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A breakdown of Tirion's newspapers & political affiliations btw:
The Tirion Chronicle. Oldest of them all, connected with the library and archives. Tries to be neutral, starts off mildly pro-Fëanorian, switches to mildly pro-Nolofinwëan after Fëanor begins to grow markedly more difficult. Not harsh on the Valar, but allows itself to criticise them. Information from all venues of life, most of it very day-to-day, because Valinor.
Fëanorian Quarter Courier. What it says on the tin, I guess, although it's not as bellicose as one might suspect, just has a Fëanorian slant.
The Eight-pointed Star. If the Courier is Fëanorian... then the Star is far-Fëanorian. Its most involved readers would protest at the paper being described as aggressive, but that word is a pretty mild one for it. Everyone suspects Morgoth submitted something anonymously at least once and it's a bit disconcerting that no one can agree which article of many it could be. (He might have submitted things anywhere else tbh, but the Star was always more belligerent than the others, so it's the one people suspect most. For what it's worth it was also most welcoming of people outside its editorial office writing things for it)
Tirion Review. The name doesn't give it away, but it's markedly pro-Nolofinwëan. Often engages in dramatic back-and-forths with the two above that can last for years.
Journal of the Student Association. A serious publication remarkable for being written and redacted entirely by minors. The Free Journal of Noldorin Youth splits off from it once tensions grow unbearable, and what remains acquires a Nolofinwëan bias.
Independent Monthly. Popularly (and unfairly) known as 'Independent Complaints' because it's main position seems to be "Please stop fighting. Can't we get on with eachother?". Finarfin is rumoured to be a contributor.
Not counting the dozens of scientific journals which probably have a wider readership lol.
#tirion#noldor#silmarillion#the tirion chronicle#fëanorian quarter journal#the eight-pointed star#tirion review#journal of the student association#the free journal of noldorin youth#independent monthly
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instagram
Caption on post -
I know the smell of death like no one.
By @motaz_azaiza on Instagram.
Link to post.
#current events#protect journalists#palestinian journalists#gaza journalists#motaz#national association of black journalists#palestine#free palestine#gaza#free gaza#free palestine 🇵🇸#from the river to the sea palestine will be free#journalist#from the river to the sea 🇵🇸#journalism#end genocide#no one is free until we are all free#all eyes on rafah#feed north gaza#all eyes on palestine#all eyes on gaza#keep talking about gaza#keep protesting#keep talking about palestine#keep boycotting#israel kills journalists#end the occupation#end the genocide#students for justice in palestine#student protests
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getting a degree in the thing that has literally been your job for the past five years is weird because classes usually fall into one of three categories:
I have never in the half-decade that I have been a data analyst used trigonometry and literally no other data analyst that I know has used trigonometry at work why are you forcing your trigonometry down my throat?
Oh, yeah, I learned the contents of this class approximately three years ago and thus will not be using the book for any of my assignments. All sources will be backward engineered into my assignments from what I know to be true from firsthand experience.
This class is technically helpful I guess but also just feels like common sense to me and the fact that I have to write pages and pages on this very basic topic that I learned about through my job and the fact that there is no way to count work experience for credit is slowly killing me and taking away my desire to even try to get an A in this dumb class.
Anyway, my current class falls into category 3 and I am fighting my brain every step of the way to just pass this class because I find it so dreadfully boring and pointless hooray
#college#adult student#I am still so far out from getting my degree I want to cry every time I think about it#I have an associate's degree#and I don't need a degree to do my job#but I DO need a degree to not have job applications automatically booted out if I choose to switch companies#because the people who make the requirements for these jobs don't actually know what data analysts do#I estimate that 80% of the analysts at my company have degrees unrelated to analytics in any way#two of the best analysts I know have degrees in journalism and sociology#like honestly
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Yesterday I laid out a part of my story as it intersects with education and how that education informs my belief in the interplay of subconscious and conscious processes.
Interplay?
Sure. A lot of the time it's not obvious right away. Sometimes, sure. But sometimes months, maybe years later.
As brand new information and as new mental associations that point the way forward.
I said it before, I'll say it again: I was not a model student. I legitimately pissed off some of my teachers. I drove others to distraction. Even the ones who taught me things I actually use in my professional life... I gave them a hard time, too.
The Education of Me was a pretty gnarly process.
During that gnarly process, however, something in my brain held onto certain experiences and knowledge, most of which I did not consider relevant to my life at the time. In general, the categories are: performing arts, literature, and writing. And my future career was light years from my awareness.
In school, from elementary halfway through my senior year in college, I thought I'd be something about writing. By high school I'd zoomed in on journalism. By my senior year in college I thought for sure advertising.
So I was not consciously learning what I would later need to know in order to sustain a future career I was in no way preparing myself for.
Lemme give you one example of how that played out.
I was working on the music for a pretty lengthy section of a show for broadcast television. The section of show was about a humanitarian organization and some of its component parts. So I got to thinking about how the music could be and immediately my brain came back with the word Rondo.
Rondo?
Yes. It's a music form in which you establish a theme and follow it with another theme. Then you come back to the original theme. Then you jump to a new theme. Repeat as necessary.
The themes wander about a bunch but are always anchored to the original. The form is represented as A-B-A-C-A-D-A and so on. And it's a pretty good template when you're crafting music for a thing with parts.
A thing...
With parts.
And my brain comes back at me with BAM.
Rondo.
I wasn't a very good piano student, by the way. I never practiced, really. Not seriously. Not intentionally. Not relentlessly and methodically. But I do remember sonatas and variations and, yes, rondos. Although here's the thing:
I only practiced one rondo that I'm aware of. From Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 8 (Pathétique), the third movement, Rondo: Allegro.
I could play some of it... but not all of it. I could perform what I could already perform without practice. So yeah.
This one song, this Rondo, didn't mean that much to me.
And yet...
And yet, when presented with a thing with parts, my brain recognized the form from this one area of my life I didn't much pay attention to and applied it to this other area of my life for which I was being, you know, paid.
So.
When the sequence for which I was crafting music focused on the main organization, that was the A theme. Anytime we pivoted to one of the organization's departments, that was the B, C, or D theme.
It worked, by the way.
It worked well.
That's, I think, my most memorable story of onboarding a lot of random knowledge as opposed to getting it on demand.
And it is how my brain works.
#education#habit#conscious#subconscious#information#associations#rondo#piano#beethoven#music#broadcast television#bad student#distractible#experience#knowledge#memory#performing arts#literature#writing#career#journalism#advertising#music form#narrative form#practice#serious#intentional#methodical#relentless
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What makes you react to what's happening in Gaza? and What makes you care about human lives? Is it empathy, ideology, culture, religion, knowledge, or something else that compels you to feel and act?
What would push your government to stop saying, "Israel has the right to defend itself"? What would make columnists stop focusing on self defense and what the demonstrators or students are doing "wrong" and instead use their platform to pressure their government to do what's "right" to stop this ongoing genocide? When did you start caring, and when will you start acting?
Is it when you have Palestinian friends?
When Palestinian children begged for food, safety, and water?
When over 45000 Palestinians had been killed & 98000 injured ?
When left-wing political parties around the world started criticizing Israel?
When Palestinian and Israeli human rights organizations sounded the alarm for years?
When protesters took to the streets every week? Do you still hear their voices?
When human rights organizations like Amnesty International or Human Rights Watch documented the atrocities? Was 60 years of human rights violations not enough?
When journalism associations worldwide recorded an unprecedented number of journalists killed in such a short period?
When UN agencies like the World Food Program or UNRWA reported on the humanitarian disaster and worsening famine?
When aid organizations like Doctors Without Borders or the Red Cross warned of the total collapse of healthcare?
When child rights organizations like Save the Children or UNICEF constantly reported on children’s acute physical and mental health crises?
When Jewish groups like Jewish Voice for Peace declared, "Not in my name"?
When the International Criminal Court in The Hague found strong evidence of crimes against humanity and began prosecuting high-ranking officials? Are you waiting for the court to tell you act?
When your children were upset after hearing what was happening in Gaza? Did that stir your parental instincts?
When the EU's foreign policy chief, Josep Borrell, repeatedly urged Israel to stop the killings?
When your favorite artist spoke out—did that make you reflect?
When students protested at universities around the world? Does the passion of young people give you hope?
When the Pope made a statement about the situation?
When military experts reported how many bombs Israel had dropped on Gaza?
When 2.5 million people were displaced under bombardment, with nowhere to escape in Gaza—a place already called the world’s largest open-air prison even before October 7?
When your employer gave you permission to speak out?
Are you waiting for Joe Biden to say the red line has been crossed and stop sending weapons?
Or are you waiting for Donald Trump to say the magic words: "Enough is enough"?
Or for Benjamin Netanyahu to say "Oh sorry that was a mistake"?
Or are you waiting for God Almighty to come down and say, "Enough is enough"?
Or for the most extreme elements in the Israeli government to say, "Now we can stop bombing"—but will there be any Palestinians left in Gaza by then?
Or will you stop waiting and act now, driven by empathy, knowledge, and solidarity with people who are being oppressed right in fornt or your eyes?
I’ve lost over 200 family members, friends, and neighbors in this genocide. I have 24 of my family’s members and 2 orphaned children, trapped in a makeshift tent and struggling to survive in this freezing winter in Gaza. Is that not enough to move you to act? Tell me then when ?—when will your humanity compel you to step in? Please, act now and donate!
Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.
Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link
Listed as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link
Listed on the Butterfly Effect Project, number 957: Link
Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link
If, for some reason, you couldn't donate via GoFundMe, you can donate via PayPal instead.
@mesetacadre @forevergulag @gazafunds @northgazaupdates2 @freepalestinneee
@komsomolka @muppet-sex @nabulsi @fading-event-608 @buttercuparry
@prierepaiienne @interact-if @unified-multiversal-theory @inkstay
@socialjusticekitten-blog @socialgoodmoms @nowthisnews @socialgoofy @fightforhumanity-rpg-blog
@fightforhumanity-rp @queerandpresentdanger @90-ghost @timogsilangan @punkitt-is-here
@fox-guardian @hiveswap @valtsv @helppeople @ibtisams
@annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @vakarians-babe @plomegranate @queerstudiesnatural @tamamita
@apollos-boyfriend @akajustmerry @marnosc @flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides
@belleandsaintsebastian @ear-motif @brutaliakent @raelyn-dreams @troythecatfish
@4ft10tvlandfangirl @communistchilchuck @fairuz @sarazucker @fairuzfan
@a-nautilus-as-pixel-art @13eyond13 @stil-lindigo @baby-indie-blog
#palestine#help gaza#facts#yemen#jerusalem#current events#free palestine#gaza#free gaza#palestine news#war on gaza#fuck the idf#palestinian resistance#israel#tel aviv
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How to start your day according to your rising sign.
Your ascendant/first house represents the sign that was rising above the eastern horizon on the moment of your birth. However, within a broader cosmological framework, where houses each represent a different time of the day according to where the sun is, the First House represents the time of the day where the sun had just risen above the horizon. After a bit of experimenting, I have come to the conclusion that the best way to start your day is to align your early morning activities with those associated with your rising sign’s ruling planet. Here I explain how.
· Aries rising: start your day with a stimulating activity, something that gets you fired up and ready to engage with the day ahead. A workout session, a morning run, some stretching, or something as simple as a walk under the sun. Either way, you’d better get moving as soon as you get out of bed. Avoid getting your most challenging tasks of the day done as early as you wake up — rather, start with the simplest tasks and work your way up as a form of motivation.
