effort. He kept up the exertion for a good few seconds, and you left out a light huff through your nostrils to confirm what you’d known all along—there was no way that he was getting that door open with his two bare hands.

Almost as though Butcher could heed your thoughts, he amped up his efforts with a growing yell, and to your amazement, the door began to budge with a heavy creak. You watched with subtle awe as the Brit managed to successfully detach the door, his study frame collapsing back slightly as he hovered the metal in his grasp. It was insane to think that his abilities were all thanks to that Temp V substance, but you could only imaging the tolling effects that it had on his body. Hell, you’d been receiving V since you were born, and even you had moments where your body became worn by your abilities.

Butcher turned with the door, scanning an area to discard it toward before he settled for a corner that was far too close to the Asian girl’s loitering figure. When the door landed with a dull thud, the Brit turned to face the tank—you all did.

You took a few steps closer, coming to stand beside Butcher as you watched smoke pour out the hold and cascade around your feet. The Brit outstretched his hand to keep you back, which made you glance at him with a mixture of confusion and surprise.

“He’s not dangerous,” you told him, but you were quick to catch yourself with a frown when you remembered all the instances Ben had woken up in a confused state—and the time he’d hurt you because of it.

“Yeah? Well, tell that to yer face,” Butcher answered gruffly, wholly unconvinced by your faltering advocation.

You bit on your tongue and nudged the Brit’s hand away, but nonetheless, you didn’t move any closer. Butcher flashed you a sidelong glance but didn’t say anything further. You noted how Frenchie and the girl had inched their way nearer to where you stood, just as eager to witness the man that had been an expired legend up until now.

When the smoke started to clear, you could make out the outline of Ben’s figure, stood upright and strapped to a contraption that would hold him in place during his coma. His eyes were still closed, an oxygen mask strapped around his face. Your heart ached at the sight—it was demeaning, him tied down against his will, completely bare and stashed away in some dusty basement to be forgotten until he was needed again.

Never again.

Just then, Ben began to stir, his eyes opening slowly as he drifted back into the waiting world. The arms at his sides flexed with what strength he could muster, and it was still enough to tear through the fabricated restraints around his wrists. His eyes blinked many times as he stared ahead into the newfound opening, but not at anything, or anyone, in particular. He lifted a jittery hand to pry the mask from his face, his hand lowering to his side and dropping it into the smoky oblivion below.

Beside you, you heard a disbelieved murmur leave Butcher’s lips. “Soldier Boy. . .” He breathed.

As if that was all the beckon he needed, Ben’s hands gripped at the rim of his tank, nose scrunched and teeth gritted as he tried to haul together the effort to pull himself from his personal prison.

You instantly dove forward to help him, but Butcher’s arm found yours in restraint once more, pushing you a step back as he turned to face you.

“Stay back, Love. He’s got a fuck-sight o’ that nasty gas pumpin’ through ‘is veins. I mean, have a shufti o’ tha’ cunt—he don’t even know where the ‘ell he is. Yer don’t wanna piss about a timebomb like tha’, trust me.”

“He’s not a bomb,” you answered in frustration. “He’s just confused. You’d be the exact same if somebody fucked with your brain the way these comas fuck with his.”

“I ain’t baggin’ on yer boy, Love, just tryna prevent unnecessary casualties. Don’t need yer blood on me hands.”

Before you could reply, Ben’s frail voice called out your name.

Your heart lurched at the sound, your head swivelling to neglect Butcher and the anger he was starting to evoke. Your boyfriend was leaned halfway out of the tank now, his brows still kneaded together with disorientation as he battled to keep his attention pinpointed on you. You pushed past Butcher’s arm and rushed to catch Ben as he staggered out of the tank, his one hand finding your shoulder for support while his other reached back to steady himself against the metal.

“You’re okay,” you murmured, hands coming up to gently frame his bearded jaw as your lips spread with a smile of relief. He remembered you—no temporary amnesia this time, no forgotten memories, no further pain to endure. “I’m right here, Ben.”

The Supe blinked rapidly, his chin lifting a fraction as his red and teary eyes did a hasty sweep of the surrounding members of The Boys. You called his attention back to you, stroking a thumb along his cheek.

“Hey, don’t worry about them. It’s the group we talked about. . . The Boys. They got you out of that tank, and we’re about to get the hell out of this place,” you comforted him softly.

Ben’s eyes found yours again, but they were glossed over and narrowed, as though your words were incomprehensible to him. His attention dropped to the bloodstain on your shirt, then shifted to the bloodied bandage wrapped around the palm that cradled his cheek.

The hand he’d placed against the tank moved to cover your bandaged palm, and you felt the way he trembled against you. “You’re. . . bleeding,” he pushed out between staggered breaths.

You gave him a weak smile. “I’m fine,” you assured him. “Trust me, you look worse than me, so worry about yourself, first.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but then his eyes screwed shut and his teeth grit around a muffled grunt, the hands he’d placed on you flying to clutch at his chest.

You held his buckling head firmly between your hands, craning yourself in an attempt to get a view of his face. “Ben?” You called to him worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

There was no reply, only pained grunting as he continued to claw at his chest. When your eyes lowered to his torso, you were horrified to find that his flesh had begun to illuminate from within. Slowly, an orange light began to bloom at the centre, painting every organ, vein and artery in clear, dark definition against his translucent skin. You felt a surge of heat begin to radiate from him, enough to burn your arms into releasing his face and assault your eyes into a tight squint.

“Ben, what the hell is going on?” You called in panic, arm coming up to shield your teary eyes.

The Supe grunted in pain, his palm moving clumsily to shove you back at the chest. You staggered back a step, nearly losing your footing until you felt a large hand steady you at the back.

Butcher appeared over your shoulder. “Blimey, tha’ cunt’s ‘bout to blow,” he remarked roughly.

“What?” You replied with a quiver in your voice. You dropped your arm and blinked rapidly to focus your burning eyes back onto Ben. You spotted him struggling away from the tank—away from you—travelling a blind line that drew all the way to a wide-eyed Frenchie.

The French stood backed into a corner, gun slowly raising to act as a pitiful means of defence against the Supe’s disconcerting approach.

“Easy now,” Frenchie attempted to calm Ben, opting to lay off the threatening gun as his hands lifted in surrender. “We are all friends, no?” He laughed nervously, eyes flickering past the Supe to fix you with a pleading expression.

You returned Frenchie’s look with helpless panic. Quite frankly, you had no idea what was going through Ben’s mind as of now, or just what on earth was brewing inside his chest, but you had a gnawing feeling that somebody in this room might not live to find out.

You made the move to approach your boyfriend, eager to stop Ben and disprove that nagging voice in your head, but Butcher found your wrist in a tight, relentless grasp this time around—and it only continued to tighten as a show that he didn’t intend to let you go this time.

“No fuckin’ way,” he said before you had a chance to protest. “If yer boy over there pulls the plug on ‘is night lamp of a chest, boaf you and Frenchie will get yerselves killed. If Soldier Boy lives to see another miserable day, I’ll be needing yer to help us figure out just what the hell them Russian cunts put in ‘im.”

You gave Butcher a long stare, your chest nagged by some feeling that seemed to resonate with the Brit’s words. You knew exactly what had been pumped into Ben. And with that knowledge, you might be able to figure out this new power of his and help The Boys keep him under control. But was the Brit really willing to let Frenchie die for the sake of it?

Turning back to the scene, you watched as Ben’s head buckled again, pained shouts leaving his lips as he fought to control the ever-growing light within. At some point, he began to beam so bright that you couldn’t stare at him any longer without feeling as though your vision would terminate on the spot, so you turned your head away.

And then you heard it—Frenchie letting out a yell, and a loud explosion that sent something flying into a wall. Hesitantly, your eyes drifted open, where you witnessed Butcher’s hands pressed against his ears with a twisted expression. Behind him, Hughie and M.M. did the same, their faces mortified.

Your breathing came out ragged—loud and harsh in your ears as they adjusted to the normal air after what sounded like a deafening, sonic boom. Turning your head slowly, you saw Ben hunched in on himself, his body returned to its normal colour—void of all deathly glow. You wanted to feel a surge of relief, knowing that he was okay, but then your eyes drifted ahead of him to where a figure lay motionless upon the ground.

The Asian girl was sprawled across the floor, blood seeping from wounds along her torso, so dire that you could make out the cuts even from where you stood. The stone wall just behind her was cracked with what must’ve been the impact of her hurled body, and the sight brewed fresh dread in your heart.

No, you breathed silently, your eyes growing hot with horror. Suddenly, the words you’d told Butcher only moments ago came around again, a voice that taunted you into guilt. He’s not a bomb. He’s not a bomb.

And yet he’d just blown up and injured—possibly killed—one of the group members—people who had risked quite a lot to save the both of you. Your hand came up to cover your mouth in a state of shock and remorse, and for a moment, you couldn’t do anything but stand in a fit of paralysis.

Frenchie scrambled up from the other end of the floor and sped over to collapse at the girl’s body, hands frantically searching her neck for a pulse. He settled on a point and hovered his fingers there for many seconds, and you held your breath in anticipation as you waited for him to confirm her life, or death.

To your relief, he let out a jittery sigh. “She lives!” He declared into the room. “Mon Coeur,” he called more softly, a hand moving to turn her face toward his, but her lids remained heavily clamped, and even her lower lip dropped open in her unconscious state.

“Bloody ‘ell,” Butcher breathed from behind you, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed.

You hurried over to where Ben still stood, crouched over and consumed in a haze of overwhelming emotions that you couldn’t possibly begin to comprehend. You slowed a little ways before him, your hand cautious as you reached to gently cup his back. You were unsure at this point of what potential triggers may set him off.

When you made with the skin of his back, he gave a slight flinch, but he turned his head a fraction to drink in who’d touched him. When he saw it was you, his face briefly softened with a quiet regret that made your heart ache—an almost unspoken apology for the mess he’d made. You took up a firmer grip on his back, urging him to move toward the wall for better support against his weakness.

“Come on, just take a moment,” you urged, and he relaxed into your gentle guidance as you moved the both of you toward the wall. You tried your best not to glance at the girl’s unconscious body, but Ben wasn’t so merciful in sparing himself the guilt as he risked a glance toward her body, and held her motionless body in his view all the way until you’d reached the wall.

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” you told him in an almost whisper. Because it’s my fault. I gave you those powers when I gave you your last dose. You wanted to tell him that, but you choked up on the guilt, and it would do little to comfort what had already happened. So instead, you settled for, “you had no control over it. The important thing is that the girl’s alive, okay? You didn’t kill her.”

You didn’t know that for certain. So much could happen between now and the trip to the hospital. Ben spared you a dark glance that reflected your thoughts. You reached to cup his cheek, but he turned away from you to face the wall, his hands coming up to steady himself against the stone. Your hand fell back to your side as you let out a soft exhale.

“I’m going to figure out what’s going on with you,” you told him. “But just stay here for now, I need to talk to Butcher and the others, okay?” You weren’t entirely sure that you had Ben’s ear, but he was too stunned to go anywhere for the time-being, so you felt confident enough to leave him alone to talk to the others.

“Not a bomb, eh?” The Brit scoffed once you reached him. “Well, Love, it don’t sound like yer know yer man as well as yer think ya do, d’ya?”

“Give me a break,” you retorted, coming to a complete stop in front of the dark-haired man. “This. . . power of his isn’t anything I’ve seen before. If I knew he could do that, I would’ve told you, and we could’ve found a way to keep the lid on and prevent anybody from getting hurt.”

“What, like he wasn’t already a murderer before this very instance?” M.M. spoke up from where he stood, idling beside a bewildered Hughie.

You flashed the dark-skinned man a glare. “He didn’t mean to do it,” you said more firmly.

M.M. had this biting fire to his eyes, his upper lip twitching with a barely perceptible emotion. “Didn’t mean to do what, exactly?” He drilled. “Kill all those innocent people back in the day, or almost killing an innocent girl right now?”

“M.M.,” Butcher called to his friend, a light undertone of warning. “Don’t, mate.”

M.M.’s head swivelled toward the Brit. “Don’t you give me that fuckin’ ‘mate’ shit, Butcher. I wanna hear it from her—I wanna know if she’s really okay with all the shit that that motherfucker has done!” He turned to glare at you, causing your heart to lurch. Clearly, he had some hefty history behind his anger.

“We don’t got time for this,” Butcher attempted to interject, but M.M. stopped acknowledging the Brit, his tense shoulders rising and falling around some greater restraint on his part as he glared between you and Ben.

Your lips were hellbent on a clueless silence. You didn’t know what personal wrongs Ben had dealt M.M., but you knew that your boyfriend had a stained past. Truth is, you had no way to ever justify what Ben had done back in the day. And judging by how deep M.M.’s dislike and distrust for him ran, you figured that the Supe must’ve done something unforgivable.

Ben was far from perfect, you knew that. He had questionable morales, some that you’d never learnt to swallow even after all these years you’d been together. But you’d been trying to help him abandon those problematic viewpoints, and he’d been getting there slowly before Vought and the rest of Payback had gotten him kidnapped and rehomed into a tank.

“Nothin’ to say, huh?” M.M. mocked lowly, his lips twitching with disgust. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Cause ya just can’t justify a prick like that.”

“Hey, guys. . .” the naked boy—Hughie—spoke up, his anxious stare shifting between M.M., Butcher and you. “I hate to interrupt. . . whatever this is, but we’ve got to get out of here. What if more guards show up?” It was beyond you how somebody as scrawny and young-looking as him had met the criteria of such a raggedy tag group of misfits lead by the world’s number one British asshole, but he was right to be worried.

In the distance, you heard the thin, angry shouts. You didn’t want to stick around long enough to hear what they were saying.

You glanced over your shoulder to where Frenchie still hovered over the injured girl, her body half scorched and basted in the blood trickling from her abdomen. Your heart ached at the sight, and then your gaze slipped over to where Ben braced himself against the wall in a heaving mess of disorientation.

Oh, things were so fucked.

“She needs a hospital,” the French slurred, hands frantically whisking across the girl’s body. His eyes were a desperate plea as they fixated Butcher, then his head collapsed to where he took the girl’s unconscious head into his hands. “Hang in there, Mon Coeur, we will not let you die, you hear me?”

You turned back to Butcher. He was the head of this entire operation, so you waited tensely for him to hurl out some sort of command, a plan of action—anything. The commotion surrounding the room grew louder, which made the Brit glance at the entrance they’d barged through.

“We gotta get the fuck outta ‘ere,” Butcher grumbled. He jerked his chin at the Hughie. “Hughie, help Frenchie with Kimiko, we ain’t stayin’ ‘round ‘ere any longer than we got to. I don’t much fancy playin’ a round o’ Russian Roulette with those trigger-happy red cunts—and right now, they got a ragin’ boner for the lot o’ us.”

Hughie scampered past to heed Butcher’s orders, but not without risking you an uneasy glance. He disappeared from your view as he slipped past you to conspire with Frenchie in getting Kimiko to the car.

“You two, back o’ the van,” the Brit told you, calling your attention back to him. The furrow of his frown ran deep as he took a step closer to glare you down. “And yer best keep America’s Ancient Arsehole from gettin’ all hot and bothered in me ride, or we’re all as good as fucked, ‘ear that?”

Before you had the chance to return Butcher’s scorn, you were interrupted by a protest that sounded most displeased.

“Uh uh,” M.M.’s voice rang out clearly, causing both yourself and Butcher to turn to him. He loomed tensely, eyes darkened and features modelling a look of heartfelt disgust as he glanced between you and Ben. “No way in hell—I ain’t climbin’ into the same car as that motherfucker,” he declared with an accusing index figure in Ben’s direction, his hard stare further isolating your boyfriend before he turned his attention back to Butcher. “They gotta find their own way—meet us somewhere we can recoup and plan out this fuckin’ stinkin’ pile of shit you got us into, Butcher.”

“M.M.,” Butcher groused, taking a step toward his companion. “We don’t got time for this, mate. We came ‘ere to do a job, and we gotta do it quick. Yer don’t gotta hold ‘ands wif the cunt, yer just gotta brave face until we get clear o’ this shitshow, all righ’?”

But M.M. looked unconvinced, the distrust in his stare not once relenting as he did another sweep of you and Ben. His chin lifted slowly—a bold notion of defiance as he glared Butcher down.

“Nah,” he said lowly, arms brought forward to cross over his chest. “Not happenin’, Butcher.”

“Oh, f’fuck’s sakes,” the Brit grumbled, hand brought up to his jaw to stroke across his beard with exasperation as he attempted to negotiate with his companion.

Just by observing the dynamic between the two of them, you could tell that they bickered like this far too often. Two alpha males, constantly clashing horns as they fought to uphold their own glaring sense of right and wrong. But there was no time to stand back and bathe in the ricocheting argument, so you intercepted their bickering with a hint of impatience.

“It’s all right,” you steadied with outstretched hands, which made both Butcher and M.M turned to look at you. “I’ll find Ben and I another way out. I know a route, and I know where to get a ride. You just focus on getting the girl to the hospital, and we’ll lay low somewhere until you tell us the next move.”

Without waiting for input from the two of them, you turned and scampered off to the bag you’d left at the foot of Ben’s tank. You passed a glance at Ben, who still stood leant against the wall, head hanging low in oblivion. You doubted he’d caught a fraction of the ongoing conversation.

“Like ‘ell yer are,” Butcher called to you. “I’d be a daft wanker to let the two o’ ya off me fuckin’ leash, now, wouldn’t I?”

“Seems right on par with the asshole of the year award you’ve made runner up for,” you mumbled under your breath before reaching the bag and bending down to unzip it. “Listen, it’s not like we’ve got many options when your friend over there has made his feelings about us clear. I’m just trying to get Ben and I out of here in one piece,” you added more loudly.

“All right,” the Brit reasoned. “Say I let the two o’ ya slip away, hand in hand, how do yer s’pose we find yer again? Trackin’ yer down to this fortified safe already cost us some hefty shite—and it’ll be a li’l difficult keepin’ a lead on yer this time ‘round when yer’ve only disappeared into the whole o’ bleedin’ Russia!”

“Hold that thought,” you called back, hand rummaging through your loaded supply bag. Your fingers clattered against the burner phones you’d packed in case you and Ben got separated, and you pulled one of them out. You weren’t so eager to hand off the only thing serving as a backup should the two of you run into trouble, but you had very little luxury of choice right now.

Turning back to Butcher, you made you way back over to the ruffled Brit, hand outstretched to offer him the phone. “Call the number saved on there, I’ve got another in the bag. Once we’re all in the clear, we’ll meet you wherever it is you need us to be.” The Brit fixed you with a distrustful stare before snatching it from your presented palm.

You’re fucking welcome, you thought irritably. You pivoted on your heels in an attempt to retrieve your backpack and get both yourself and Ben the hell out of here, but Butcher’s hand found your arm in a firm grip before you could manage to slip away.

“Oi!” You were forcibly spun around to face the towering Brit, who torqued his chin at you with far too much attitude for your liking. “How do I know tha’ you and Chernobyl’s li’l arsehole ain’t gonna do a runner into the fuckin’ sunset for good now that we’ve freed the boaf o’ ya? I can’t trust cha.”

Your scowled at his lack of charm, yanking your hand free of his throttling grasp to take a step back. “We may be strangers—and you may be the finest pick of the asshole litter, but we made a deal, and I always honour my word. You can count on that, or you can suckle on paranoia’s tit while we wait for the backup guards to gun us down. Your choice.”

Butcher seemed briefly surprised by your mouth, if his hitched brows was any indication. But he was quick to morph back into his signature frown, lips parting with what could’ve been an attempt to further pick at the scab of distrust. Thankfully, M.M.’s voice interrupted on cue.

“Butcher, we gotta go!” He called, back turning on you both as he raised his gun to assault a Russian guard that had slipped into the doorframe.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, these cunts are relentless,” Butcher muttered in exasperation as he took in the new company. He faced you with a displeased expression, dispelling a defeated sigh before he cocked his head in the slightest gesture that bid your official release.

You gave him a small, curt nod, and without wasting another second, you slipped away to grab your bag and hurried over to where Ben’s figure remained propped against the wall, bare back presented to you in a heaving, sweaty mess. You reached to place a gentle hand on his shoulder, which caused him to flinch away and spin around in full-blown defence mode, but he quickly relaxed as he drank you in.

“Hey, we’ve got to go,” you cooed gently, reaffirming your hold on his arm as you encouraged him to drape it along your neck. Ben succumbed to your guidance and partially leaned himself onto the side of your frame, and you tried your best to accommodate his large stature by securing your other arm around his waist.

“I got you,” you murmured against his jaw, but you could tell that it was lost to the hurricane of disorientation that currently circled his head and rendered his responses naught. As of now, he was surviving off of nothing but the familiarity of your presence.

Behind you, wind buffeted the back of your neck as Hughie glided past, and then there was the distinct, sharp whisk through the air that indicated he’d teleported to some other corner of the room—judging by the guttural scream that followed shortly after, likely directly into the chest of one of the guards. But you had no time to glance back to confirm that thought, not that you’d much like to see Hughie’s naked form again, anyway.

Together, you and Ben began to hobble through one of the back entrance’s. You entered into the winding corridor, whose overhead lights flickered menacingly. It created an eerie atmosphere that matched the theme of this entire compound, and it fed into the flight instinct that kept your feet moving.

When you’d first made contact with The Boys—about a week ago—you’d begun mapping out the best route possible for the group to infiltrate the facility. As a contingency plan, you’d also noted the route yourself and Ben currently ploughed through, just in case there’d been a kink in the plan. For once, you were thankful for your tendency to overthink.

After what felt like an endless straight line, you turned the corner of the corridor, Ben’s steps faltering with the change in direction. Your balance dipped the slightest bit as you scrambled to steady him in your hold.

“All good?” You checked in.

“Fine,” Ben pushed out with a grunt, his head still lolled over as he tried to focus his attention on the ground. “Keep on movin’.”

You breathed a light okay and kept on the prowl. Up ahead, you spotted a janitorial closet tucked into the corner bordering the designated exit you’d mapped out. You hastily steered him toward the door.

“In there,” you instructed, releasing the hand he had draped along your shoulders to twist the doorknob and push the door open. It gave way with an animated creak, and you hurried the both of you inside, guiding the Supe deeper into the dim, narrow space.

He slipped his hand from your shoulders to grab one of the cluttered shelves for support, and once you were certain he was steady enough to support his faltering frame, you turned to close the door behind you. You stole a quick glance out the small, dusty window centred in the janitorial door, feeling a slither of relief when no armed soldiers seemed to round the corner in pursuit of you.