· Taurus rising: take as much time as you need to get up. You have your entire day ahead of you, so make sure your morning remains a leisurely time — though I advise you to write a list of tasks down to make sure you have a roadmap of your day planned ahead. No matter how busy things get, make sure you at least start your day with a generous breakfast while enjoying your surroundings by eating in a balcony or somewhere you feel cozied up and relaxed. Investing in a morning skin care routine that works for you can only prove to be beneficial.
· Gemini rising: immediately engage in some mental stimulation. read a few chapters of a book, listen to a podcast, read some news, watch a video. Hell, even scrolling through social media wouldn’t hurt. Give your brain some much needed dopamine shots to get it going. If you’re learning a new language, try to memorize a couple words every morning. If you’re a student, try to study a bit right after waking up. If you have some manual tasks planned, get them done first thing in the morning.
· Cancer rising: schedule your morning routine around moon phases & transits. There are certain lunar transits (cardinal signs) or phases (new moon) where I would recommend starting your day with a workout and energy demanding activities, whereas on other transits (fixed signs) or phases (full moon), I would recommend taking things one step at a time, waking up gently, having a warm cup of your favourite drink, taking a bath, cooking, doing some gardening, and enjoying a relaxing morning before starting your day.
· Leo rising: Make sure that each morning is «you» time and let nothing get in the way of that. Soak up some sun light, start your day with positive affirmations, do 10 minutes of dancing, listen to music, meditate, draw a bit. Get yourself in the mood where you feel most confident and yourself, as there’s one watching you — you’re performing for no one but yourself. Self-care can mean many things and you need to find the form that works best for you. If you enjoy doing make up, do a creative look. If you like reading, read. You can even adapt your morning routine according to the sun’s transits.
· Virgo rising: it goes without saying that starting off your day with some journaling, list making, intention setting, tidying your place up and task planning can prove to be globally beneficial for everyone, but even more so for Virgo risings. You need as much mental stimulation as Gemini risings, if only with some added structure to it. Put yourself in the right mood where you can be productive instantly, get your tasks done starting with the most difficult ones so you'll have the rest of entire day for yourself, and remember to take breaks. It’s still early in the morning, after all!
· Libra rising: your mornings set the tone for the rest of your day — so make sure your day starts off on a harmonious note. Create a classical music playlist & play it every morning, have a nice breakfast – a nice drink and your favourite treat, do some pilates, read a couple page of a book you love, set your intentions for the day, do some bird watching, take a walk in a nearby green space or riverside and enjoy the aesthetics of nature & the scenery, choose an elegant outfit and pair it up with some jewelry & a nice perfume. Harmony is a balanced act that can easily be disturbed so make sure you keep your mornings free of external disturbances.
· Scorpio rising: you will benefit from starting your day gradually, & at a very measured pace. Try to weed out the eventuality that unexpected disruptions may arise (as that might disturb your inner balance & emotional state) by establishing firm boundaries and prioritizing activities that bring you joy & contentment. Any activities that promote focus, introspection, and empowerment would be great — namely journaling, meditation, deep breathing exercises to center yourself, or a 30 minutes workout session. If you enjoy writing, write down your feelings in the form of prose or poetry. Lists will also help you stay structured throughout the day & ensure you won’t spend it entirely inside your head.
· Sagittarius rising: start your day by doing some manifestation. Pick a method you prefer, and make sure you spend at least 5 minutes manifesting and setting intentions for the day ahead, as well as some long-term goal you’re working on. If you’re into philosophy, read a few pages of a philosophical book of your choice first thing in the morning. If you enjoy language learning, spend ~30 minutes learning new notions teaching yourself a full lesson. Drawing or making a moodboard can also help you manifest for the day. A morning walk where you take in your surroundings will also help you get into the right mood.
· Capricorn rising: buy a planner, and start your mornings by writing down your to-do list. Make sure you also have a couple pages dedicated to short term projects, and long term projects — try and check out a case from either every so often, every morning. Doing so will fill your mornings with intention as you will feel like you did something great for yourself (and you did indeed). And as is the case with every other cardinal signs — include a physical activity into your mornings. A 15 minutes run, a 30 minutes walk — whatever you deem best.
· Aquarius rising: write down your dreams & ideas fresh out of bed. Your mind comes up with the best scenarios & concepts early in the morning, so write them down — you never know, maybe one day you’ll find the resources, energy or will to expand on one of them. I have noticed that Aquarius risings come in two fixed archetypes, the type that enjoys socializing fresh out of bed and the type that needs 3 business hours before being able to utter a single word to others – so my advice is simple: if you’re the former: start your day with some socialization, text your friends, post on social media, and if you’re the latter: put your headphones on, read something (anything) and block out any and all external noise.
· Pisces rising: the transition from the realm of dreams to the waking world is a tougher challenge to you than most, so try to start your day slowly and gently. No abrupt and aggressive tasks, no strong drinks, no heavy food. Pressure is of 0 benefit to you so do not put yourself in your “awake” mode until you’re about to go outside. If you’re working on an art piece, draw some of it right now. If you’re writing a book, write down a couple lines as soon as you leave bed as your dreams might provide some extra insights & creativity you wouldn't be able to conjure up while awake. If you have plants, water them. If you have a balcony or garden, spend some time there just sitting & doing absolutely nothing.
If you’d like a reading, more details can be found here!
Have a nice day!
#astrology#astro notes#astrological observations#hellenistic astrology#astro observations#astrology signs#astrology readings#zodiac#astrologia#astro community#rising signs
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So about the 9th route can you tell him about the info of Ford's reincarnation . Like his name , traits and what's his new nickname like "Sixer" or something ?
Okay
Name : Clifford Yale (Mc)Griffith (edit : this is based by most liked suggestions and what I like the most Combine )
Age : 27
Profession : 'A human Artist'
Personality : Actually a very cheerful guy , sassy , cunning and but very insecure about himself
He's a Artist who fighting in a ERA that all kind of art are created by AI , music , performer , writer everything is made out of Robot! Even claim yourself as a self artist will get you mocked and sue ! He are this dissapointment of the family cuz pursuing art rather be a scientist or something cuz art? That robot's Jobs!! When his age reach 25 he keep on getting new memory that he sure are not his , he keep on getting this glimpse of journal hiding in the forest. That he finally Tryin to find after 2 years pass.. and found Journal 4th in now so called out park. He Intrigued with content of the book , another human drawing that he rarely seen in real life ! It's a diamond artifacts! He keep on reading about this "Muse" who inspired the Author who wrote this book and decided to summon him . Maybe that Muse can inspire him to created a masterpiece that a robot can't created , something that they never see and possible change rules about Human can't created art anymore and have the right for their own. And also hoping this muse can help him out of the Artblock and prove his parents they're wrong
He actually a straight A student throughout his school years but Alway been passionate with art . Maybe he's not A super mega smart he just think he need to be smart to please his parents. He have a older brother who the success businessman and the golden child, his brother believing in his dreams and fund him with all his need. So he technical jobless who spent his brother wealth so easily (I mean he grew up in a wealthy family so it's effect him )
Bill Actually ended call him sevener or Twelve because he doesn't want to associate him with sixer
#billford#mrbillpines#mr bill pines au#gravity falls#gravity falls au#bill cipher#stanfordpines#stanford pines
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Obsession
/əbˈsɛʃn/ noun the state of being fixated with someone or something.
˚ʚ yan! malleus x gn! reader
˚ʚ tw: implications of stalking, mentions breaking and entering, forced wedlock
ahhh I just love malleus so much, call me basic but who doesn't love our little dragon boy, especially when he's a little more in love than usual? (´,,•ω•,,)♡
Yan! Malleus who’s curiosity quickly turned into infatuation with each time that you two met. Those eager eyes that would stare up at him, trying to uncover who he is but slowly coming to accept him as the mysterious figure that would visit every now and then. The way you’d speak to him like he wasn’t the most powerful mage of all Twisted wonderland, like he was normal… like he was ‘human’.
Yan! Malleus who loves to watch you sleep, quietly observing through your window, trying to remember every little detail of your face, body, and subtle habits so he could write it down on a little journal he has that was covered from page to page with nothing but stuff about you similar to the one he has about gargoyles.
Yan! Malleus who breaks in and enters into your room at night for cuddles. He could still remember the first time, he had never felt so nervous in his entire lifetime, yet he just couldn’t resist the sweet warmth just radiating from your body. He’ll just stay like this, curled over you like a dog to its favorite toy, for only a few minutes… right? He didn’t manage to leave till dawn.
Yan! Malleus who’d still feel shivers each time you’d refer to him as ‘Hornton’. Throughout his time of following you coincidentally stumbling upon you, he’s never once heard you call any other by a special name—him, only him.
Yan! Malleus who is extremely prone to jealousy yet is almost never violent about it, just fairly insecure. The poor baby requires so much comfort from you to reassure his soft little heart that you’d never leave or replace him with anyone else.
Yan! Malleus who couldn’t help finding pleasure in the fact that some of the student body are now starting to avoid you like the plague for just being associated with him. Of course, he feels slightly guilty for making it partially impossible to make any new acquaintances, but why would you need anyone else when you have him? Isn’t he enough to satisfy your curiosity about this world?
Yan! Malleus who craves affection like a starved cat. He would never openly ask for it but you can definitely tell from his actions when he starts feeling a little needy; slender hand gently brushing against yours when walking together, or staring down at you with those bright doe eyes. Either way, you’re going to give it to him whether you want to or not, because the consequence of not complying is having to deal with a sulking Malleus whose pouty expression may or may not attract the attention of either Lilia or Sebek.
Yan! Malleus who'd promise to marry you right after graduation, making you a little ring made of vines and flowers in advance that, when worn on your ring finger does… nothing, what, did you expect every gift from him to be cursed or something. It only just tightens itself so it doesn’t ‘accidentally’ slip off of your finger.
#disney twst#disney twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland#twst wonderland#twst#yandere twisted wonderland#yandere twst#yandere x reader#yandere male#male yandere#yandere x darling#twisted wonderland x reader#twst x reader#yandere twst x reader#twst malleus#malleus twisted wonderland#malleus twst#malleus draconia#twisted wonderland malleus#malleus x reader#yandere malleus draconia#yandere malleus x reader#yan blog#yan x reader
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Chapter 19 - Don't Look Back
Series Masterlist
Author's Note: Sorry for the slight delay! I was hit with a big case of “this chapter is very important so it has to be perfect” and “I have a crush on someone and it’s rendering me incapable of human function." Enjoy!
Chapter Title from Love From The Other Side by Fall Out Boy
Word Count: 26.4k (for context that is longer than the first 4 chapters combined. Someone needs to restrain me)
Chapter Summary/Warnings: You have work to do, and Ben keeps to his word. Usual warnings, with emphasis on assault. No rape, but one non-con kiss. Make the best call for yourself.
Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, heavy angst, pining
Read on A03!
Chapter 18 - Chapter 20
You’d been right. Word of mouth spread fast, and Sage knew about your speech. Homelander as well, but he’d reacted about as you’d hoped to anticipate. Proud, smug, certain beyond a doubt that you had been speaking of him.
Sage knew better. She knew what you’d really meant—who you’d really been speaking of—and the only thing that saved was that she couldn’t do anything about it.
Because word of mouth spreads fast.
But the internet spreads faster.
Everyone has an opinion on what, in a brilliant twist of journalism, was being called Believe-gate. Everyone has seen the photo of your fearful expression when the “CIA terror attack” on good, christian America had begun and Homelander had shot off the stage. Fear for your lover, gone to fight for what’s right. Or, if the photo was of your fear expression when your extraction operation had begun and Homelander had gone to kill your team.
It all depends on who you ask.