“What’s. . . the plan?” Ben breathed out from behind you, his voice rough and thin as he fought off the sleepy haze. Usually, he had time to adjust coming out of the coma, but this time around, he’d been woken in such a flurry state of things that he’d barely been given the time to adapt. And it certainly didn’t help that he had a newfound power of blowing up unprovoked. It had taken a lot out of his sleepy state.

You turned to face your boyfriend, whose nude figure was on full display now as he stood facing you, a little taller, bolder—almost the man you knew him to be. You could have marvelled at the chiselled isles of his abs, and the moisture that furnished his skin and accentuated every curve of his muscles with the light’s faint glare, but this was hardly the time or place to indulge your desires.

With great difficulty, you averted your gaze from his figure as your hand moved to glide the backpack’s strap from your shoulder. “First, let’s get you dressed.”

You plopped it onto the floor at the nose of your boots, then bent down to dig into the crowded space in search of the clothes you’d packed for him. You pulled out a pair of grey sweats and an oversized t-shirt that you’d stolen from one of the guard’s lockers. You hadn’t had much luck in finding underwear, and you weren’t about to go around rummaging through lockers and sniffing pairs to deduce whether or not they were clean.

You straightened up and handed Ben the clothing, whose eyes flickered down to the items with a growing alertness—and unveiled judgement.

“The fuck is this?” He asked, hand gesturing to the sweatpants crowning the folded fabric stash. You knew he was making a point to ridicule what passed as fashion in this day and age. It was pretty much his brand to criticise everything and anything that didn’t fit his very limited ideologies, but there was no time to entertain that now.

“It’s the best I could do, is what,” you retorted, palm diving forward with impatience as you urged him to take the clothes. “Talk shit about it later—in fact, have an entire rant, but right now, you’ve got to put these on so that we can get out of here, unless you’d like to keep on running around naked and flashing the whole of Russia.”

Ben’s eyes lowered down his body as you spoke, then lifted back to your face with an entertained air, his eyebrow lifted smugly. “What, you don’t like the view?” He jested. “Cause I gotta say, it’s the real panty-dropper. The ladies—they just can’t get enough o’ all o’ this.”

When you didn’t entertain what he passed as humour with a response, your expression blank save the impatience, he cleared his throat somewhat self-consciously before hesitantly taking the clothes from your grasp.

Pointing his free finger in your direction, he said, “you’re a doll,” and began slipping the clothes onto his body. You lowered yourself back to the bag to retrieve the socks and sneakers you’d also managed to nick before placing it at his feet.

While you waited for him to get modest—physically, at least, you zipped up the bag and strung it back over your shoulder before rising and turning to peer out the window again. There was a gnawing unease still buzzing at your fingertips and teasing at the steady pace of your heartbeat as you stared off into the corridor, just waiting for any sign of movement. While you stood, you couldn’t help but wonder whether The Boys were managing to hold their own back where you’d left them.

Your thoughts flitted to the injured girl—Kimiko; you hoped that they’d managed to escape and get her to the hospital, and there, you desperately wished that she’d live to see another day. Ben’s outburst was something you’d never seen before, even after all the years the Russian’s had trialed him to see what new powers your modified treatments had brought forward.

You knew that the explosion wasn’t personal, that it was an unfortunate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you’d seen the look in M.M.‘s eyes—in all of their eyes. There was so much hatred and fear lingering in their stares, and it told you that The boys had come on this job with a preconceived notion about who you and Ben were. So it wouldn’t matter how much convincing you’d have done to try and plead in both your favours; they’d never trust you.

You didn’t much trust them either, that feeling was mutual, you only hoped that it wouldn’t interfere with the conditions that this plan had been tied to. There was still a job to be done before you and Ben could be free—properly free.

Ben’s finger’s curled around your waist, which jerked you from the whirlwind of thoughts you’d gotten sucked into. You turned to face him, fully clothed this time around, and you had to admit that he looked rather attractive in the casual attire.

“How are you feeling?” You asked. He looked alert in the eyes, his movements stronger and more controlled compared to his earlier erraticism.

“I feel fine, no need to fuss over me like I’m some goddamn spineless pussy,” he brushed off dismissively.

You scoffed lightly. “Forgive me for giving a shit,” you muttered, turning away from him to reach for the door handle. “Come on, we’ve gotta go. We’ve already taken longer than I would’ve liked.” You turned the knob and managed to pull the door slightly ajar. “For all we know, they’ve already got more guards set around the per—”

Before you could finish that mildly frantic sentence, Ben’s hand wrapped around your wrist and yanked it from the doorknob. You’d barely managed a protest before he whirled you around to face him and pulled you against his body, his hand only releasing yours to take up firm grip at your jaw. Instinctively, you shrugged the bag from your shoulder and heard it thump to the ground before your own hands came to rest against his broad chest.

With both hands now bracketing your face, he dove down to press a desperate and warm kiss to your lips. At first, the chafe of his overgrown beard felt foreign, but the way his lips eagerly entangled with yours was all the familiarity you needed to melt into his consumption entirely. His large hands stroked down your neck in perfect rhythm, caressing the slopes of your shoulders all the way down your back, and finally, they settled for a firm hold at your hips.

His thumbs hooked over the front of your pelvis as he pushed you against the door you’d been so eager to slip out of only moments ago, and it clicked into it’s place within the frame with an abrupt thud. You release a stifled moan as he pressed you into the wood, and he greedily swallowed it whole, claiming every aspect of your being with this gluttonous kiss.

Your hands dragged up his chest to frame his neck, where you pushed him away to break off the kiss. His lips were plucked from yours with a palpable click, and his features morphed with a disappointed frown as he leaned back to give you air.

Moving his hand to drag two dramatic fingers over his lips, he gazed at you through those charming eyes of his. “I was just gettin’ started with you, sweetheart,” he said lowly.

Chest slightly heaving, your hands lowered to his waist as you gazed up at him. “As much as I’d love to take this further, we can’t stick around here much longer. This part of the facility isn’t used much, but it’s somewhere they’ll come looking once all the other sectors are cleared.”

“You really did have it all planned out, huh?” He murmured sweetly, eyes flickering back down to your lips in a manner that told you he craved another taste of you. But thankfully, he was quite capable of self-restraint when the stakes were too high. He brought his focus back to your eyes with a cheeky wink before he withdrew from your proximity. “I always did admire that ‘bout you,” he stated before leaning over and swinging his arm forward to scoop up your backpack and lug it over his shoulder. Then, with a nod, he gestured to the door.

“Let’s get a move on, ain’t got all fuckin’ day, right? Besides, I made you a promise back in that lab, and the sooner we can get the fuck outta this ass-fuck of a dungeon, the sooner I can do good on my word.”

You grinned amusedly. “Because you’re old school like that, huh?” You poked.

“Damn right,” he said, hand wrapping around the nape of your neck as he pulled you toward his lowering head. He placed a long kiss against the crown of your head, inhaling your scent in the process.

Your bandaged hand reached up to wrap around the arm that held you against Ben’s adoration, your eyes fluttering close as your body released the tension that had been drawing your every muscle rigid for countless decades.

During all these years at the lab, you were forced to be strong for both yourself and Ben. But you’d never been made to be a warrior—not in any way other than physically, at least. You wanted to be protected, held, cherished like a fragile item that could fracture with the slightest push. In that way, you supposed you were a little old school, too.

Ben had never hesitated to take on that role. To him, it was a dutiful honour—he wanted nothing more than to protect you.

Being trapped in this compound had you stuck in a loop of stress and anxiety, but for the first time, in a very long time, you knew you could breathe a little deeper to relieve that tightness in your chest. You knew you could risk that blink—that shuteye you’d been denying out of fear for your life. Because now that Ben was back, you knew that you were safe.

Gently pulling your head away from his kiss, your hand lingered on his arm as you whispered, “let’s go.”

His lips quirked in the softest smile of agreement, his hand hesitantly falling away from your neck only to take your banadaged hand into a firm, but careful grasp. “Just can’t get enough o’ you,” he chuckled deeply, but you caught the more solemn implications behind those words.

He’d been robbed of your touch for far too long, as much as you’d been of his. Only, he’d had to endure it much harder than you—having constant dreams about all the ways he could devour you during his induced comas. It had been an endless taunt with no assurance that it would ever happen, and now that he was stood here with you in the flesh, he was overcome with the urge to hold onto you, as though he could be ripped of your presence in a blink.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, your fingers tightening in his.

Ben glanced down at your intertwined hands, strands of his hair scattering across his forehead with the motion. It concealed any look that might’ve come across his eyes, but you didn’t miss the soft breath of relief that parted his lips.

He glanced back up at you with practiced composure, taking in a brave sniff as he faced you. “Ah, fuck all this teary-eyed shit. Let’s get the fuck outta here, get a banger meal and then lay one on a shitty motel mattress.”

You gave a small chuckle and released his hand to turn towards the door, where Ben shifted back to accommodate its opening. He held it open for you to slip through, and once you were in the hallway, he appeared behind you with the door clicking shut.

Glancing both ways, you were relieved to be in the clear, and even more relieved to hear that no warning alarms had been set off in the distance. You hoped that meant Butcher and the rest had managed to exterminate the rest of the guards before they had a chance to come down with their final iron fist.

Redirecting your attention to the exit, you beckoned for Ben to follow you through the double doors and out of the back of the compound. You stepped into the crisp night air, the doors swinging closed behind you as Ben appeared at your side, pressed into your arm as he sought out a fraction of your warmth.

“Son o’ a bitch,” he grumbled through chattering teeth, head swivelling about to get a glimpse of the unfamiliar environment.

“Yeah, you haven’t felt real cold in years,” you sympathised with a chuckle, hand slipping into his as you lead him through the empty lot dotted with crates and lorries.

“It’s a fuckin’ maze out here. Do you know where you’re goin’?” He asked doubtfully.

“Trust me, I know where we’re going.” You lead the way around a corner, where you came face to face with a yard of broken down, discarded vehicles that no longer served a purpose other than reusable parts. “Over there.”

You gestured to a modern, up-kept car nestled between various rusting metal on wheels. You’d stashed the getaway car here a few nights ago, and thankfully it had been one of the easier parts of the plan, given that not many employees wandered all the way out here.

You lead the way toward the vehicle, making a beeline for the driver’s seat. When you reached the car, you turned to Ben with a hand held in the air.

He slowed before you with a confused stare. “What?”

“The keys,” you told him, nodding your chin to the backpack on his shoulder. “They’re in the bag—the side pocket.”

He gave a slow nod of understanding and slipped the bag from his shoulder, plopping it down onto the floor as he bent over to undo the side pocket. A moment later, he pulled out the car keys, which wasn’t much but a remote and a dangling key chain. They clinked against each other loudly as he moved to pick up the bag in his other hand and rose to full height to face you, but he held off on handing you the keys.

“I’ll drive,” he said firmly.

You gave a light laugh. “I appreciate that, Ben, but you don’t know the first thing about the cars of today.”

The Supe looked insulted. “The fuck you on ‘bout? It’s a fuckin’ car. It’s got wheels, a throttle and a steerin’ wheel. How hard can it fuckin’ be?” He scoffed and lowered his head to the keys, pausing with a frown of panic before his gaze flitted back over to you. “It doesn’t fly, does it?”

You let out a loud laugh at that, which made Ben’s head loll to the side with a disappointed and slightly flustered stare.