If you ask Homelander’s supporters, or Homelander himself, you’ll hear the narrative you’ve been forced to memorize and parrot almost every day. Your fear was for Homelander, whom you loved. The attack by the CIA on a group of innocent civilians was a tragedy both in the losses of A-Train and Ezekiel, and as the American people had to learn they couldn’t trust their government. They could only trust their heroes, trust Homelander, to keep them safe.
If you ask the Starlighters, or read the CIA’s official statement on the matter, the alleged “attack” had been an extraction operation for the Anomaly that had gone sideways. Employees of Vought had interfered with a government sanctioned mercenary team—lead by William Butcher and containing Soldier Boy but not in official association with Starlight—and collateral damage had been unavoidable. People should write their congressman to divert more money into funding Butcher’s team, and boycott Vought products until the Anomaly was freed.
That’s closer to the truth, but reality is still far more absurd than either side seems to properly capture. Not absurd in the way the media seems to think, because gossip and rumors spread like the wildfire climbing steadily back under your skin. In meetings—as Sage goes over damage control and shoots you cold, measured glares—you see post after post, headline after headline, and video after video of speculation. You’re honestly a little surprised it took this long for the ball to get rolling. You’d thought the aftermath of your interview was going to be the largest fallout—the biggest step and ultimate catalyst—but you’d been wrong. This was it. For some reason, the Believe Expo was what did it. People are trying to figure out what was really going on. Someone posits a theory on Reddit about you’re a robot or shapeshifting supe who stole the face and identity of a dead PhD student. NPR runs a story about the history of government and corporate propaganda, and CNN does a frame by frame breakdown of recording of your speech. A video essay about how you were Homelander’s girlfriend but had been tortured and brainwashed by the CIA to infiltrate Vought. Old footage of the Firecracker rally circulates as people dissect your every facial expression. One person accuses you of being obsessed with Homelander. Another says you’re just Stormfront with a new face. There’s a small online movement that’s pretty sure you’re actually Sage’s girlfriend and Homelander’s just bearding for you, and another that’s convinced you’re Robert Singer’s estranged love-child. One person sends an email accusing you of being Stan Edgar’s daughter. Several people accuse you of working for the Chinese, and several more of being a British Spy. At A-Train’s funeral, one stupidly brave man with a microphone had shouted a question of what’s your response to allegations you had an affair with William Butcher, and you’d almost laughed in his face.
That might have been your favorite moment, because it made you snort and think of Ben’s sour expression.
Butcher couldn’t fucking handle you, Sunshine.
Benjamin, you can barely handle me yourself.
I’m having a grand fucking hell of a time trying. Butcher would start whining like a bitch.
You whine like a bitch.
Brat.
Cunt.
That’s the part nobody has guessed. People have landed on pieces of the truth. You are a dead PhD holder—everyone always seems to forget you actually had the PhD—and you are infiltrating Vought, but not because anyone told you. If anything the biggest opposition you faced to your plan has been from your side. Not a day passes where just the phantom of Ben doesn’t tell you to come home. To wear blue and let him just come get you.
And that’s the part people seem to be missing. It’s obvious to you, but you’re biased and have the full picture. The fear on your face at the Believe Expo was for Ben. For the split second you’d thought you might lose him. People couldn’t trust their heroes, but nobody needed to break you out. People should absolutely not demand Butcher be funded further. You did not want to return to find Butcher, Ben, and Frenchie jerking themselves off over a collection of military-grade weaponry. In all the millions of people stringing you up to search for the truth, the real you—if Vought is right or the CIA is right or if you’re playing them both—they all miss the only two things that really mattered to you.
Kill Homelander. Whatever it takes, however you have to twist and pull yourself apart, you will kill Homelander.
Go home to Ben. Tell Ben you love him, then go wherever he goes.
As the week starts to pass, the scandal doesn’t turn into just another story. It only grows. Sage puts you back on tower lockdown, and most of the time it’s just you, The Deep, and Ashley on 99. You have to record videos and do livestreams and keep pretending you don’t want to lean over to Homelander in the dead of night and just kill him. Find a way to make yourself stronger than him and strangle his throat, or use all the fire you have in your control to reduce him to a shriveled husk that’s still in only half the pain you are. You smile all day—in the dim yellow lights of Homelander’s room and into flashing cameras at Sage’s orders—and at night you drag up the fire, miss Ben, and feel the cracks in you start to spread.
You’re the most famous person in America.
You want to go home.
You have to go home. Before the cracks reach something fundamental and you just break. Without Ben to pick you up.
Overall, you’d know getting the V was going to be a delay, but it’s not as large as you’d expected. The time added by finding V is being lost by how fast everything else is going. How it’s snowballing and rolling down the mountain with you even having to push it. Three weeks are added to your timeline just as two are lost, and you’ll be home soon.
If everything goes well, you’ll be home soon.
You’re keeping yourself whole. By threads and stitches and temporary bandaging, you haven’t completely lost yourself and fallen apart. But the cracks are coming faster, larger. Nightmares that you have to learn to hold down, because Homelander can’t see you break. You wake up paralyzed and cold, still haunted by images of Ben asleep, or gone, or having just left. He wouldn’t, you know he wouldn’t, but Homelander had still cornered you after the Believe Expo and told you that he had.
He’d dropped you in the Seven’s meeting room, and pushed you into the wall by your throat.
“You didn’t know,” he’d sneered into your face, and you’d had to shake your head weakly.
“I didn’t, I swear-“
“Were they there to save you? Take you away again?”
“I don’t know-“
“Tell me the truth!” He’d roared, spit flying in your face and coconut making you sick. “I’m so sick of everyone lying to me!”
“I am,” you’d clawed at his gloved hand, the leather cold on your skin, choking on your words. “That’s the truth, please, I didn’t know-“
Homelander had laughed. “Doesn’t matter, they didn’t get you. Your precious little Soldier Boy ran.”
That wasn’t true. You’d told Ben to go, he hadn’t run. He’d never run, not away from you.
“They left you. Didn’t even try to keep you.” Homelander had tsked, shaking his head. “I’d stay.”
You’d just nodded, unable to speak, and Homelander’s jaw had ticked. Hand tightening around your throat.
“I said I’d stay. They left you, Soldier Boy left you, but I’d fucking stay. You’re a fucking manipulative bitch, who can’t make anyone like you, or anyone stay without tricking them. I’m the only one who sees through you, who doesn’t fall for your silly tricks, and that’s why I love you. You can’t fucking trick me, and I know you love me.”
Your nods had grown frantic. “I know, please, I can’t-“
“I’d stay.” Homelander had hissed. “You love me and I stay.”
“You’d stay. I love-“
The door opened. Your desperate, lying words had failed in your mouth because the door had opened and a group of people had walked in. Interns or cleaners or tech workers, just normal people.
Homelander had lasered them down, their bodies falling to the floor with sickening crunches and wet sounds. He hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t even blinked. Just killed them and turned back to you with an annoyed expression.
“People don’t even knock anymore.” He’d sighed. “I mean, it’s manners. None of these people were raised in a fucking barn, right?!”
“I, I can’t,” you’d coughed slightly. “Breathe, can’t breathe-“
Homelander had rolled his eyes, glaring at you as he spoke. “Say you didn’t trick me.”
“I didn’t trick you, I can’t-“
“And you love me.”
“I love you-“
“Say Soldier Boy left you.”
“He left, I can’t, please-“
He’d dropped you to the floor, scowling as you’d pulled yourself back up on shaking legs. “Good.” He looked you up and down one. “I can trust you.”
That had been what you’d been angling to hear for weeks. All of this had been playing the game until Homelander trusted you. It was even more vital now, if you wanted to find the V. But you’d only been able to stare at the bodies on the floor. Blood on your feet and splattered across your face, and it won’t come off. Not really. Never entirely. There’s guts spilled across the room, a brain visible through a hole in a skull, and mouths frozen in permanent screams that you’ll see for the rest of your life.
That night your dreams had been haunted by red hands and cold skin, and when you called for Ben to find you, no sound had come out. You’d woken up paralyzed, and a pattern had begun. This became the new normal.
You’d had nightmares in the tower. But they’d been bearable, no worse than they’d been before. You’d woken up cold and curled into your own body, your breath and heart still steady enough to be silent to Homelander.
Now they felt like death. They felt like a burning, white-hot sort of cold under your skin and in your blood, an inescapable hurricane that would devastate what little was left of your control. Nightmares of Ben vanishing in smoke, hearing him fall to the ground and not get back up. Nightmares of blood rivers that pull you away and under and down, until all you can see is red. All you can taste is metal and it freezes your tongue. Holds it still when you wake up with a high, ringing feedback in your ears, and holds you down when you try to rub off the lingering feeling of dread. The sense that this is eternal, and you only have yourself to blame.
You chose this. In every nightmare you jump in the river, and if you don’t Ben falls in smoke that you can’t pull him out of. Every time you wake up you’re frozen, and every day you can’t breathe without tasting coconut and iron. Over and over until you think you’re going mad, because you look at your hands and they still have blood on them. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. It’s tying that cold you’ve felt from the start into the fire, pulling it up faster and faster as your skin starts to grow molten on your body. As the cold runs through your veins and heart and begins to leak into the world.
At first, you don’t notice. You’ve felt this before, this feeling of every nerve in your body growing heavy as your blood grows cold and pushes out of you. You’d felt it with Tek Knight. Felt it when Homelander had pulled you into the sky during that fight outside, and when he’d grabbed your face after Noir II. Brief flashes of something like a glacier rushing in and over you, covering anything that dared touch you. But it had been temporary. Brief, polar flashes that were gone in a second. This was long. This was arctic, permanent, and you could barely control it. Nobody touched you, nobody ever touched you here, but it was still spreading like mold around you. People go rigid when they pass you, and start to look cornered and feral when they sit in a room with you for too long. They look trapped. They look how you feel.
After one meeting, where a Vought “journalist” sat across from you and Homelander—asking you pre-written and approved questions about love and your future and it’s so cold—Sage holds you back. Homelander gives a clap of his hands and crude, white-toothed smile before vanishing with a jump and a sonic sound, but Sage holds you back.
“Sit down,” she nods to the chair you’re only half risen from, and it’s not a request or suggestion. She’s telling you to sit, and you do. You’re not at an advantage right now, you’ve made too many risky moves that—while paying off—had shown too much. Shown you.
You sit, and wait. You won’t speak first, because you don’t know what game you’re playing and can’t afford to make the starting move.
Sage frowns at you, tilting her head, but begins to speak. “I’ll admit I’m not sure what you told Soldier Boy that incited such an event, but it did allow me to understand you better.”
“Understand me?” Your words are spoken through the constant cold. Too controlled, almost bored. “I don’t think there’s much to understand.”
“There’s more than I usually face.” Sage looks you up and down, and sits across from you. Leaning forward. “It’s taken me longer, as well. There’s been one last piece of the puzzle I couldn’t quite find, and you handed it to me. I thought of you better than that.”
“I don’t think I am a puzzle.” You frown. “And I’d never think of myself better than anything-“
“Yes, I got that quite a while ago. Someone who values themself, values their life, doesn’t volunteer to stand in the front lines of an unwinnable war. Doesn’t forgive as easily as you do.”
You shrug. “I believe that there are very few things that are truly unforgivable. I can only think of one.”
“Rape?”
You swallow, frost pushing up your throat, and Sage hums.
“Unsurprising. That’s another puzzle piece that fits you well, and another reason your little performance will never really be sold.”
You’re not shocked you haven’t fooled Sage, but it’s not her that you need to have a hold over. So you just watch her silently until she scoffs.
“This is just us talking. Homelander won’t hear, I’m not looking to lose my first semi-worthy opponent to an easy to spot trap.”
You still don’t speak, and Sage smiles.