“All right, all right,” he said—all hot and bothered as he glared you down. “So it doesn’t fuckin’ fly. Forgive a man for havin’ hope that the fuckin’ assholes back in our time did good on their promise of a future with flyin’ cars.”

He took a few steps toward the car, arm shooing you aside out of self-conscious spite. “I got this, all right, Princess?”

You faltered a step back as he barged past, your lips parted with the urge to rebound his argument, but you knew that a man like Ben needed to be shown, not told. “Fine,” you said, backing down to let him access the driver’s door uninterrupted. Your hands spread in a dramatic gesture. “Have at it.”

“I will,” he retorted arrogantly, clearing his throat as he lifted the keys to study it. His eyes flickered between the door handle and the keys a few times before flashing you a frustrated glare. “Quit starin’ at me like a braindead potato—I’m figurin’ it out!”

You had to fight to keep a grin from pulling at your lips, your hand coming up in a fist to conceal the lower half of your face. “Mhm,” you hummed into your hand, watching as Ben studied the remote for a few seconds.

The symbols that were supposed to mark which end of the singular button locked and unlocked the car had completely worn off with the years, so you couldn’t blame him for having a hard time with decoding the controls. It was at that point that you expected him to ask for some guidance, though, but the epitome of his masculine pride kept him silent. Eventually, he settled for pressing the bottom most corner, which made the car flash with the locking mechanism.

“Hah,” he breathed proudly, turning to flash you a smug wink. “See? Nothin’ to fuss over. Told ya I’d figure it out.”

“Yeah, you’re a smart one, Ben,” you indulged eagerly, hand falling from your face as you crossed your arms in waiting. “Go ahead, then.”

Ben reached for the handle, not without handing you a suspicious glance, and when he tugged on the door, he was overcome with impatience when he found it still locked.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be ticklin’ my fuckin’ ballsack!” He exclaimed irritably, hand falling away from the handle. You fixed him with a long, delighted stare that made him shake his head lightly before handing you the keys. “Wipe that grin off your fuckin’ mouth,” he warned.

You took the keys from him and clicked the unlock button. “Or what, Ben?” You asked pointedly, chin lifting to meet his stare boldly.

He chuckled all-knowingly. “You know what,” he husked darkly, eyes glinting with innuendo as he took a step toward you, chin tilted down as he sized you up. “Or I’ll have ya on your knees tonight, pretty lips all stuffed and achin’ ‘round my dick til you can’t even fathom havin’ this attitude of yours.”

Your lower lip fell limp at that, a soft exhale of disbelief leaving your lungs as your head tilted back to hold the weight of his scheming stare. “You’re threatening me with a good time, Soldier Boy?”

Ben’s smirk beamed through that overgrown beard of his at the use of his Supe name. You knew the title on your lips spurred him on in inconceivable ways. “Always a good time til you can’t breathe, isn’t it?” He hummed somewhat condescendingly. “Maybe it’s ‘bout time I give ya a taste of your own fuckin’ medicine.”

Before you had a chance to respond, he moved away to circle around you, then you felt his hand come down on your ass in a light spank. The sound echoed across the desolate, metal graveyard, and you were lurched forward an inch by the momentum.

“What was wrong with fuckin’ keys, anyways?” You heard Ben grumble as he made his way around the car and toward the passenger seat.

You gave an amused huff and shake of your head before opening the driver’s door and sliding inside. Once you were in the seat, you closed the door and were met with Ben not-so-gently tossing the backpack onto the backseat.

“Careful with that,” you told him, placing the keys into one of the compartments before moving to strap yourself in. “There’s a burner phone in there. I told Butcher to call us once they’re in the clear so that we know where to meet them.” You flashed him a quick glance. “Seatbelt,” you added.

Ben obliged and reached for his seatbelt before clicking it in place. “Butcher?” He echoed in confusion. “He the lead asshole of this entire operation?”

“Yeah, asshole and some,” you remarked with a tut.

You moved to press the car’s on button before grabbing ahold of the gear and shifting it into drive mode. Putting the hand break down, you carefully began to manoeuvre the car out of the scrapyard and through the quiet, empty lot.

You heard Ben’s stomach growl just as you neared the the fence-line, which made you glance over at him with sympathy. “We’ll get you something to eat soon,” you promised him.

“And I expect dessert, too,” he added with a sly smirk. You caught on pretty quickly with a smile and slight shake of your head before turning your attention back to the road. “Ain’t gonna lie, seein’ you take control and mannin’ the wheel like this is gettin’ me all hot and excited down there.”

You scoffed as you pulled up to the gates, void of any guards at this instant. They didn’t usually account for this part of the compound, but you were glad that that hadn’t changed within short time of tonight’s breach. You put your foot down on the break, slowing the car to a stop before you glanced at Ben.

“What, you gonna ask me to give you another quick job?”

Ben’s brow cocked expectantly. “You offerin’?”

You held his stare for a moment, if only for dramatic effect, before flicking your head at the gate. “Just get out and open the gate,” you ordered.

His eyes narrowed briefly, lips parting before he drawled a husky, “yes, ma’am.”

You watched as he unbuckled and opened the car door, making his way to the front of the car. He hovered in front of the gate for a few seconds, likely figuring out the latch, before he began rolling the gate back. In no time, he was back in the car and strapped in, and you gave the car some eager gas to push the both of you through and out the gates of hell.

You made a turn onto a long road, which paved way into a whole lot of unknown. You figured that anywhere would be better than this place, so you stepped on the acceleration and sent yourselves fleeing down the tar and toward the luminescent, rounded moon perched on the dark horizon. You couldn’t help but glance up at the rear view mirror, witnessing as the Russian compound gradually grew smaller and smaller with the hasty distance you sought to put between it and you.

“This is it,” you murmured, mostly to yourself, eyes turning back to the road before you. So much relief had been channeled into those very words, but your fingers still gripped the steering wheel with the fear that something would go wrong. It always did. The universe had a way of implying that neither you nor Ben were set up for a happy ending.

A warm hand slid over the hump of your thigh, fingers squeezing gently to offer a sense of comfort and support.

“Hey,” Ben called to you gently. You turned to glance at him, only long enough to catch the soft glint in his eyes before you turned back to the road. “Quit gnawin’ at your lip. We’re freed the fuck outta there. It’s just you and me now, yeah? We got this.”

You smiled weakly at his reassurance, making the conscious decision to ease off the tension in your grip on the steering wheel. “Yeah,” you murmured half-heartedly. There was not much that could convince you now, other than the events of the future itself. But for Ben, you would try your best to hope for only an upward trajectory from here on out.

The buzzing of a cellphone called your attention to the rear view mirror, where you zoned in on the backpack on the backseat. Ben’s head swivelled to glimpse the bag, his hand leaving your thigh to reach for it.

“Leave it,” you told him.

Ben paused and turned to face you with a puzzled glance. “Isn’t it Butcher?” He asked.

“It is,” you told him, eyes fixed on the road. “But that prick can wait. For now, I want you all to myself. We have lost time to make up for, and until we do, screw everybody else.”

You heard the Supe chuckle, the sound of the bag falling back against the seat gracing your ears soon after.

“I like this new you,” he commented, his hand moving to wrap around and rest against the headpiece of your seat. “God, it gets my balls up and runnin’. Wanna have a feel?”

You giggled at Ben’s forwardness, the sound almost foreign on your ears. You hadn’t realised just how much you missed these tiny, absurd moments between the two of you. You hadn’t had much to laugh about in a long time, or anybody to laugh with—life had been cold, dull and lonely. But now, as you drove into the horizon, with the man you so dearly loved at your side, you felt renewed within.

The Boys, the plan, everything. . . they could wait. Right now, nothing other than the two of you mattered.

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a/n ─ i have finally attempted gradient text and y’all are gonna be sick of me for it 😭 this wasn’t supposed to become such a long chapter, but i’ve had such a blast with this idea that i got a little carried away. i really hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as i’ve enjoyed writing it. part 3 will be out soon to conclude their little story! sorry for the delayed release, it’s been a scramble over here with christmas preparations + i fell ill a few days ago and have been fighting for my life ever since 🥲 (im just a lil sickly thing).

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @violent-darkness @babyfri3dric3 @cevansbaby-dove @artemys-ackles @nyx-the-alien @smutboba @mochminnie @kamisobsessed @littlewitchgirly @spxideyver @destinys-dreamer @star-yawnznn @weaponxgames

want to become part of the taglist for any future soldier boy works?

other works ─ the boys masterlist

© bluemerakis ─ do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

[atlantic-riona]

Though I Walk Through the Valley

Written for @inklings-challenge 2024. A Catholic college student and a vampire take a trip to the Underworld. Shenanigans ensue. There are four parts.

I. A Visitor of the Vampiric Variety

I opened the door to find Malachy standing on the steps, one hand raised to knock. He looked about as surprised to see me as I was him, and after a few moments spent staring blankly at each other—vague remnants of thoughts regarding grocery lists and the possibility of afternoon naps still floating about my mind, Lord only knows what was circling his—he pulled himself together to give me a strained imitation of his usual annoying smirk. “Fancy a trip to Hell?”

I slammed the door in his face.

Honestly, upon later reflection, I should have left it like that. I still had no intention of getting mixed up in his world, even if Isa—well. My best friend and I were cautiously on speaking terms now, but the argument we’d had loomed forbiddingly in the background of every interaction, even though by silent, mutual agreement we didn’t acknowledge it.

But curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the door again, just a crack. “What.”

In the twilight shadows of evening, his slightly ominous expression would have sent shivers down any onlooker’s spine. Here in the warm afternoon sun, it merely looked out of place. “There’s a problem.”

“Yes, it’s called an irritating vampire refusing to get off my doorstep,” I retorted. “Was there something new, or…?”

“The Circle,” he said simply, and my blood ran cold.

“Goodbye,” I said, and shut the door firmly. I could hear him calling me through the door about needing my help, but I ignored this. And when I heard the windows rattling, I picked up my spray bottle, helpfully labeled “HOLY WATER,” and pointed it meaningfully (label side facing the window) in his general direction. He got the hint. At least I assumed he did, because the windows stopped rattling soon after.

Still, just in case, I went around the house, double-checking that all the windows and doors had crosses nailed above them, or rosaries wrapped around their handles. Call me paranoid, but I’d seen a lot of movies, and I was taking no chances.

I didn’t see Malachy for three days. And good riddance, said I. So when he showed up at my doorstep, looking inordinately pleased with himself, I certainly was not pleased myself.

I leaned against the door, which was open just a crack, and said clearly, “Go away.”

“Lili, you’ll want to hear this,” he said, grinning. Somehow he’d recovered his equanimity in the past three days, and I didn’t think it was for any reason I’d like.

The grin annoyed me. I pointed at the miniscule amount of space between the door and its frame, and said, “You see this? It’s about how much interest I have in whatever you’re about to say. And it’s only open so you can hear me tell you to go away, which means realistically my interest is much lower.” I had briefly considered shouting at him through the closed door, but regretfully had set that plan aside. I didn’t want him trying to crawl through the windows again.

“It’s about Isa,” he said. 

Through the opening, I gave him the old stinkeye.

He laughed. “Charming as ever, I see.”

“Did Isa send you?” I asked coldly, and not without a little pointedness.

His composure slipped a fraction. “No,” he admitted after a long minute. “I’m here without her knowing.”

I knew I’d regret this, but I still unhooked the chain and pulled it all the way open. “What is it, then?”

I had forgotten the secondary reason for keeping the door mostly closed, but it quickly sprang to mind when Theresa’s excited shriek from the living room deafened me. “Is that Malachy?”

“No,” I yelled back. “Go do your homework!”

But it was a fruitless endeavor to tell your little sister to do something as dull as solving for x when there was a live, breathing—well, dead and unbreathing—vampire at the front door, and it was doubly fruitless when said little sister had been obsessed with all things supernatural (especially the fanged variety) for years. Theresa came sprinting out of the living room, vaulting an armchair in her enthusiasm and skidding to a stop in her pink-and-white polka-dotted socks. “Malachy!” she cried happily. “Come in, come in, I have so many questions!” She’d already nabbed a clipboard from somewhere and was now squinting through her glasses to locate a pen.

As the point I wanted to make was already moot—namely, that inviting vampires into your house traditionally never ended well—I settled for giving Malachy a stare of loathing as I removed the cross hanging over the door, before stepping out of his way. He, in turn, gave me a brilliant smile, one that prominently displayed his sharp white teeth, before stepping inside.

He clearly thought Theresa was cute, but easily brushed aside, since immediately after greeting her with amusement, he turned to me, as if to continue our earlier conversation. How quickly he’d forgotten! I didn’t feel motivated to disabuse him of his misunderstanding, so I merely settled back, arms crossed, to watch the show.

“You remember how we found out that Isa’s condition is because she’s a descendant of—” he began, but broke off with a startled look when Theresa briskly pinched his arm through the leather jacket he was wearing. “What the hell?”

“Language!” I hissed.

Theresa ignored the both of us, scribbling something down on her clipboard. “So you’ve got pain receptors,” she said, clicking her tongue thoughtfully. “Which means your brain is capable of receiving and translating signals, even though it’s technically not alive, according to my research. Or is it alive? Does the blood you consume reanimate your life systems? Is that why you need to constantly replenish it?” She looked up inquiringly through the bright pink frames of her glasses at Malachy, who stared at her.

“Er—yes. I do need blood to…operate, as it were.” For the first time in my memory, he seemed discomfited.

Theresa nodded. “Right, blood’s very important to staying alive and operational, but it’s not really the only thing you need. How about oxygen? Do you need to breathe?”

He blinked at her, and then at me. Like I was going to rescue him from his flailing. I was enjoying myself too much. “To speak, mostly. And habit. I don’t actually require it.”

“Interesting.” Theresa scribbled something furiously on the clipboard, elbowing me when I tried to peer over her shoulder at what she’d written. “Then I wonder how you’re accomplishing cellular respiration. Of course, blood transports oxygen, so I thought that might be why vampires needed it, but if you don’t need to breathe, then how are you getting that oxygen? And how are your organs functioning? Or are they functioning? Are they rotting inside you right now?” She took a step forward, as if to start looking, and Malachy actually backed up a step.

“There will be no autopsies in this house,” I said loudly, “especially if you’ll be finding rotting organs. I just cleaned the carpets.”

“My organs are not rotting!”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care, they probably are, but that’s your problem, not mine.”

“They are not—”

“I have a scalpel, we could check,” Theresa piped up, beaming. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your regeneration and healing capabilities, anyway.”

We both looked at her.

“How old is she?” Malachy asked me in an undertone.

“She’s turning twelve on Friday,” I said, not bothering to keep my voice down. “And speaking of, Theresa, if you want a party Friday afternoon, you’d better finish your homework ahead of time. You can bother Malachy afterwards.” I’d probably pay her to do it, if he was overstaying his welcome.

She gave me a pleading look. “Just a couple more questions?”

Behind her, Malachy was shaking his head no. I bestowed a beautiful smile on him, and told her, “Of course! You can have three.”

Theresa was physically incapable of sticking to three pre-planned questions. I let her herd him into the living room, talking at the speed that only middle-schoolers could achieve, and went into the kitchen to grab some supplies.

I came back out to find Malachy eyeing Theresa warily as she industriously wrote out calculations on her clipboard. He was sitting on one of the armchairs—the one that happened to be farthest from any doors or windows, I noticed. Coincidentally, these were all covered in crosses.

“Homework,” I said firmly, and she sent me a pleading look, but I shook my head at her, and she sighed. Collecting all of her things, she dragged herself out of the living room. As I set the vase down on the end table. I could hear her sadly thumping her way upstairs and into her room.

Malachy nodded at me, which was probably the closest I’d ever get to a “thank you” from him. Then he sniffed the air, and frowned over at the end table by the couch. “Is that…?”

I arranged the garlic flowers in the vase to display their purple petals a little more prominently. “Just testing out some questions of my own. Say, if I spilled some beans just now”—I had, there were a few on the floor by the couch—“would you feel compelled to clean them up?”

He had been regarding the garlic flowers with narrowed eyes, but turned away from his contemplation long enough to give me a scornful look. “I’m not a jiāngshī, am I?”

That piqued my curiosity. “There are different types of vampires?”

Malachy laughed. “As many as there are legends about them. Hollywood doesn’t have a copyright on the supernatural world, you know.”

“Great,” I muttered. So not everything I knew about vampires would apply to every one. Lovely. Guess I’d better start stocking beans in my purse alongside garlic and rosaries.

“That’s not really important right now,” he said, and I stared at the carpet. Normally Malachy never passed up the chance to mock my understanding of the supernatural world—if he was doing so now, the world must be ending soon. And I didn’t want any part in the trouble he’d probably brought with him, but on the other hand—Isa.

Just because my best friend had started dating a vampire—and been drawn further and further into a world that seemed bent on killing her—didn’t mean I wouldn’t do everything in my power to help her.

And right now, she wasn’t doing too well. Apparently, one of her direct ancestors had been attacked by a very powerful vampire, one who’d been thought to have perished ages ago. But now he’d resurfaced, and Isa was experiencing side effects from it. Odd dreams and lethargy being the least of them.

That was my understanding of the issue. The Circle had other ideas. 

“What’s the problem?”

“You remember the Circle,” he said, and I grimaced. Yeah, I remembered them—the organization of witches that basically wanted to run the supernatural world, and the ones who’d taken issue with some of my critiques of said world. It was kind of hard to forget, since Isa and I had fought over her decision to work with them, among other things. The fight had culminated in some fairly harsh things being said on both sides—but I didn’t like to think about that.

Suffice to say, I disliked the Circle and the feeling was mutual.

“What about them?” I said, as neutrally as I could manage.

“They have a lead on Isa’s condition,” he said, “but it involves a trip to the Underworld.”

After a polite pause, in which I gave him ample time to crack a smile at his joke, I reluctantly concluded that he was being serious. “Underworld? As in Hades and the three Fates? Hercules?” I’d really only ever seen the Disney movie.

“Hades, Annwn, Hel, Yomi, Elysium—whatever name you call it by, yes. There’s a key there that might help in a ritual, apparently. Something about using a key from the land of the dead to break the connection between her blood and the vampire’s. Sometime in the next week, the Circle—and Isa—are going to try to summon this key. I’d really rather avoid the risks of Isa attracting the kinds of beings that populate the Underworld, and so I’m proposing to nip in and retrieve it before this becomes a mess of drastic proportions.”

I crossed my arms and resisted the urge to curl up on the couch. It wasn’t that cold, even for October. “Okay. So what do you need me for?”

He gave me a long look. “You’ve heard of Orpheus?”

I shook my head. 

“The state of education is shameful, these days,” he muttered. “To cut a long story short—Orpheus was a musician whose wife died. He traveled to the Underworld to ask for her life back. He got it, but at a price. On the way up, if he turned to look back at her, she’d be lost to him forever. Three guesses as to how the story ends.”

“With the redemptive power of love and faith leading to a happy ending?” I said defiantly.

“Wrong. He looks back just once, and no more wife. She was sent back to the underworld forever. Then he died.”

“Of grief?”

“No, actually, he got ripped apart by a group of madwomen later in his life. For disrespecting the gods, I believe. But I digress.”

I slouched back, the soft cushion of the couch dipping under my weight. “That’s a terrible story.”

“The point is, that you must have heard of any number of stories where human champions descend underground to a supernatural world. Alice in Wonderland? Labyrinth?” He caught my surprised look at the casual references to modern fiction and arched an eyebrow. “I’ve lived a long while. You fill up the time somehow, and television’s everywhere now.”

I tried to imagine Malachy sitting in front of the TV, watching as the cartoon Alice in her poofy blue dress spoke to Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and couldn’t quite manage it. For one, where’d he get the TV from? It’s not like he had a house—would the cable guys set one up in a crypt?

Did he even live in a crypt? When he wasn’t crashing on Isa’s couch, I mean.

“The point is that getting to the Underworld’s not so bad, dangers and guardians notwithstanding. In some cases, it’s disturbingly easy to do so. It’s getting out that’s the problem. See, you need someone who…well. Can withstand temptation. Strong moral character, and all that.”

“…” said I, staring at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Some people would take that as a compliment.”

“Wow, the undead creature of the night that makes it a habit to drain people of all their blood thinks I have strong moral character because I—tell him that what he does is wrong? Amazing. I’m truly astounded you managed to find one person to fit your criteria with that level of moral understanding.”

Then again, it was a world that apparently thought vampires were sexy precisely because of the undead blood-drinking thing, so maybe he had something there. Case in point: every time I went to the internet to research supernatural creatures, I had to wade through pages of supernatural romance shows, books, art, what-have-you, before I ever got to what might be considered even slightly academic. If not practical—somehow I doubted that the researchers at Harvard had ever had to deal with the problem of a vampire inviting himself over to tea once a week. I declined to share this thought with him, however.

He arched an eyebrow at me. “Well? Will you do it?”

“What kind of temptation are we talking about here?” I was reluctant to commit, even though I knew in the end I’d do it.

“Any and all.”

Helpful.

Actually, I’d share that thought with him. “Helpful,” I said. “Elaborate?”

Malachy gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Death’s more attractive than you might think. And if not that, then fear.”

“Of…?”

“The unknown? Being left behind? Of it all being a trick? Remember, Orpheus turned around.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And the chances of getting out?”

He gave me his most charming smile. “I have every confidence in your talents, Lili.”

I arched an eyebrow of my own.

“Being the most stubborn, uptight, Miss-Morally-Righteous woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet in death,” he said, still smiling. “Also, you know, very strong belief. And you know how important that is, when it comes to my world.”

I did. Crosses, as far as I understood, hurt vampires—at least the kind I was familiar with—because (depending on what belief one subscribed to) they symbolized the resurrection of the dead, which vampires couldn’t partake in due to their unnatural state, or the power of God, or Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross. Explanations varied. 

While crosses and other holy objects (Christian, so far as I had experienced—jury was still out on other religions, though with Malachy’s reveal of different kinds of vampires, now I wondered) all had the ability to make vampires flinch back, it was the item holder’s faith that gave it real power. And it wasn’t just faith in the item, but what it represented.

Months ago, Malachy had seen me keep back a vampire with nothing more than the Sign of the Cross and two popsicle sticks held in a cross shape. So I suppose to him, that was a sign—no pun intended—of my strong faith.

I wasn’t so sure about that. Somehow, I didn’t think that being able to hold back creatures of the night was more faith-filled than, say, volunteering my time at a soup kitchen, or helping old ladies cross the street, or any number of good works that I could be doing instead of coming home at the end of a day filled with classes and multiple shifts, collapsing on my bed, and promptly passing out, repeat ad nauseam.