“Smart. Would proof help? How about,” she looks you up and down. “When we met in January, I was genuinely considering flipping to your side. Homelander is an emotional, pathetic imbecile who refuses to truly acknowledge that I am significantly more intelligent than he, and while I have no care for people,” her face twists slightly as she says the word, like it tastes sour on her tongue. “I did think I could face an equal challenge taking down a well-established international conglomerate as I was facing with the United States Government. But with a new, unexpected player I decided this could still be interesting.” Sage sits back, looking you up and down. “I showed you mine.”
Sage wouldn’t call Homelander a pathetic imbecile if there was a chance he might hear—she’s still very capable of being lasered in half—but she could pull a tape and show select footage. So you just blink.
“Fine.” Sage sighs, and pulls out a pen. Pink, with a fluffy top. She passes it into your hands, careful not to touch skin, and nods. “Click it.”
You glance at the pen, and push the ballpoint out.
Sage’s voice echoes through the room. Homelander is an emotional, pathetic imbecile who refuses to truly acknowledge that I am significantly more intelligent than he.
You frown at her. “Collateral?”
“You’ll hold on to the pen, after this conversation I’ll wipe all the tapes and break all the audio bugs in front of you, and then you’ll return the pen to me. Deal?”
You nod slowly, taking the pen. “Deal.”
“Good. Show me yours.”
“I don’t know what you want me to show you,” you shrug. “Like I said, I don’t believe myself to be a puzzle. And you’ve already figured me out.”
“I hadn’t,” Sage corrects you. “For months, I hadn’t been able to see the whole picture. Your forgiveness is… inconsistent.”
“Really,” you say dryly, crossing your arms. “I’ve only been raped by one man.”
Sage hums. “Would you forgive me?”
“Would you earn it?”
“Maybe.”
You lean back. “Then maybe I’d forgive you.”
“Even though I’m actively working with your rapist? Am aware of the trauma he inflicted upon you and yet still chose to enable him?”
The cold is sitting in your throat. “All depends on you. Like I said, you’d have to earn it.”
“And how did Butcher earn your forgiveness?”
You frown. “Butcher?”
“He’s the thing that incited Homelander looking into Becca Butcher. Discovering Ryan Butcher. Wanting more.” Sage gives you a half-smile. “Taking you.”
“I don’t hold people accountable for the actions of others.” Your voice is still bored, even as the cold starts to numb your tongue. “Butcher had no way of knowing that Homelander would do this. He didn’t even know who I was until last year.”
“Is that the same grace you’ve offered Soldier Boy?”
Your heart stutters, falters, and freezes. “I haven’t offered Soldier Boy anything he hasn’t earned.”
“And that’s the thing.” Sage narrows her eyes at you. “You really believe he’s earned it. Despite all of his crimes, of which are an impressive amount and magnitude, you’re still forgiving him. And couldn’t figure out why. It doesn't fit with anything else, it’s completely irrational. But the answer isn’t something that’s supposed to be rational, and I made the mistake of factoring it out.”
“I don’t-“
“You’re in love with Soldier Boy.” Sage looks you up and down. Her handiwork she gets to admire. “And I didn’t catch it because, by all logical reasoning, you shouldn’t be. I didn’t even consider it until I’d exhausted all other possibilities, and even then I settled on some odd sort of camaraderie. But you love him.”
The cold becomes like frost lining your heart, and every beat begins to spread it further. Move it out. Play the game, don’t break. “What would it change, if I did?”
“You do,” Sage says simply. “You are in love with him. It explains everything that felt out of place. Every action you made that didn’t line up with what I’d anticipated.”
“What you’d anticipated?”
“Yes. For example, you shooting me. It was a reckless choice that backfired on you completely, but every time I ran over the scenario you would still do it. I’d wondered if I’d undersold the stakes, made you feel backed into a corner when that wasn’t my intention. But you’d still shoot me. You’d always shoot me, and it was because I misestimated your stakes. You love Soldier Boy, so if I tell you he’s in danger you will act.”
“That doesn’t mean I love him.” You give Sage a passive shrug. “Maybe I shot you because you’re fucking annoying.”
“No, you wanted to hear my plan. That's why you’re still sitting here.” Sage nods to the door. “You could’ve left. You could’ve gotten up and run out the door. You’re faster than I am, you’d have gotten away, showed Homelander the pen, and won. But you know I’d have a countermove, and that’s why you’re still here. That’s why I’m here.”
“Why you’re here.” You repeat slowly, and Sage nods.
“We’re the only players that matter now.” She grins at you. “Homelander and Butcher and Soldier Boy can flash their toys, but in the end you’re stronger and I’m smarter. My plan will work better, and you’ll respond in a way I won’t predict. You’ll have a move that would be successful, because you’re fucking powerful, but you’ll sidetrack yourself in the name of humanity and love. In the end the question will be if you can control yourself. If you can forsake being good enough to be great. My bets are on no, but you’ve surprised me before. And that’s what makes this interesting.”
Play the game. Even as you start to cave in, play the game. “You know I’m stronger than Homelander. But you haven’t told him, he still thinks he’s the strongest supe alive.” You frown at her, trying to pull everything together in your head. “You don’t want him to know I’m stronger. If I fight him, you don’t want him prepared. You want me to kill him.”
“I do.” Sage shrugs. “I’d like to martyr him, but I don’t think I will. I think I want to play this out.”
“Make it interesting?”
Sage smirks at you. “Make it interesting.”
“It’s your move,” you say, throat tight. “And, while we’re being honest, I’m fucking winning right now. So, what’s your move?”
She laughs. “You were winning. But I’ve figured you out, so your lead is gone.” Sage’s smile becomes crude and chilling. “In exactly one week, you’re going to propose to Homelander, live on VNN.”
The cold rushes, so fast. It had been building up and up and now it’s everywhere. A week isn’t long enough. You still haven’t found the V, you’re not close, and a week isn’t enough time. Every piece of your innards and piece of your mind is freezing, because you can’t. You can’t go home yet, but you can’t go fast enough. And you’ll die before you smile at Homelander. Before you let him touch you. He’ll take it as a sign that he’s done this right and now he’s won you. Your blood is frozen and creaking in your body, but Sage is still smirking across from you.
Breathe evenly. Hold your blood in your body with calculated breaths and careful words. “And If I don’t?”
“Then I lure Soldier Boy out, and put him back to sleep.” Sage stands, and you can’t move. You can only watch her walk around the room reaching into bowls and under furniture to show you tiny audio bugs that she crushes in Her hands before taking the pen back. “You have a week. Your move.” She pauses at the door, looking back at you with a frown. “Don’t make me wrong about you. I have no interest in being wrong.”
Then you’re alone, and the cold becomes big. It’s inescapable, how unending this feels. It’s too massive for you, too wild to control and spreading too fast to contain. You stumble your way back to Homelander’s apartment—people parting around you like you’re made of poison—and lock yourself in the bathroom, dropping to the floor in desperation to not break. You’ll find a way out of this, you always find a way out of this, you’ll get through this and go home and this isn’t permanent. Sage hasn’t won, because everything in you is still you, and soon you’ll go home. Everything is cold and bursting out of you, this feels like it will last forever, but it won’t. It can’t.
The cracks continue to grow, and when you sleep that night you’re plagued by smoke and ice that makes you weak and swallows Ben. You hear him fall and he doesn’t rise back up, and you reach for him only to find him further than you’d thought.
When you wake up, you’re still held down. Paralyzed and frozen without relent. You want to go home. You’d overestimated your strength, you didn’t want to beat Sage, or trick her, or win. You didn’t want this to be interesting, you just wanted it to be done. You’re exhausted, and alone, and you miss Ben so much. You’re not going to win, because these cracks are starting to be dangerous and you can’t stop them. You’re too weak to stop them, you don’t know how, and you can’t be smarter or stronger because you’re just so tired and almost every part of you is growing thinner and softer by the second. One step away from shattering. Breaking. Maybe you’ve really just already broken, but in a way you didn’t realize, and now you can’t be sewn back together. Your fire is sputtering out once more, you can’t pull it back up, can’t kill Homelander, can’t save Ben. You’re going to break and it’s going to make Ben go under, and he’ll never hold you again. You’re going to be in this vast, hollow loneliness forever, and Homelander will keep you on a shelf as your last embers flicker harmlessly, and you’re going to never see Ben again-
Calm the fucking hell down, Ben’s voice in your head is rough as it says your name. You’ll see me again, you fucking promised.
That strange thing is humming in your chest. It hasn’t left you since it appeared. Since you’d seen Ben. Through the day it sat in you silently. Undisturbing, shifting and rolling with a dull ache near your heart. Just a piece of Ben that you got to keep, that always felt like him. Like he was there, warm around you in the cold and tending to your fire. Then, at night, it roars. Twisting with your guts and kickstarting your lungs and mind when you grow frozen. Speaking to you in the dark until you feel like you again. A part of you that’s ingrained and unmovable, that’s not plagued by this cold because Ben is warm. Never afraid because Ben is safe. It’s angry and bloody and zealous, but it’s Ben, and so it smells like pine and feels good. Feels solid and easy, makes Ben feel more real. You’re on the too smooth, silken sheets of Homelander’s bed and everything is cold, but you can almost feel his breath on your ear and his voice rolling into your body.
I did promise. You sigh into the dark of the room, and your breath comes out in fog. But I don’t think I can talk my way out of this one, Pretty Boy.
Why the goddamn hell not.
I’m not smarter than Sage, or stronger than Homelander. I said whatever it takes, but I can’t, Ben. I can’t. I just want to come home.
First of all, shut the fuck up. You’re being stupid, Sunshine.
Fucking rude-
His voice cuts you off. It’s doing that a lot more lately. I don’t give a shit. Homelander is a pathetic fucking pussy, and Sage is a heartless bitch. You’re perfect the goddamn way you are. It’s goddamn infuriating how you’re so perfect, because it’s inconvenient. And if you want to come home you’ll wear blue and not a single fucking thing in the world will stop me getting you.
That’s part of the problem, Benjamin. I’m not perfect, I can’t fight them, and I can’t let you come and get me. You know that.
You are fucking perfect. You’re a goddamn pain in my ass, but you’re still beautiful and sure as shit smarter than you should be. And all I know that I fucking miss you.
You’re crying. Silent tears you have to muffle and wipe away, because even if Homelander isn’t here you can’t chance that he’ll see you break. If you break, it can’t be in front of Homelander. You won’t allow it.
But Ben’s voice sounds so real. Deep and pushing calm into you—soothing your blood back into your body—because as long as Ben’s voice is here and talking like this nothing can hurt you.
I miss you too, Benjamin. Your smile is soft and tired, but you can feel Ben there. Something a little more solid than a phantom around you.
Come home. Just fucking come home. There’s a beat of silence, and his voice in your ear is hoarse. Please.
Soon.
You always say soon. Just come home now.
Ben-
I miss you. I fucking miss you and I don’t want you home soon. I want you home now. His voice is building with frustration, and something in you is starting to spark in time with that strange thing. I can’t keep worrying about you. You promised, and I trust you with my goddamn life, but I don't trust you with yours.
Hey. You frown into the dark. My life, Benjamin. My choice to stay.
I haven’t fucking gotten you, have I? I’m respecting your stupid fucking choice, but I still hate it. I fucking hate this.
I know you do. But there’s more work to do.
You don’t have to be the one to do it. You can just-
I can’t. You hug yourself, the warmth in you growing stronger. Not pushing the cold down, or your blood back in, but rising the fire to fill the cracks the cold is leaving along your head and heart. I can’t just come home. I have to do this. This has to be me.
There’s another stretch of silence—that thing climbing up your spine and lighting up every nerve—before Ben’s voice rings around you once more. Fine.
Thank you. You’re not sure why you’re thanking him. He’s not real, but it’s an instinct. Thank Ben, always thank Ben because everything in you is back in your hands and you love him.
Don’t.
You smile into the dark, your tears drying in your eyes. You can’t fucking stop me, Pretty Boy.
I will soon. You’re going to come home, and every time you thank me I’m going to fuck the words out of your mouth.
I don’t think that’s going to have the effect you intend it to.
Yes it fucking will-
Ben. Your voice in your head is dry. If every time I thank you I get fucked, I’m never going to stop thanking you. I might start just thanking you randomly, specifically so you fuck me.
The thing in you is bellowing and jerking your heart around. Smartass.
I mean, you had to have seen that coming-
I just want to see you coming, beautiful. You can almost see his wink. All over me.
Horny old man.
You love it. And you’re no fucking better than me.
Than I. And excuse you, I for one can keep it in my pants-
His voice snorts. I know you, Sunshine. You want to fuck me more than anyone has ever wanted to fuck me. And a lot of people have wanted to fuck me.
Braggart.
That’s not a real word.
Yes, it is.
Well then what the hell does it mean.
You brag a lot. It’s pretty self-explanatory, Benjamin. You could’ve gotten that one yourself.
Shut the fuck up.
Make me.
I will. When you get home I’m going to shut your pretty mouth up for a whole goddamn year. With my cock, and my hands, and-
Fuck you.
I promise I will, brat. I’m going to fuck you so much you’re never going to want anyone else to touch you.
You don’t need to fuck me to do that. You sigh, trying to sit a little longer in the warmth as daylight starts to creep into the room. I already don’t want anyone but you, Ben.
His voice is silent for a second, and you think it’s going to say what it always does, because you love me, but it doesn’t. The thing rattles with an ache in your body, and Ben’s voice is softer than you’d expected when you hear it again. I don’t want anyone else either.
Good. Your breathing is easy, and you can really almost feel Ben. Behind you, around you, in you. Can you still fuck me anyways?
His laugh rolls through you, and that thing feels lighter. You feel lighter. Deal, Sunshine.
Deal.
The thing fades into dormant ease once more, but you’re still warm. Your blood is still trying to break out of your body, but you’re holding it in.
And the fire is building. Faster and faster, blazing up into your skin, the fire is building.
And you won’t break.
In the morning, your lockdown is temporarily lifted so Homelander can parade you to the masses. They’d long fixed the damage you and Ben caused to the tower lawn—the grass is green once more, and the sidewalks have been repaved smooth and black—and they’ve set up a stage that’s reminiscent of Firecrackers. Not quite as dramatic, twice as large, and with better rigged lights. You could just walk out the doors of Vought Tower—they’ve barricaded the path for that very purpose—but Homelander trusts you. And you’re so close. You’re holding on by a thread, but you won’t break. Not yet.
Homelander’s been touching you more. Never casually, and not like that, but his hand isn’t just on your lower back anymore. It’s clasping into yours more often, and not in the intimate, careful way Ben does. A cold, leather glove that snaps around your hand, no fingers intertwined or thumb rubbing on your skin. Yanking you around in a way that makes your elbow snap, slamming you into his back and not bothering to steady you. You let him, he has to trust you, but it makes you colder. Homelander will look at you with cruel blue eyes, devoid of any light or warmth or life, and you feel like a prize. He’s won you, and now he’s growing more and more confident, less and less afraid.
He still won’t touch you with skin. You can’t figure out why, but Homelander’s so very careful not to even brush his skin against yours. You’d think it’s fear. That you’ll feel him, and see something he doesn’t want you to. It’s not about you burning him, you haven’t used fire in front of him since he’d taken you and he knows it. He thinks you’ve burnt out. Learned your place and burnt out. So it has to be about a fear you don’t understand.
You try not to question it. It’s saving you from being touched like that, and that would break you. That would irreversibly shatter you, and you wouldn’t be able to pull yourself back together. So you don’t question it, use that small part of Ben that’s comfortable in your chest to feed the fire, and try to keep the cold in you. You’ll have to, for this. You can’t afford the cold taking control and falling out of you. You can’t afford flinches or numb expressions when this winter becomes something that’s beyond you.
So you push it down, down, down, and smile at Homelander. Too sweet, too many teeth, almost manic.
But you smile at Homelander, and play the game. You’re almost done, so you play the game.
“Babe?”
He turns on you with a shark-like expression. You’ve baited him with blood—drawn right from your heart and making you cold—and he’s taken it.
Homelander says your name, and it's hard to keep smiling. “I like babe, it’s right. Keep using it.”
You nod, and don’t speak. Waiting for him to prompt you.
“If you want something, say it.”
“I was just wondering if you could carry me to the rally later?” Your words are softer than you’d intend, but your tongue is numb in your mouth and it’s the best you can manage. “I just want to get more used to flying with you-“
“Of course you can,” Homelander looks you up and down. “It’s not like you’ll get hurt if I drop you.”
You make yourself laugh, and it doesn’t sound like you. But you keep smiling. Allow yourself to sound smaller. “You won’t drop me, right?”
He scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’d take a week to scrape off the pavement.” Homelander’s eyes narrow on yours. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course!” Voice lighter. Don’t let a crack show in it. “I’m just scared of heights.”
“Oh,” Homelander nods, and starts to walk to you. Arms opening to pick you up, and you have to not scream. Have to keep your teeth from chewing at your cheek and your hands from shaking. “Then let’s go fly. Now.”
“I, I’m not ready-“
“Honey,” Homelander’s voice is annoyed, and he’s glaring again. “Humans have silly little fears about heights. Not us. You’re going to get over this, fucking now, because you aren’t human anymore.”
You’re not afraid of heights. You’ve never been afraid of heights. You’ve only ever really been afraid of three things in your life.
Being worthless.
Losing Ben.
Homelander.
But you can’t break. Play the role. Nod slowly and walk into Homelander’s arms. Feel cold but keep it in you, because you don’t have time to let it out. You have six days to do everything, and being defiant isn’t a luxury you can afford.
He’s still grinning at you, and his teeth are too white. They look fake. “I knew you’d come around. Sage said you wouldn’t, said you’d always be a little too weak, but look at you.” He laughs, and you have to keep smiling. “Still fucking weak, but ready to fix it.”
He doesn’t let you respond before yanking you up the stairs and onto the roof, and your words and protests die in your throat because he has to trust you if you want to go home. And when Homelander shoots up into the sky, you can’t scream or push him away or even go rigid like you’d done before. You had to pretend you trusted Homelander. That he’d won you and now you trusted him. You have to pull him closer on purpose, even though he’s colder than the air around you and your body hates it. It hates touching him, it hates him touching you. He does it as if you’re his possession. With callous, thoughtlessly placed hands and like, if he were to drop you, it wouldn’t matter. You’re his to break.
You’d flown with Homelander before, but that had been for transportation. He’d been focused and bored, carrying you like cargo. This was purely to force any fear or weakness out of you with speed and brute force. He’d done flips, your body tossed around through the air and his arms so loose on you there’s not a second where you are certain he won’t drop you. Halfway through you start to hope he will. That you’ll fall with a sickening splat below, someone will post it online, and Ben will come get you.
But Homelander doesn’t drop you. He goes so fast your skin feels like it’s peeling off your face, so high the air feels thin, and through clouds that leave you damp and chilled.
You weren’t afraid of heights before. You think you might be now. Another line on the growing list of things that, even if you manage not to break, will never be good again. You’re not sure how long you’re up in the air, but when you land back at the tower your hands feel bitten with frost and there’s bile in your throat.
“Go get yourself together,” Homelander orders, nudging you to the door back inside. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
You nod, and try to smile at him. He grins back, but his expression turns slightly sour the longer he looks at you.
“Don’t fucking cry. And wear your supe outfit.”
He’s gone in a blast of wind, and you’re left to stagger back to his apartment. Alone. Blood so cold, but without time to get a hold over it. You just have to keep going, and hope this settles within the hour.
You find your way back to the apartment, still freezing into your bones. Trying to stoke the flames under your skin with that thing of Ben’s in your chest, with thoughts of good things.
Music. City Lights. Ben.
Go through the movements. Don’t vomit—it will take too long to do, time you don’t have—and hum to yourself until the air feels warmer. You can still feel the cold rushing in your blood, but your skin is warmer. You sing a song of summer, and at least your skin feels warmer. You don’t break.
Do your hair and makeup yourself. Ashley had offered you a team this morning, and you’d turned it down. You’d made sure Homelander heard your words—I know what I should look like, I don’t need people helping me—and Ashley had nodded and dropped it with an anxious expression and tug of her hair. So now you stand at the mirror, putting on lipstick that’s the wrong shade of red for your skin and applying shadow in a way that’s not you. Not a style you’d ever wear, not when you had control over it. But it’s the role. This is the right red for this version of you, because it’s a red Homelander likes. This eyeshadow is exactly how you have to do it, because it’s how the paid Vought artists did it. How the world thinks you do it.
You keep a small part of you in your makeup. There’s a green, metallic eyeliner in the collection that had appeared in Homelander’s bathroom, and you trace it on your inner eye. It flashes whenever you move, and it’s impossible to miss. Just a little green, where Ben won’t miss it. Just a little light that doesn’t feel blinding, but feels peaceful and alive. You don’t break.
Now get changed. You have to get changed, because you’ve calmed down enough to not be in danger—or a danger—and done your hair and makeup. The hour is almost up, and so you have to get changed.
The only reason you’re managing not to vomit every time you wear your supe costume is because there’s still a stale smell of Ben on it. You’re surprised Homelander hasn’t noticed, but he also doesn’t know what Ben smells like. The pine could just be from the outdoors, the gunpowder from the attack. And the part that’s just Ben—not shampoo or lingering parts of his day that grow stronger on his skin—is yours to know. It’s a strong smell, powerful and Ben, and you know it’s his. Same as you know that the thing in you is him, something of Ben’s that’s left a tattoo on you. You know all of him, and this smells like he feels. Like he tastes.
You still remember what I fucking taste like?
Shut up. I miss you, and I love you. Of course I remember, don’t be a dick about it.
Would you prefer I give you my dick about it?
You snort softly into the empty air. That one’s not even good. I expect better from you.
You fucking shouldn’t.
And yet, I do.
Because you love me.
Because I love you. You frown at your reflection in the mirror. The green hair clip you’ve been wearing—the one you’d been clinging to since you’d seen it in a costume room and stolen it to keep—looks out of place. It feels too much like you, and you don’t look like you. You look like a statue, or doll.
I look stupid.
You look hot. You always look hot, Sunshine. It’s one of my favorite things about you.
Wrong. You smile at your reflection, and that’s your real smile. You’re talking to Ben—even if it’s just his phantom—so that’s your smile. You like that I’m smart, and that I’m kind, and my pussy.
And all of that is fucking hot. Because you’re hot.
Thanks, Pretty Boy. You’re hot as well.
I fucking know that. That’s why you love me.
That’s not at all why I love you. I love you because you care, more than you’ll ever admit. I love you because you never give up on anything, and because you’re honest. I can trust you, I can always trust you. I love you because you always do what you say you will, and you’re never trying to be anything but yourself. You’re an asshole, Benjamin, but you’re my asshole. You’re a protective, abrasive, vulgar manwhore, and I love you so much it makes me a little insane.
Brat.
Cunt.
You also love me because I’m a good piece of ass. I’m hotter than the goddamn sun and you want to jump my bones, admit it.
I’m allowed to love you because of who you are and also think that you’re stupid hot, Benjamin. You make me laugh and feel safe and happy so I’m always going to love you, and you’re so handsome it hurts to look at so I’m always going to want to jump your bones.
Good thing I want to fuck you until you’re dizzy and can’t even damn speak, beautiful.