But there wasn’t really any point to having a theological debate with this particular vampire about anything, much less Matthew 7:21-23.

“All right,” I said, “I’ll do it.”

That really should have been the end of it. I told him I didn’t have a day off until Saturday, two days from then (and conveniently for me, the day after Theresa’s birthday party, because there was no way I was planning, hosting, and then cleaning up a party for middle-schoolers after literally going to Hades). We set a time, he told me what to bring, and that was that.

Only it wasn’t.

Because Friday afternoon was when the school called to tell me Theresa went missing.

The first thing I did was—well. Panic, to be frank. This wasn’t the first time Theresa had gotten in trouble, and since the last time it had happened, it had involved a vampire of the non-Malachy variety—that is to say, not reasonable in any way and really rather bloodthirsty—I felt I was a little justified in doing so. Then, of course, I searched the house, called the school back, did all the normal things to check if her disappearance was due to something, well, normal.

Then, and only then, I called Isa.

The phone rang, and rang, and then—click!

My hopes were dashed when the voice I heard was the pre-recorded kind. I left a message, and then for good measure, texted her—though Isa had a flip phone, so I didn’t have real hopes of her texting back. And then I immediately called again. And again.

The other line connected, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Isa. I know it’s not a great time, but—”

“She walks through the long dread valley of night,

hand-in-hand with the hunter and his queen.

She sleeps under snow, she sleeps under ice—

and she fades away from the springtime green.”

The voice on the other end was soft—almost mechanical in its recitation. Yet there was something mesmerizing in the quiet rhythm of the words, hardly discernable through the crackling of the poor connection. As soon as the last word was spoken, the voice started over from the beginning. I don’t know how long I stood there, listening to the strange voice.

In fact, I was still listening, transfixed, when I sensed something behind me.

I whipped around, one of the kitchen knives in hand, to find Malachy regarding me with a raised eyebrow. Without lowering the knife, I lifted the phone away from my ear. I could still hear the voice tinnily in the background. “What was the last thing I said to you when you were over here on Monday?”

“It was Thursday, and I believe it was the equivalent of, ‘go back to whatever hell you spawned from,’ only the politer equivalent due to attentive young ears,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in the banter. “Have you heard from Isa?”

Damn. So it was really him. With trembling fingers, I put the knife back in the block. “No. I’ve been calling. Listen to this.”

Without the usual malicious pleasure I would have taken in doing so, I shoved the phone up next to his ear. 

He listened to it a few times, ended the call, and scrubbed at his face, which was looking a little paler than usual. For a corpse, at any rate. “She’s missing.”

“So’s Theresa,” I said, feeling cold. I put the phone away, reluctant to even look at it. It was strange to have something so obviously supernatural happen over such a modern device as the phone. “What do you think is going on?”

“I found out that the Circle was ahead of schedule and carried out their ritual at midnight. Apparently, they lost track of Isa at noon today.” He said this in a way that indicated to me that someone in the Circle had been left very unhappy when he discovered this. “When did your sister go missing?”

“I don’t know the exact time, but the school called me around one.”

“Not promising.”

“Do you think—”

“—it’s related? Probably. At least, you’d better hope, because I only know a potential method to track Isa, not your little tagalong.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Where do you think—?”

“Better grab your jacket,” he said. “Looks like we’re making an early start on our road trip to Hell.”

[buggyjuggie]

the skater punk is so cool i just read it !!. can you do the mk1 earthrealmers with a reader who does rythm/jam skating on roller skates? and they're like punk/metalhead and suped extroverted?

──★ ˙ ̟ Mk1 Earthrealms x GN! Rhythm/jam skating reader

「 ✦ Liu Kang ✦ 」

* He’s absolutely mesmerised by your skills, watches you with a love stricken look.

* Is down to give it a shot and long as your the one teaching.

* I feel like he’d have those rgb skates with the flashy lights.

* It doesn’t matter if he likes your taste in music he will listen to it regardless, wants to show that you are important to him.

* If people start talking about you negatively he’ll just give them a beaming death stare ( like in the mk1 story mode when he looked at Raiden and Kung lao)

* He doesn’t judge people by they’re looks, personality ect. He judges them by they’re actions. So when you started dating people we’re surprised that Liu kang would date someone with a style so opposite to yours, but he’s the happiest he’s ever been because he sees you have a pure and good intentioned heart.

「 ✦ Shang Tsung ✦ 」

* *In mc80sentertainment Shang Tsungs voice* „Mmm Liu kang look at what my partner can do isn’t it fantastic ? Much more impressive than your little farmer.”

* Tries to act dismissive and like it isn’t fun for him but in reality he REALLY likes it .

* Its calming for him to just be in a ring with you and spin, move your legs and just unwind, being a evil sorcerer is tiring.

* I feel like he’d get really creative with how we wants his rollerblades to look would probably add all sorts of little spikes, chains, maybe even use some magic so that green mist would follow him.

* Speaking of magic he sometimes messes with you by casting a spell on you roller skates (its his love language)

「 ✦ Johnny Cage ✦ 」

* Johnny is 50/50 when it comes to skating in general but because he loves to perform he tries to learn and practice as much possible.

* His flexibility comes in handy for certain dance moves.

* Sometimes he rents out the whole place just so you could have the whole ring to yourself. He makes specific playlists consisting of songs both of you enjoy.

* Absolutely LOVES your style and brags to everyone how cool you look.

* Both of you were made for each other: extroverts who perform match made in heaven.

* As always yes he post’s pics of you on his socials and you do the same back.

* When he sees you permofrming he gets struck with ideas for movie/scenes.

「 ✦ Kung lao ✦ 」

* If he ever sees someone judging you he’ll side eye them HARD.

* By the time both of you are done skating the ring will be full of cherry blossom leaves (they just sorta apear when Kung lao’s around)

* Helps you paint and customise your rollerblades as well as going shopping with you if they need repairing.

* Bring snacks for him even if he’s not roller blading he’s gonna be hungry and cranky and he never remembers to bring himself food.

* Shares the same taste in music so anything you put on he’ll like.

* Like Johnny both of you get along great thanks to your extroverted personalities.

「 ✦ Raiden ✦ 」

* He’s a natural at it he finds it really relaxing and fun to participate in your hobby.

* He sometimes invites his sister to join, it tightens your bond because he trusts you with important people in his life.

* Raiden is more introverted so if there’s a lot of people in the ring he’ll just sit on the benches and admire you.

* If you make him a playlist of your favourite songs even if he doesn’t like all of them he’ll still give it a shot.

* You mess with Raiden while skating by going behind him and taking out his hair tie (i wanna see him with long hair SUE ME)

*Uses his lighting powers to make little particles that just zab the ground, or makes mini fireworks to elevate your performances.

「 ✦ Kenshi Takahashi ✦ 」

* I feel like Kenshi would not be into roller blading not because he can’t but it’s just not his thing he prefers to just watch you.

* He enjoys the music you listen to but the side effect of that is when he can’t fall asleep he’ll blast it really loudly trough his headphones.

* He’s very supportive of the things you can do ,brings you water and snacks.

* At first Kenshi’s ancestors weren’t on board with him dating you until they saw how happy he was.

* You sometimes steal his red coat because its suits your style and you even customised it.

* He ended up buying a new one, if he ever catches you napping he’ll put his coat over you to make sure you don’t get cold.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Im so sorry this took so long to post but it’s here. I might start posting a bit slower because im already behind schedule (i was in another city for a concert) and winter break is ending so I’ll be busy but I’ll still try my best to put something out at least one or two request a week.

Thank you for reading :3

[hughiecampbelle]

Imagine being Annie's non-Supe sibling and getting seriously injured:

Requested: anon

"Y/n, y/n wake up. It's okay, you're okay."

"My head hurts." You say, your voice sleepy. Despite every instinct in your body telling you to lay down again to sleep, you push yourself up off the floor. A puddle of blood sits where your forehead had been. It makes Annie sick. The gash in your head needed stitches, and you needed to be checked for signs of a concussion, but you were both trapped. Chained to the floor by the shape shifter. She should have realized sooner the person she was talking to wasn't you. She wasn't sure how long you'd been taken, only that when she woke up you were lying on the floor, slipping in and out of consciousness. All the color had been drained from your face. She tried to light up her hands, but just as soon as there was light, they faded. She had to get you out of here. She had to get you to a hospital. "I'm tired, Annie." You know you shouldn't whine, that you sound childish, but you knew your sister would understand. She gets closer to you, looking you in the eyes, making sure you understand her.

"I know, I know. I'm gonna find a way out of this."

[mind-empty-just-fictional-people]

Two Hearts, One Home (2)

part one

series masterlist

main masterlist

summary: you and ben have to face the reality of what he heard

pairing: soldier boy x female supe!reader

rating: R for language, mature themes (?)

word count: 4.0k

warnings: pregnancy, language, vought torturing supe’s | mentions of/alludes to - sex, birth control, infertility issues, miscarriage, loss of a child, unable to breastfeed

timeline: set a few days after part one

author’s note: part two!! thank you for all the love on the first part and encouraging me to turn this into a mini-series 😚🫶

gif source

You tossed and turned, wide awake and laying in an empty bed. You huffed and threw the covers to the side before leaving the master bedroom and going to look for Ben. You found him quickly; he was reading one of the books that had come in the mail, the lamp on behind him as he was laser-focused on the pages.

“Ben? Can you come to bed?” you asked quietly.

“Oh my god, you’re still awake?” he whisper-shouted. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine Ben, I just want to sleep next to you!”

“I’ll come to bed soon, okay? I just need to finish this chapter, it’s on nutrition so I think the more we know the better.”

“Ben,” you sighed as you walked over to him. “Can you read it in bed? Please?”

“But you can’t sleep if the bedroom light’s on,” he replied.

“I can’t sleep without you either, Ben, and I’d rather have the light on than an empty bed,” you said. “Please come sit in bed and read so I can be close to you?”

“You really can’t sleep without me?” He smiled widely. You rolled your eyes a little.

“I mean I could if I had to, but you’re right here and I want to be with you!”

“Okay,” he sighed.

As suspected, you fell asleep quite quickly when Ben was seated beside you. Something about his warm legs against your back really relaxed you.

**

When you woke up the next morning, the bed was empty again. You let out a slightly frustrated sigh.

“Please be in the kitchen,” you muttered to yourself, hoping Ben hadn’t secretly retreated to the living room to read all night once you fell asleep.

“Good morning my beautiful girlfriend!” Ben exclaimed when you walked into the kitchen.

“I look like shit right now,” you replied but couldn’t help the smile on your face. “What’s for breakfast? Is there pizza left from last night?” You opened the fridge but Ben stopped you from taking out the tupperware.

“I read that you should avoid eating leftovers,” he told you.

“What? That can’t be true?” you laughed a little.

“Sorry, hun.” He shrugged. “I made you scrambled eggs and toast, the book said those are good.”

“Thank you.” You smiled and put a hand on his cheek. He bent down and kissed you, wrapping a gentle arm around your waist. “I love you, Ben.”

“I love you,” he replied, also smiling. “Oh, Hughie got back to me. He said he could swing by on his lunch break later today,” he informed you as you both took your seats at the table. “He said there’s actually a whole chain of clinics across the country specifically for pregnant Supe’s and that it’s all very safe and kept confidential. So good news! You can see a gynecologist and not, you know… get kidnapped.”