I think I can live with that. You sigh. I miss you, and I have to go.
I miss you too. Kick their fucking balls into their throats.
You huff a small laugh into the air. Gross.
You love me.
I do. The cold in your blood is tangible, but so is the fire. And both are yours. Completely yours.
You can do this. You can fucking do this, do it right, and go home.
It still takes holding your tongue between your teeth to not scream when Homelander grabs you, and control over every muscle in your body to not go rigid when he touches you, but you do it. You keep your body limp and smile at his cruel face. You land on the stage—the crowd only one push or wrong noise from a riot—and keep smiling. You shrink into yourself, step back into Homelander’s shadow in a careful way that’s about being shy. About not wanting the spotlight, and seeking comfort in love.
It’s really about trying to get away. About giving your feet just an inch they can move away, because they want to run. Everyone is watching you like you’re going to be their salvation. Like they’re going to eat your flesh and it will bring them comfort. Like you’re going to put on a show and it will be glorious, like you’ll bring them something they’ve been missing. Homelander is watching you as well, and you’re trying to get to where he can’t see. His eyes make that cold spread, make it rile up in wind that sweeps through your body like a storm.
So you’re quiet, and meek, and give Homelander no reason to look at you. You wave to the crowd and smile in a small, pliant way. Sage walks up onto the stage and you get the same, small nod that she offers Homelander. You return it with a sweet expression, and fade into the background as Sage and Homelander work. All you have to do is be here, stand silently, and do as you’re told and it will be more than enough. Cameras are angled at your every shift and breath, and you’re still nothing more than a statue. Homelander tells a completely fabricated and implausible story about how he used to fly you to Paris at night so you could picnic on the top of the Eiffel Tower. The Deep shows up and talks about how hard all the lies have been on you and Homelander, his two closest friends, especially after the recent deaths of your teammates. You considered them family, and this is a period of grief, not of—as the Deep puts it—being a total hater on true love. Ashley gives a speech about how when she first met you, she knew you were in love with Homelander because you couldn’t stop laughing with him about nothing. She says you and Homelander have invited her over for dinner, and everyone here should one day hope to have his burgers and your chocolate mousse cake.
In the hum of the speaker feedback, you hear Ben snort. Suddenly he’s everywhere. Around your body and between your fingers and resting on your head.
I remember when you tried to make us a cake. I wasn’t sure if it looked or tasted more like actual dogshit.
Fuck off. You ate the whole thing.
I’ll eat fucking anything, Sunshine. That cake was a goddamn travesty.
Guess who’s not getting a cake for his stupid birthday.
I’m a little damn old for a cake. His voice drawls your name on the wind. I’ll just eat you instead.
Smooth. And you’re never too old for cake, Benjamin. I’ll even put vanilla ice cream on it.
I thought I wasn’t getting a fucking cake.
I changed my mind. You’re getting cake, and it’s going to be the fanciest cake you’ve ever fucking seen. And I’m going to put rainbow sprinkles on the ice cream, and there’s not a thing you can do to stop me.
Can I still eat you?
Yes. But you’re eating the cake first. And you have to grill burgers.
For my own fucking birthday? Isn’t the whole point supposed to be that I don’t do shit?
Would you rather I make the burgers?
You and Ben had tried to make burgers four times. Technically, you had tried. He’d already known how, because he was a goddamn red blooded fucking American man, and attempted to teach you, but you had not been a good student. You’d burnt them every time, but you kept getting distracted. Ben’s muscles would ripple when he flipped a burger and he’d grin at you while he talked about meat and things being tender, and you think you just kept blacking out in an effort to not fuck him right there. After the fourth smoke alarm resulted in you and Ben sitting in the dining hall while Mallory lectured you about fire safety and banned you from the kitchen’s grill, you’d decided this was just a skill you didn’t need to have. Ben could make burgers. He was better at it, and always got focused in a way that made you both want to fuck him—have all that intensity and care turned on you—and just touch him. Run a hand across his forehead, into his hair, and check that he was real. It made you love him more.
You’re not sure if the phantom is reacting to the burger comment and you calling him adorable, but something rumbles around in your heart and Ben’s voice grumbles. Shut the fuck up.
It’s a little easier to look mindlessly happy. You can feel this remnant of Ben in you—this thing that is him—climbing up a little higher to sit on the top of your chest, so it’s easy to pretend you’re ditzy and humble and your smile is light and carefree. Ashley concludes her speech, and Sage is up. You and Homelander represent the best of what the world has to offer. Two people who have loved each other from the first time they saw each other, and who, despite the hardships and obstacles, will always prevail. She says Homelander will always find you, and you manage to keep smiling. Ben’s Thing tightens in you, and you can practically see his angry expression, but you keep smiling. You will build a perfect American family, and Ryan Butcher will be returned to where he belongs.
I haven’t been being a dick to the Kid.
You blink. What?
You told me not to be a dick to the Kid. I haven’t been. I’ve been a goddamn angel.
Okay. You fight the confused frown on your face. Why are you telling me that?
Because you seemed to really damn care about it. I don’t know. Shut the fuck up.
But-
You were right. He’s not like Homelander. He’s a little bit of a pussy-
Benjamin.
What?
Don’t call a twelve-year-old a pussy. It’s uncouth.
But he is a pussy-
How can he possibly be a pussy.
He can name all fifty states.
I can name all fifty states.
That’s different.
How.
You’re a fucking know it all.
Hey-
You’re a sexy know it all. You look hot when you get riled up, and talking about pretty much anything gets you riled up. If you sat in front of me and named all fifty states I’d get a fucking boner.
That’s weird, Ben.
Fuck off. You’d love my boner.
You lightly bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling. I would.
You’d suck me off, and look fucking hot doing it, and then I’d eat you out and make you cum on my face-
You’re trying to distract me from you calling Ryan a pussy.
No. Shut the fuck up.
You shut the fuck up. I would suck you off, and then maybe I’d let you eat me out-
Maybe?
And then I’d make you clean up and get dressed and learn all fifty states.
That information will never be goddamn useful, Sunshine. Would be a waste of my fucking time.
Because you’re such a busy man? Is getting a boner from listening to me talk and then eating me out that time consuming?
So I will get to eat you out.
Fuck you.
That’s what I’m fucking asking-
Stay on topic, Ben. You should be able to name all fifty states.
Why in goddamn Christ-
You’ve been around since before Hawaii and Alaska, and you’re barely younger than Arizona. It’s a little sad you can’t, Pretty Boy.
Well, I’m not a damn loser pussy, so I don’t really give a fuck.
Rude.
You’re not a loser pussy either. No woman of mine would be a loser pussy.
Your heart stumbles a little faster, and Ben’s Thing hums in your body. Thanks.
Don’t.
You can’t fucking stop me-
Because I’m not there, beautiful. If I were on that stupid fucking stage and you thanked me, I’d pick you up, carry you home, and stop you with my cock in your pretty fucking mouth.
You need to get a grip on yourself. Maybe start putting effort into filtering the phantom better. Because, even in your head, your voice sounds breathless. Okay.
No big words, Sunshine? Just going to let me fuck your face-
Shut up. Cunt.
Brat. There’s a beat of silence, but it’s still louder than the noise of the crowd because you can almost hear Ben’s breath in your ear. I miss you. Come home.
Soon. You feel something heavy, sickening in that piece of Ben inside your chest. You can’t stand it, it makes your heart hurt, and you need Ben—even this strange fragment of him—to feel happy again. And as soon as I do, I’m kicking your ass and making you apologize to your grandson for calling him a pussy.
It feels lighter, and Ben’s scoff isn’t painful. Don’t call him my grandson.
He is, by definition, your grandson. Don’t be a pussy about it, Benjamin.
Smartass.
Old man.
You like it, you fucking grave-robber.
Am I a grave-robber, or are you a cradle-robber?
You’re a goddamn grown woman-
And you’re an ancient, grumpy man-child.
You love it.
I do. You don’t repeat the second part, because Ben’s voice doesn’t prompt it out of you. It just falls into a comfortable, happy silence everywhere around you, and you feel safe. You might have never been in more danger—Homelander at your side and the eyes of the world on you—but everything that’s been breaking in you feels a little more manageable. You’re still full of that never ending cold, but it’s not falling out of you or trying to escape. You can sit in it easily, because you can almost feel Ben there and your fire is still growing. Sage is still talking, and you let it pass through you. This will get through you, and you’ll go home soon. Sage calls you the sweetest and most genuine person she’e ever met, and you hear Ben’s snort. She talks about how Homelander treats you like an equal, and there’s a spark of annoyance in Ben’s Thing for you. She calls you and Homelander American Heroes, and you can keep yourself modest and happy as Homelander laughs and waves off the compliment.
But you can’t stop the momentary static of your heart, or the numb of your body, when Homelander kisses your cheek. A new crack forms—long and somewhere critical—and Ben’s Thing in you riots. Grows louder than the crowd, louder than the ringing in your ears.
You almost don’t see Homelander freeze. He goes still and rigid, his face twitching and looking sick, and you realize that the cold is leaving you. Homelander touched you, and Ben’s Thing is roaring in some sort of pain, and you’ve lost a hold over the polar feeling in your body.
Fuck this, I’m coming to get you-
Benjamin. He’s everything in you that’s good. Everything is cold and you’re afraid and you can’t control yourself and you’re going to lose, but Ben’s voice is still around you and you’re still you. You haven’t broken. You’re so close, you won’t break, and this piece of Ben will help hold you together. You can’t. You know that.
He fucking touched you-
He only kissed my cheek. I’m okay. You’re not. You know what this means, even if Homelander had recoiled from you with a look that won’t last. But you’re so close. There won’t be time for escalation, you’ll be home soon. You’ll falter and break when you get home.
Ben’s voice doesn’t seem convinced. You don’t fucking look okay. You look like you just got goddamn shot, you need to come home right now-
I’m fine.
When Ben says your name, there’s some sort of strain in it. The same ache and pounding that you can feel from that thing inside of you. There’s not a single goddamn thing you can do to stop me-
I know. But please don’t. If you trust me, Ben, please don’t.
You don’t know why you’re arguing with him. This Ben isn’t real, it can’t come get you. But it’s so deep inside of you, keeping you together as Sage’s speech concludes and Homelander herds you up to the front of the stage, you entertain it. It doesn’t feel fake. It feels like him. The sharp, bitter anger in your chest feels like his, the gravely frustration in his voice sounds like it’s coming from right behind you, and it’s so fucking important that you keep it there until you’re in control again.
I do fucking trust you, but I can’t just leave you-
Not leaving me. You’re never leaving me. You’re waiting.
Ben’s Thing stabs into you, and you almost flinch from it. I am waiting. I’m waiting for as long as it takes. But Christ, I fucking hate it. I don’t want to wait, I want you home.
I want to come home. I want to come home more than almost anything. But-
Almost? His words are a grunt from somewhere at your side. The hell do you want more-
You. Fire is building in you, fed by the warmth of Ben’s Thing beating in your chest. I want you.
That thing roars. Claws against your ribs and heart, and you can’t think about anything else. You’re going through the movements—waving and smiling to the crowd—but everything in you is about Ben. About how you’ve never felt a fervor like this anywhere but in him, and you miss him and want him and love him-
Fine. He’s relenting. He’s only in your head, but he’s still relenting with a low, tired voice. But if I see even a little bit of fucking blue-
You can break down the doors of Vought Tower and carry me home. You swallow, and keep your face bright as something in you wilts when Homelander’s arm wraps around you. I’ll see you soon, Ben. I promise.
I know. And I’ll wait.
Thank you.
Don’t.
It doesn’t go dormant, but Ben’s Thing stops being loud. It moves back to resting near your heart, existing always with that arctic sensation in your body. It takes all the strength and will you possess to pull the lingering bits of it—the fear it’s made of—back into you and hold them there when Homelander vaults up into the sky. He’s not touching you on skin again, and Ben’s Thing has tugged much of it out of the air around you, but your blood is still singing, trying to reach anything else and make it feel this. Feel the pure, raw terror that the infinite cold is made of, that’s rushing through you. Rushing out of you.
But it’s not just fear falling out of your body. It’s something furious that’s for Homelander touching you. And you’ve felt things that aren’t fear move out of you before. You’ve felt heat, want and love and adoration, run out of your body when Ben’s touched you. When you’ve gotten to touch him.
Homelander leaves you on the roof to find your way back to his apartment, saying he has business to attend to. He looks like he might try to kiss you, but fear and hatred leaks out of you when he moves and suddenly he’s gone.
And you have a theory. You have a little more than five days, this Thing of Ben’s still burning peacefully inside of you, and a theory.
You have to test it. The cold in you is growing, but so is the fire. Both are, for now, in your control. The fire and the cold are everywhere in you and on you, but not around you, and you’re holding them there. If you’re right about this, then everything will work. You’ll go home.
But you have to test it first.
You spend that night, alone in Homelander’s apartment, making a new plan. You can’t test on Homelander, he needs to keep thinking you’ve gone docile. That you’re out of tricks and are back to being what he thinks you are. You can’t test this on Sage, she’ll figure out what’s happening and you can’t afford that right now. This is the only advantage you have over her, because you’re certain she doesn’t know about it. If she knew, she wouldn’t let you go to rallies, or go anywhere near her. This is the one thing she can’t control or predict or understand.
Feelings. She can’t control how you feel. She can’t stop you being afraid or angry, can’t stop you loving Ben, and can’t prevent how when it all becomes too much your emotions aren’t yours anymore. How they’ve been building up and up and up, growing loud and feral, and now they’re bigger than you are. You’re more afraid than you can hold in you. Afraid for your life, and your self, and for Ben. And every time Homelander’s touched you or Sage had threatened you the fear has grown until it’s sweeping through your body.
But it’s not just the fear. It’s your anger, your fury that this isn’t fair. This is wrong and fucked up and you have to be the one to fix it, but you just want to go home. You’re full of wrath for yourself, for Ryan and Becca Butcher, for Hughie and Annie and MM and Frenchie and Kimiko and everyone you love being forced into this. It’s stoking the fire, and that’s why everything is white-hot now. The anger and fear are made of the same thing that pushes out of you in moments when they consume you, and now they sit in your blood to be weaponized.
The only thing bigger than them is your love. It’s grown so large in your heart and head and soul that it’s become its own animal. It starts in you, and it belongs to Ben. All this love in you is for Ben. You’ll always know him anywhere because your empathy has decided that he is you. He’s something so crucial to you, your love for him is so powerful, that you don’t recognize him just because you know him. You can feel him when he’s not touching you, sense him when he’s close. Nothing has ever been as powerful as your love for Ben, and your empathy knows that. It knows that he won’t hurt you, he’d never hurt you, and that it’s only this strong because of him. Because Ben let you touch him and wasn’t afraid of you, and now he’s everything. Just as much a part of you as the fire has become, and you’ll always return to him.
You’re so close.
Right now you have to be angry and afraid and learn what it can do, and then you can go home and love Ben. Spend the rest of time loving Ben.
But first you have to be angry and afraid.
It takes four of your five remaining days to prove and understand your theory. You go along with Sage’s orders and Ashley’s requests, because right now the act is vital to keep up. You can hear the protest crowds from the 99th floor, and every time you catch a glimpse of social media it’s all about you. You’re America’s sweetheart and savior and symbol, and this is all you have left to do.
You test on the Deep first. You hold your anger in every muscle of your body, and ask the Deep about something simple.
“Hey, Deep?”
The idiot pauses in the hallway, spinning around to grin at you with a puffed out chest. “Anomaly! What’s going on, does Homelander need me-“
“No,” you give a light, silly giggle, like a schoolgirl who just heard her crush liked her back. You don’t throw up on the Deep’s dumb, shiny suit. “I just wanted to know if you got the funding for your new movie?”
“Oh, shit, yeah! I mean with A-Train dead, rest in power, brother,” he puts his fist up in a salute and you have to hold down a scoff. “There’s like a fuck ton of money just lying around, and I was like ‘uh, guys. What if I got the money, right?’ and they said-“
You’re not listening to what Vought Studios said, because you’re trying to figure out how to touch the Deep without him realizing. You wait until he’s completely engrossed in his story then start to walk, gesturing for him to follow. He falls into a pace at your side, talking about getting good writers that will do his character justice, and you lean to the side. Brush your arm against his, and all the wrath in you flares.
The Deep’s voice grows louder. Tighter. “And I don’t fucking understand why they didn’t just give me the money, right? I mean it’s not fucking fair I have to pull all this shit together by myself. I just want to chill the hell out, but somehow this falls on me to fix this shit-“ He freezes, because by his last words he was in a full on shout. Almost a scream. “Uh, sorry, I don’t know where that came from. Don’t tell Homelander I was yelling at you, I really didn’t mean to-“
“It’s fine,” you smile, and it’s more sweet than smug. But you feel really fucking smug. “You’re just passionate.”
One down. One step closer.
Next, you find the writers. Skinny McBrown-Nose and Bald Pussy. You’ve forgotten their names again, and you’d feel a little worse about it if the moment they saw you they didn’t start trying to feed you anecdotes to use about your love for Homelander.
“What if,” Bald Pussy leans forward with a toothy grin. “You asked him out first. And he said no, because he loved you and wanted to protect you, but it broke your heart.”
“And you tried to get over him,” Skinny McBrown-Nose jumps in with an up-beat bounce to his words. “But nobody made you feel the way he does. There’s nobody else for you, and you’d just resigned yourself to a life of solitude when he confessed his love for you. He just couldn’t bear to see you with another, and he decided that putting you at risk would be fine, because he’s the strongest man in the world. As long as he’s there, you’ll be safe.”
You blink, because that is shockingly close to being accurate. For them it’s about Homelander and not Ben, but it’s more you than anything else they’ve pitched.
There is no one else for you but Ben, although you don’t think you’d ever even try to get over him. When this is over you’ll just resign yourself to not being loved by him and dedicate yourself to loving him in secret.
Ben is the strongest man in the world, but he’d never put you at risk. He hates you putting yourself at risk, and if he knew one of the reasons you’ve been staying at Vought was to protect him he’d probably have an aneurism.
And as long as he’s there, you are safe. There’s not a safer place in the world than at Ben’s side.
“I, um,” you have to cover your hesitation, because the writers are looking at you with nervous, expectant expressions. “I think Homelander would prefer he asked me out. It fits in better-“
“But this way,” Bald Pussy interjects eagerly. “We hit the demographic of liberal women in the 18-44 range. They’ll love that you took the move first, and that he loved you so much-“
“I don’t know.” You pull all the dormant cold from your blood and focus on it—let it choke you—and lean forward enough for your hands to touch theirs. Lightly. Unnoticeably. Holding their gazes so they don’t look down and see it. “Maybe I should go get him, and you can tell him-“
“No!” Bald Pussy’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head frantically. “I mean, no need to involve Homelander, you’re probably right-“
You can’t be sure if this is just an average, healthy fear of Homelander, or your fear of Homelander. The fear that haunts you and follows you everywhere. You have to be sure. “I mean, I like it. I think I can just approve it myself-“
“Don’t worry about it!” Skinny McBrown-Nose’s voice is a squeak. “I mean, you shouldn’t bother him. It wasn’t that good an idea, and we’ll come up with a better one, so you don’t have to risk it. Right?”
That’s fear for you. Skinny McBrown-Nose is afraid for you, to talk to Homelander and offer him something he might hate. He has no rational reason to be afraid for you, not with what he’s been told. It worked.
You agree softly and walk away from them. You have more work to do.
You fall into random people and bump against passers by. For the first time in years, you’re touching everyone you can on purpose. Doing it randomly is helping you from falling apart, as their emotions aren’t intense or overwhelming. They’re mostly just bland, flavorless neutrality. It’s not a great indictment of the emotional health of Vought’s employees—how soulless and empty everyone is—but right now it’s working in your favor. You can ignore the emotions that each touch gives you and just study the way they react.
Some stumble slightly, and a lot of them freeze. Several double over before looking around with slack, pained expressions, and one even falls to the ground. Dropping with a strangled sound like you’d shot them.
And you know you were right. You’ve proven yourself right, and you almost fully understand it. You’re so close. To going home, to being with Ben again, to being done. This is almost over.
Almost. You just need to find the V. You have just less than two days left, and you won’t fail. Your nightmares are growing worse and you’re still waking up paralyzed, unable to breathe or move or think anything outside of blood. So much blood, all on your hands. Not strong enough to clean them, too weak enough to wipe them on another. And there’s just so much blood.
But you’ll get through it. You’re almost home.
The more you do this, the more you feel Ben. His voice is always louder now, and you think you might be going insane. You don’t know if it’s this new power taking you over and driving you mad, or if you just miss him so much you’re losing your mind, but Ben feels closer than he had before. Maybe it’s because you’re almost ready. Maybe it’s anticipation.
But no matter what it is, he’s still everywhere. His Thing in your chest is almost always alight, and his presence is solid. Just as permanent as your love for him, just as strong and warm as he is. It feels so purely Ben that your body starts to look for him where you know he won’t be. He’s not going to be in Homelander’s bathroom, or in the Seven’s meeting room, or Ashley’s office. But you can sense him all the time, and the phantom is getting away from you. Muttering in your ear at inconvenient moments about random things that were far too detailed.
Why the fuck did you love those stupid sunglasses? He’d grumbled one morning, a little before your talk with The Deep. You’d frowned into the lukewarm air of Homelander’s kitchen.
What are you talking about?
Those shit quality, knock-off Soldier Boy sunglasses you always wore. Why did you like them.
Oh, you’d blinked at nothing, tapping at the bridge of your nose. Why?
I asked first.
But-
Just answer the damn question, Sunshine. There was a pause, and you could almost hear his sigh. Please.
You had to fight the smile on your face, because Homelander could walk in at any second. Well, since you asked so nicely, Pretty Boy, they reminded me of you.
He was scowling. You don’t know how you know, but you’re certain he was scowling. They were fucking blue.
Yeah, well- You pause, his words settling in. What do you mean, were.
Don’t fucking worry about it. How did they remind-
Why did you use past tense. What happened to my sunglasses.
I said don’t worry about it, his voice muttered your name, and it was almost sheepish. It’s not-
Benjamin.
They broke.
What.
When I lost you, they got smashed-
First off, you didn’t lose me. Stop saying you lost me. Second of all, why are you asking me about my broken sunglasses.
You loved them. I want to know if you just fucking like sunglasses, or if it’s something else-
I loved those sunglasses because they made me more certain you were real. You’d cared enough to give them to me when Butcher had dropped them off, and that made me happy. It made me think you cared about me-
I do care about you. He sounds indignant. Of course I fucking care about you. I-
I know you care, Ben. That’s why I’m not that mad about them hypothetically being broken, because I don’t need proof-
Why would you ever fucking need proof.
Because you’re confusing. You’re the love of my life, Benjamin, and you confuse the fuck-
His voice sounded like it had somehow dropped an octave when he says your name. What the hell did you just say.
I said you’re a confusing piece of shit-
No, the other thing.
I said I love you. You know that. Let me talk.