“He’s positive it’s safe?” you asked, Ben nodded. “Let’s hope he’s right.”

“How’d you sleep last night? Did the light bother you?” Ben changed the subject, not wanting to focus on how scared he was for your safety.

“Well when I woke up the love of my life wasn’t beside me.” You sighed dramatically, making Ben smile. “But yeah, I slept well.”

“Sorry about last night, I should’ve just put the fuckin’ book down,” he laughed dryly.

“Don’t apologize.” You shook your head. “Ben, I am so grateful for you stepping up! I mean this whole pregnancy thing is kinda terrifying for me right now and you’ve been my fucking rock! Thank you for reading up on what I should be eating, honestly it slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your mind?” He furrowed his brows, you instantly knew what he was getting at.

“It’s not pregnancy brain fog,” you laughed a little. “It’s more like all I can think about is how fucking scary this really is! I mean, look what happened with Homelander!”

“Hey, let’s just,” he took your hand, “take a breath, we don’t have to think about that yet. Today we focus on getting you a doctor’s appointment.”

You nodded, silently thanking him.

**

“Hughie! Come on in!” Ben opened the door.

“Hey guys.” He smiled, walking in. “First off, oh my god!” He looked at you. “Congratulations! Like wow! This is incredible!” He hugged you, causing you to smile widely.

“Thank you, Hughie,” you said, hugging him back.

He congratulated Ben too before the three of you sat down at the kitchen table, now clean of breakfast evidence.

“So, like I told Ben on the phone,” Hughie spoke, looking at you as he opened the file folder he brought, “there’s something called ‘The Super-Abled Health Initiative’ which is basically just doctors for Supe’s. The closest gynecologist that takes part in this initiative is about a two hour drive.” He took out a pamphlet for the Initiative and another for the doctor’s office, sliding them across the table for you and Ben to take a look at. “Now, this specific office doesn’t only deal with Supe’s, however the doctor that takes Supe patients is a Supe herself. I figured you’d rather go to this one, but there’s another office that’s about a four hour drive that only takes Supe patients; however, they also have a strict no-Supe-doctors policy.”

“Yeah that definitely sounds sketchy,” you replied, referring to the second option. “So… how like… certain are you that this Initiative is safe?”

“One-hundred-percent.” He nodded, earning suspicious looks from both Supe’s sitting across from him. “It’s been going on for over five years and there isn’t any evidence of foul play.”

“Only five years?” Ben asked.

“It was created around the same time as Supe Affairs,” Hughie said. “Look, obviously this is a scary situation considering you’re both in the top ten most powerful Supe’s in Vought history and Soldier Boy is ridiculously famous, but this is also the safest option available.” Ben tensed up at the mention of his old name, you put a hand on his knee absent-mindedly to remind him he wasn’t that man anymore.

“So it’s all still pretty new?” Ben knitted his brows with concern. All he wanted was to keep you safe; if that meant possibly losing the baby he could live with that. He couldn’t live with losing you.

Hughie continued on and explained the Supe pregnancy statistics. How often the expectant mother died when she was a human carrying a Supe, how often the baby was a Supe, more and more reasons for you to freak the hell out about the whole thing.

“Yeah, I can’t do this.” You shook your head and stood up. Ben looked up at you with concern. He reached out to hold your hand, and you responded by putting said hand to his cheek. “Just- Just make the appointment or whatever for me, please. I’m gonna go lie down before I have a full-fledged panic attack over the fact I may be dooming all of humanity with Homelander Two: Possibly Worse Edition.”

You hurried out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, closing the door behind you. When you were out of Hughie’s earshot you let yourself cry, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“I’m so sorry.” Hughie looked at Ben.

“No, it’s not you,” he replied, shaking his head. “So do we just call and make an appointment?”

Hughie looked a little confused by the question, then realized that Ben would’ve never had the need to make a doctor’s appointment in his entire life.

“I can call for you if you want,” Hughie offered.

“Thanks.”

**

After Hughie left, Ben went to go talk to you.

“Honey?” he said quietly, opening the door. “Hughie just left, he said to tell you ‘bye’.”

“Sorry for leaving you alone out there,” you mumbled. You looked up at him from where you laid on the bed.

“Don’t be, I handled it like a pro.” Ben grinned, taking a seat next to you. You smiled through the tears. You loved how he could make such an intense situation seem so lighthearted.

“Thank you,” you whispered. You reached out and took his hand in yours, pulling him down to lay next to you. He positioned himself on his side so he could face you, not letting go of your hand. “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he said. “Hughie made the appointment for tomorrow at two, is that okay?” You nodded, still smiling. “When we go in, we’re only supposed to use our first names and since neither of us really have a last name, they’ll assign us a series of numbers when we get there. They do not want us to utter my Supe name because apparently I’ll draw too much attention.”

“Yeah you tend to draw a crowd, don’t you?” You smiled.

**

“There’s your baby,” Dr.Roberts told you, pointing at the screen.

“Is…Is that the heartbeat?” you asked, she nodded. “That’s what you heard that morning?” You looked at Ben, who was smiling and had tears brimming his eyes.

“Told ya,” he replied.

“Oh my god,” you giggled a little.

“Your baby looks healthy,” the doctor said.

“Boy or girl?” Ben asked.

“Don’t tell him!” you said quickly. “I- I think I want it to be a surprise.

“It’s actually too early to know the sex,” the doctor replied, smiling. “What matters right now is keeping the baby healthy. The best way to do that is take care of yourself, Y/n. I know you’re used to being invincible but right now your baby is not. You need to start thinking like a regular human.”

“Meaning, what?” you asked.

“Well, for one; daily vitamins. I can give you a list of ones that have worked for other Supe’s.”

After the ultrasound, Dr.Roberts answered all the questions you and Ben had, as well as explained some things about the way this specific office handled Supe pregnancy.

“The biggest thing to remember for when the baby comes - do not breastfeed! Many, many Supe’s have traces of V in what they give their baby which always ends up either killing the baby or strengthening any power they have. Most of the time it’s the former.” The smile plastered on your face fell into disappointment and you zoned out a bit. “You’ll both have to sign these papers,” Dr.Roberts handed them to Ben, “not right now, you can have some time to read over them or involve a lawyer if you want. It basically just says that you are both aware you have Compound V in your system, how that will affect your baby, that you are the father, and that Y/n is willingly having this baby.”

“Is this something all the parents sign?” Ben asked. “Seems a little extreme.”

“It’s just for Supe’s so that they can’t sue us if they’re baby does end up also being a Supe.”

“Oh, I guess that makes sense,” Ben muttered.

“Here’s that list of vitamins,” Dr.Roberts handed you the paper as you were pulled from your thoughts and back to reality. “As well as some foods to avoid and foods to eat more frequently. You may notice the food list is a bit different for us. It’s not an exact science, but the baby tends to be healthier when the mom eats these specific foods.”

“What are the chances this baby won’t be a Supe?” you asked as you looked away from the papers in front of you and at the doctor. She sighed, looking nervous. “Like, off the record, what’s your personal opinion?”

“Off the record? I’d say there’s no way this baby isn’t going to be a Supe. Probably the strongest one we’ve seen, considering their dad is Soldier Boy and their mother is… well, you know.”

**

Ben kept his eyes on the road as he reached his hand over to hold yours.

“All the scary stuff aside,” he started, “I’m so fucking excited about this baby… are you?”

You took a second to think before nodding, “Yeah, I am. And, all the scary stuff aside, there’s no one I would rather be having this baby with, Ben.” You kissed his hand. “I love you.”

“I love you so much,” he replied. “We need to stop at the store, don’t we?”

“Yeah we don’t have most of the stuff on this list,” you laughed a little. “I’m pushing the cart this time, though.”

“You’re hilarious.” He shook his head, letting out a fake laugh.

**

Ben’s head was resting on your lap as you played with his hair and focused on the movie you two were watching. (A horror movie, much to Ben’s dismay; he claimed it might scare the baby.)

“Do you wanna tell Butcher and the others?” Ben asked. “Cause Hughie already knows, so… should we tell everyone?”

“I think it’s still pretty early but I guess the more people who know the better. If Vought does find out, they’ll have a harder time covering it up if Billy Butcher knows about it,” you laughed a little.

“Yeah he wouldn’t let ‘em get away with hurting you.” Ben smiled up at you, turning away from the TV. “Ooh we need baby names too!”

“Have any in particular?”

“Jim?”

“A little plain I think, but I guess James then could be Jim for short.”

“Micheal? Or, if they’re a girl, Michelle?”

“Oh I like Michelle!” You smiled.

**

You two ended up calling Butcher that night and telling him the good news.

As the weeks went by and your belly slowly started growing, Ben talked more and more to the baby. You woke up one night to him mumbling to your stomach; his head resting on your chest (carefully, as not to hurt your boobs), his hand cradling your belly.

“God, I hope you have your mother’s eyes,” he whispered. “She always tells me how much she loves my eyes but believe me hers are so much more beautiful. So bright and full of love. I hope you have her laugh too!” He paused, running his hand over your skin. “I know you’re probably gonna be a Supe…but I’m praying to any god that’s up there you’re not. Life’s so messy when you’re a Supe, kid. So please, please don’t be one!”

You moved your hand into his hair and felt him tense up for a moment.

“Damn it I think I just woke your mom up, I’ll be quiet now,” Ben whispered.

“Mhm, keep talking,” you mumbled. “Love your voice.”

He sat up and kissed your cheek gently before laying back down.

“Go easy on your mom for me, okay?” he whispered, once again talking to the baby.

**

“Pamela?” Ben suggested.

“No!”

“Meredith?”

“What? No!”

“Phyllis!”

You were once again trying out different baby names, Ben with his head on your lap so “the baby can be part of the conversation”.

“Oh my god!” you exclaimed. “Are you just naming characters from The Office!?”

“…No,” Ben mumbled before grinning.

“Ben! I need you to be serious here; this baby is gonna get bullied to death if we name them Phyllis.”

“Okay.” He rolled his eyes. “Amelia, Rachel, Amy, Katherine, Emily, it’s not that hard to name a baby girl! A boy is a different story. Most guy names suck ass.”

“Yeah, Ben is a terrible name,” you replied, he looked genuinely hurt for a moment. “Ben, I’m kidding!” you said quickly.

“I know, I was just scaring ya.” He smirked, you rolled your eyes.

“How about William?” you asked. You’d actually put a lot of thought into it, and if you were having a boy you really wanted to name them after the man who saved you and Ben.

“As in Butcher?” Ben laughed a little. “You wanna name our perfect little piece of heaven after Billy Butcher!?”

“Yeah…” you mumbled, a little disappointed he was so against it. “I mean Butcher is the reason we met in the first place, the reason we aren’t being disected like lab rats, and I know deep down he’s a good person. I think our baby would be proud to be named after him.”

“You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?”

“Yeah… for a couple months now.”

“Honey! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Cause I was afraid you’d react exactly how you just did,” you scoffed a little. “Can you sit up? I need to get a drink.”

He sat up off your lap and you got off the couch, heading to the kitchen.

“Damn it,” Ben mumbled to himself before following you. “I’m sorry for reacting like that, I was just surprised.”

“You weren’t surprised Ben, you looked disgusted at the idea of our baby being named after Billy,” you scoffed. “How about last names?” You changed the subject. “We need a last name too, our baby can’t just have one name.”

“I haven’t thought about the last name much, you?”

You paused and pretended to think. “Krasinski?”

“I second that! Boom, done; our last name’s Krasinski!” Ben smiled.

“I was kidding!” you giggled.

**

You and Ben were back at the store getting food and stocking up on baby supplies for when the little one arrived in a few weeks.

“Shit, we forgot to get milk,” Ben said after a while of being away from the dairy section. “I’m gonna go grab it; you stay here and pick the jello you like, okay?”

“Mkay,” you mumbled, concentrating on the array of colored gelatin cups in front of you. “Love you!” you called out when he was a few feet away. He turned back around to kiss you quickly before leaving to get the milk.

“He’s a keeper, huh?” Someone behind you said. You turned and were met with the woman Ben had mentally scared with his ‘super sperm’ theory.

“He really is,” you replied.

“And you really are pregnant! Congratulations, hun!” She smiled.

“Thank you,” you replied, also smiling. “I- I’m sorry for what he said all those months ago,” you laughed awkwardly. “He… doesn’t have much of a filter sometimes and I’m sorry we freaked you out.”

“Oh, no! I didn’t leave because of what he said.” She shook her head, still smiling. “When I got a good look at his face, I realized who he was and why he looked so familiar.”

You froze, eyes widening. “Oh god,” you whispered.

“Don’t worry I haven’t said anything to anyone I promise! Even though my book club would love to see him in person!” she let out a soft chuckle. “You know at first I couldn’t believe my eyes! I mean the Soldier Boy? In my neighborhood!? But, I’m glad you two are happy together. I think he deserves to live a quiet life after all the people he’s saved.”

“Hey sweetheart,” Ben came up behind you and pressed a kiss to your temple, “I got the milk then I realized we need orange juice too, so I got some of that.” He put them both in the cart then placed an open hand on the small of your back.

“Honey this is…” you trailed off, asking for the woman’s name.

“Melissa,” she replied, holding her hand out for Ben to shake. “Nice to meet you…”

“Ben, and nice to meet you too,” he shook her hand.

“She recognized you,” you whispered very quietly so only Ben could hear. You felt him tense up next to you as his eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Well, we’ve uh- we have somewhere to be,” Ben stuttered as his hand moved to your waist to guide you away from the woman. “Uh my parent’s house, actually. They’re both alive and well and in their early seventies.” He tripped over his words and he hurried you out of the aisle, leaving the cart behind and confusing Melissa.

Ben moved his arm to wrap around your shoulders and hold you tight against him.

“Ben-”

“Shh, she might be listening,” he whispered.

He led you out to the car and when you both got there he opened the door for you. He made sure you were safely seated inside with the door closed before walking over to the driver’s side and taking a seat.

“Ben?” you asked quietly, seeing the fear in his now teary eyes.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, hitting the steering wheel angrily. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry!”

“Ben-”

“A-Are you s-sure she recognized me?” he asked, looking at you.

You nodded. “She said she couldn’t believe Soldier Boy was in this neighborhood.”

“Shit!” Ben put his face in his hands, you put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Do you think she told anyone?” He turned his head and kissed your hand. “Fuck, Vought could already be on us!”

“Ben, I don’t think she meant anything by it,” you told him honestly. You moved your hand to the back of his head so you could run your fingers through his hair slowly. “She seemed in awe of you. She said she was happy you could live a quiet life after saving so many people.”

“You’re sure?” he asked, you nodded with a smile when he looked at you. “Fuck, I’m sorry for freaking out.”

“Don’t be.”

“It’s just- one wrong move, one wrong person recognizing either of us and that’s it! This whole life we’ve built together gets torn down, you get taken from me, I get put back under, and our child is doomed. We’re doomed. I’m so fuckin’ scared of losing you, Y/n.”

“I love you so much, Ben. And I know, this situation is fucking terrifying but don’t forget; you are the strongest man alive, Ben. We can get through this.”

“Should we go back inside? We really need that stuff, we’re dangerously low on food.”

You laughed a little. “I think we can, if you’re up for it.”

“Okay, let’s go back inside.”

“You’re sure?” you asked, not wanting him to feel pushed into going back in.

“Yeah, she’s probably harmless.”

**

“You two are officially Benjamin and Y/n Barnes,” Hughie said, handing you the legal documents he had forged. “Your baby now has a last name.”

“Thank you,” you replied. “Well, get on in here; there’s alcohol on the table for everyone but me, and Ben started a betting pool for guessing the sex of the baby.”

“Did he really?” Hughie laughed, closing the door behind him.

“Yep,” you laughed back.

The baby shower had been going well so far. Hughie was a little late because of him getting the documents, but he joined the others in the living room as you did the same. You sat down next to Ben and he kissed you.

“Shit, was I supposed to bring a gift?” Hughie asked, seeing the pile in the corner of the room.

“You did; the forged legal documents,” you replied.

“We also bought them a stroller,” Annie told him. “It’s the big box.”

“And we are very grateful!” Ben assured them. “For the papers and the stroller.”

A sharp pain in your stomach made your teeth clench and you sucked in a sudden breath.

“You okay?” Ben asked you quietly. You nodded and he put his arm around your shoulder.

“You two settled on a name yet?” Frenchie asked.

“Actually we’d like some help in that department,” Ben said. “We’re still not sure.”

“If they’re a girl; Annie. If they’re a boy… Anno,” Annie laughed a little.

“Annie is a nice name, but I don’t think Anno even qualifies as a suggestion,” you replied, giggling.

“Alright, new game; everyone writes down actual suggestions and if we pick your suggestion you get a fraction of the betting pool,” Ben said.

“That sounds rigged,” Butcher chuckled.

Another sharp pain made you reach and squeeze Ben’s knee.

“Shit something’s wrong,” Ben mumbled. “Honey?”

“No, no, I’m fine. I- I’m gonna go get some water,” you replied. Before you could stand up Ben told you he’d get it for you.

“Love you,” he whispered and kissed your forehead before he left.

He brought you back a glass of ice water and you thanked him. As you held the drink another sharp pain ripped through your stomach and you dropped the cup, the clear glass breaking as it hit the floor.

“B-Ben?” you gasped.

“Oh god.” His eyes widened as he saw the blood beginning to stain the couch.

Part 3

[homelanderbutbig]

What Heaven Feels Like (G/T Homelander x Reader)

1158 words. Pure fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

You share some morning cuddles. Inspired by this ask.

It took quite a bit of convincing to get to this point with Homelander. Although he would chain himself together with you if it was possible, he was not shy to express his concerns about you moving into his penthouse. He was terrified about sleeping in the same bed with you, as he had never spent the night with anyone before. Even when he was in a relationship with Maeve, she always made it perfectly clear to him that she would be sleeping in her own apartment.

Because of his size and strength, it petrified him to think he might injure you during the night. His heightened senses make him a light sleeper, waking up at the slightest noise, but he still found himself unable to permit even the smallest of chances that he might roll over into you without noticing before it's too late.

And yet, despite his fears, Homelander still found himself yearning for that connection with you. The normalcy that couples get to engage in, waking up to the sight of your loved one, is something he has never been able to experience. And you're the only one he'd ever want to share such an intimate moment with.

Luckily, with some delicate discussion, you two were able to come to an agreement over your sleeping arrangements. Because his bed is practically two king sizes in length and width, it leaves you plenty of room to sleep together but with a barrier of a couple feet in between your bodies.

~~~

You aren't sure how you managed, but somehow you've woken up before Homelander. Maybe it's because he's used to the blaring sunlight creeping through his penthouse windows as dawn approaches, but you can't fight against the brightness flooding your senses. However, your displeasure at having to wake up so early doesn't last long, when you get look at Homelander sound asleep.

It's an incredible juxtaposition to how everybody else sees him. He is the world's most powerful supe, standing eight feet tall with an inhumanly formidable physique to match his intimidating height. Everyone around him cowers in fear of his mental instability, which was forced onto him from a childhood he never asked for. All of the burdens he carries in secret, constantly weighing heavily in the back of his mind as he navigates his pain alone.

And then, there's what you are observing in front of you. There is no creases on Homelander's forehead, no tension in his jaw, no twitching of his eyes, no furrowing of his brows from stress. His face is so perfectly content, so innocent. It really reminds you of the little boy he hides inside, shielding him from the evils of the outside world. But you can always tell when his inner child is looking back at you through his eyes, when he allows himself to be vulnerable with you. How tender his expression becomes when he trusts you, to let you take his pain away. When he lets himself be loved.

You regret not bringing your phone with you before you went to bed. There's nothing more that you want right now than to take a photo of how peaceful he looks in this moment.

Carefully, you reach over to hold onto his big hand that is outstretched near you, gently massaging it with the hopes of coaxing Homelander out of his slumber. As expected, he stirs immediately from feeling your touch, letting out a soft breath. His eyes slowly flutter open as he wakes, and quickly focus on you.

You can see him cycle through his emotions as he attempts to process what is happening right now. At first he is confused seeing you in bed with him, then he remembers what you both agreed to last night, then he is scared that he might have hurt you, and then he is relieved at learning you are fine from a quick scan with his X-ray vision. And finally, a restful smile spreads across his face when he lets himself unwind, taking in the sight of you.

He didn't kill you in his sleep. You made it, you survived.

"Morning, big guy," you hum, giving his index and middle finger a firm squeeze. Just those two fingers alone are the same width as your own hand, fitting snugly into your palm.

"Morning," he croons in return, his voice a bit more deep and gravelly than usual as he starts to fully wake up. His grin grows wider until his fangs are on display, sparkling at your greeting.

Homelander nudges his body closer to you, burying his face into your chest. His massive arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in as tightly as he can without breaking you in half.

This is the first time you've ever been held by him where you've not felt the familiar cushioned texture of his suit. The Compound V coursing through his veins has left his skin essentially impenetrable, free of any scars or unsightly faults. It feels like you are being cuddled by a living marble statue, with his smooth skin polished to perfection.

You swaddle his large head in your arms as he takes in a deep breath through his nose, getting himself immersed in your scent. You've never understood this fascination he has with how you smell, but then again you don't have superpowers or his elevated senses. Whatever it is about you, it is intoxicating to him. He can never seem to get enough.

"Have I ever told you how cute you are?" you question lightheartedly, smiling while you swirl your fingers through his not-yet-styled hair.

"I'm not cute," he huffs, angling his head to look up at you. "I'm the Homelander. I'm the strongest man in the world." He's doing his best to be stern, but his eyes betray him, shining brightly from his genuine happiness.

"You can be both you know," you retort, chuckling at his response. You start lightly scratching his scalp, getting a prompt reaction from him as he nuzzles himself back into your chest.

"Hmmm…" he mewls under his breath, closing his eyes while he melts completely into your body. "Maybe… just for you."

"Don't worry, I'll keep your secret safe," you playfully promise, giving him a kiss on his head as you continue running your nails through his hair.

Every stroke of your exquisite fingers softens him further, until he feels himself dissolve into a puddle. This must be what heaven feels like. The rest of the world doesn't matter to him anymore. He can't believe he was so worried about sharing his bed, and depriving himself of these mornings with you.

Homelander ends up being quite late for his morning meeting, struggling to eventually break free from your blissful snuggle session. But as painful as it was to get out of bed, he takes solace in knowing he gets to do it all over again with you, every morning from now on.