Sunshine-
Homelander had walked in, and you’d had to tune out Ben’s words around you to feign joy in his presence and interest in his words. Ben’s voice had fallen back into a soft sound of static, but his Thing had remained—steady and comfortably—in your chest. A constant, dependable, holding you down until only a few hours later when you’d heard him from nothing again.
You would fucking know what this shit means.
You’d frowned at the stall of the bathroom, collecting your thoughts and trying to reign your anger back to your body. What shit?
Manifest Destiny. Doesn’t even make any damn sense-
It’s the nationalistic belief that Americans had the right to expand westward, and should exert the means to do so.
Smartass.
You fucking asked me the question. It’s not my fault I knew the answer.
You’d heard Ben’s snort, and his Thing had rolled over inside you. Brat.
Cunt.
Someone had entered the bathroom, and Ben’s voice had gone silent around you—a smell like pine and barbecue fading from the air—as his Thing had remained burning in your chest. You didn’t dwell on it, you didn’t have the time or energy to even think it over once, especially as it just kept happening. Over and over, through the evening and night, Ben’s Thing kept growing brighter and Ben began to intertwine into your senses. You start to spare it thought, especially as the conversations keep starting from silence about nothing.
I’d never hurt you.
I know that. You barely managed not to stumble as you walked through the hall, his voice taking you by surprise. Why are you telling me that?
Because Annie’s fucking wrong. I’d never fucking hurt you. You’d have told me if it hurt, and I’d have fucking tied your hands up if you tried to keep doing it.
You’re just confused enough to not let that turn you on. What?
If you kept trying to do your fucking brain magic after saying it was hurting you. I’d have tied you up to stop you from doing it. I’m not-
Why are we talking about this?
Because I wouldn’t hurt you. I love you, and I rather fucking ship myself back to Russia-
You sigh. I told you to stop saying that, Ben.
He went silent for a second, and his Thing in you rumbles. What.
Stop saying you love me.
No.
Please-
No. I fucking love you, let me say it-
Ben, please.
Stop saying please. I don’t want you begging unless it’s for me to make your pretty fucking eyes roll back in your head-
I’m not joking-
Do I sound like I’m damn laughing. I love you-
Benjamin-
You almost walk into a wall, and have to cut off your own voice in your head to regain your balance. And now you’re certain it’s not worth second guessing, because Ben doesn’t love you. You simply miss him so much your stupid brain is inventing random reasons for him to talk to you. It’s only been two weeks since you saw Ben last, and it’s driving you insane.
If you weren’t already so preoccupied with trying to get a lead on some V, you might be more worried about that. But right now you need the comfort that’s provided by Ben’s voice rolling through you as he tells you he loves you, and the easy joy that talking to his phantom brings. The way it makes his Thing so powerful and devout to whatever feeds it.
You still can’t figure out what feeds it, but it’s only growing more and more hungry. It’s still holding your head together, though, so you entertain it. You have a whole morning dedicated to finding V, and Ben’s phantom and Thing can follow you wherever so you don’t break. You have two days left, so you have to play the game and keep your mask on and find the V. If letting Ben haunt you will keep you sane, so be it. There are worse ways to be hungry.
A-Train said Homelander kept some in his room, but you’ve been looking over almost every nook and cranny and shadow and hollow, and there’s nothing. Homelander didn’t throw it away, he wouldn’t, but you don’t even have an educated guess as to where he’d move it to. It doesn’t help that you have to at least try to sneak around Sage’s notice, or that Ben’s voice keeps muttering everywhere about things that don’t matter. It’s keeping you sane—his grumbles and feel all around you, pushing your cracks back together—but it’s a little distracting. You can’t care about breakfast or guns or the movie Palm Springs—you don’t actually remember watching that one with him, you weren’t sure he’d like it—because you have to rummage through cabinets and empty rooms of the dead members of the Seven.
Ben’s voice keeps telling you he loves you. You give up on trying to shut him up, because you don’t have the time. He’s here to keep you steady, and it’s working fairly well.
I still can’t fucking believe they were keep my shield in goddamn Ohio.
Uh huh, you nod mindlessly into the air, pressing the wall in Firecracker’s old room like you might find a secret door. Annie probably would’ve mentioned a secret door, she lived here for almost three years after all, but you can’t afford to leave any stone unturned.
I mean, why even go to trouble of putting it back together if you’re going to put it in taint-fuck Ohio-
Benjamin. Why are we talking about Ohio.
Because if Vought was keeping V in Ohio with my shield, I’ll blow their stupid fucking tower up-
Your shield was fine, you big baby. And It doesn’t matter where Vought was keeping V, what matters is where Sage is keeping it. Now.
Ben’s grunt sounds from somewhere behind you. You’re right.
What was that?
You’re fucking right. You’re always fucking right, so don’t damn gloat-
I am not always right.
Yes, you are. You’re going to find the V and come home, because you fucking promised and you’re always right about this shit.
What shit?
How people think. Their dumb fucking pussy emotions and thoughts.
Well, I do try.
You’ve probably already fucking found the V. Homelander probably didn’t even hide it, because he’s a smug pussy who thinks everyone fucking loves him.
You almost drop the vase you’d been turning over in your hand, mouth falling slightly open. Holy shit, Ben. You’re a genius.
Goddamn right I am. His voice pauses in your head, and you can almost see the knit of his brow. But why the fuck do you think that.
Because Homelander’s a hubristic piece of shit. He won’t think anyone would ever cross or betray him, and if they did he doesn’t think they’d get away with it.
So?
You smile, fingers tapping against the vases slightly dusting glass. I know where the V is.
It takes an effort not to sprint back to Homelander’s apartment. To look nonchalant and bored as you open the door, to call out to see if he’s there, and walk up the stairs carefully just in case.
You duck under the bed, and there’s a black box. A small, sleek black box without a lock, weighting barely over five pounds when you pull it out.
There’s only one vial. One small vial of green liquid, with a label on it that reads Project Anomaly, Trial 6.
It’s your V. Ben’s V.
It’ll have to do.
There’s only one last move. One last careful move. One more thing before you can go home, and one more day to do it.
You make dinner for Homelander. You’re not sure what he likes, but he’s made you eat a lot of corn dogs. You don’t know how to make corn dogs, so you heat up some hotdogs and hope it’ll be enough.
It needs to be enough.
When he arrives, your smile is tooth-rotting. You’re small and quiet and weak, and you’re all for him. You’re cold and exhausted and everything in you is taut, but you’re so close.
“Hi, babe!” You’re going to vomit. You can’t, but later you’ll need to cut off your tongue so you can never even risk sounding like that again. “I made you some food.”
“Food.” Homelander stops in front of you, and you don’t flinch. “What’s the occasion that finally made you stop fucking moping?”
“It’s an offering,” you give him a simper. It hurts your face. “I want to apologize, and talk about us.”
Us. You want to scream but you turn it into a sweeter smile, and Homelander’s face twists into a wide, smug smirk.
“Us?”
He says the word like it’s real. Like it’s applicable to you and him, and you’re not barely alive anymore. So close.
“Our future.” You pat the seat next to you. “Eat first, you’ve been running around all day.”
Homelander lowers into the seat, and frowns at the sad, limp hotdog in front of him. “What the fuck is this.”
“We don’t have a lot of raw ingredients, I did my best with what I had, I’m sorry-“
“I am not eating this limp dick excuse for food.” He pokes the hotdog, and turns to fully face you. “Talk.”
“I, um,” you take Homelander’s hand gingerly, waiting for him to yank it back. He doesn’t. “Sage suggested that I should propose to you, and I just wanted to talk to you about it. Make sure that’s what you want-”
“Sage suggested.” He scowls at you. “So you don’t want to marry me? What am I doing wrong?!” You stare at him, frozen in place as you try to hold your blood in your body, and Homelander’s voice grows louder. “Fucking answer me!”
“Nothing!” Your voice is nervous because you love him and want him to be happy. Not because you keep seeing red on your hands and his face and splattered across walls. You’re holding one hand up to his face and it’s to comfort him, and you’re not forcing your fingers to stay steady. He’s so angry, and cold, and everything in him is like a tornado. Moving and changing too fast, making you sick. “I just want to make sure marriage is something you want too! I love you, that’s enough-“
Homelander’s moving, and before you can even realize what’s happening his mouth is on yours. His hold on you is like a chain, uncaring and harsh and wearing you down, wrapping around your throat until all you can do is think no. No no no no no-
“I knew you’d see it my way.” His words are hissed against your lips, and something finally breaks deep in you. Far, far down in an artery you feel it snap, and if this doesn’t work, you might not survive.
“Of course,” you have to smile. The world is ending but you have to smile. “Thank you for waiting, babe.”
Homelander stands up, almost pushing you away, and claps his hands. “This is going to be a fucking wedding. They won’t be saying all those lies about us when they see it, it’ll be befitting of the gods we are.” He grins to himself. “And everyone loves romance. Fucking sheeple will eat this up. I’m going to get you a ring-“
“Can you get it from Paris?” You give him a pout. “I’ve always wanted a ring from Paris.”
“Of course, honey. Only the best for the bride of the century.” Homelander nods, and kisses you again. You’re drowning, falling, dying, breaking- “I’ll go now, Sage won’t bitch about it when she sees how much people love us.”
You pretend to start and protest, but he’s already gone. And you’re alone. You’re breaking—the cracks are starting to split open and the world is going blurry—but you have to go. You’re on a time limit, and you have to fucking go.
You’re so close. You can’t fail now.
Homelander’s fast. Paris is far, but Homelander’s fast. You probably have an hour, likely less if he gets word. You’ve already wasted time on the floor, clinging onto the parts of you that are somewhat intact to get your through this. Trying to focus on Ben’s Thing in your chest—bloody and loud—to keep your feet moving.
And you run. Nobody guards Homelander’s room, people are barely even on 99 lately, so you run. Faster than you’ve ever run in your life, one hand over the original V in your pocket to keep it from falling out. Out the door, down the stairs, not stopping to check if anyone sees you. The fire is scratching under your skin, and you’re going to pass out from the cold you won’t let leave you, but you go.
Down, down, down. 82. 74. 66. 53.
The alarms go off. The stairwell lights up red, the blare of a siren echoing off the gray walls, and you keep running.
50. 47. 42.
A door opens somewhere, the creak and scrape on the concrete barely audible.
38.
A man in all black is aiming a gun at you. He has brown eyes, and his hands are shaking.
His eyes burn out first, and you keep running.
35.
Three more. One of them has a tattoo of a flower visible on her wrist. It curls and twists with the burns on her hands.
31. 27. 23.
More bodies. The stairs are littered with bodies, and everything is painted in blood, and the water from the sprinklers is going up into steam. You can’t see your next steps, or the floor numbers, but you keep going.
Down, down, down.
A green EXIT sign is glowing through the smoke and mist. You slam into it, and you might hear something crack.
Go.
People are screaming, most of them parting around you. A few more bodies drop, a few more flashes of curly hair curling up in smoke and a scar on a cheek growing larger. One man’s shout of stop sounds like your father.
Fucking go.
You can see the exit. The doors of Vought Tower are made of glass, and it’s sunny outside. Everything is sparkling, like it just rained.
GO.
Someone calls your name. Your real name, your full name that’s carved on a gravestone in Boston. But the voice is wrong. There’s only one voice that’s right, that’s safe, and it’s the deep one that’s roaring for you in your chest. You don’t stop.
That’s your name again. A woman is calling your name. She’s small, with dark skin and the coldest eyes you’ve ever seen.
She’s not safe. Everything in your brain is gone—replaced with a smooth song that feels familiar and an instinct to go home—but this woman is not safe.
She’s talking to you, saying words you should understand, but you have to go. She’s telling you that you’re interesting, but she’s still won. That you shouldn’t use that vial in your pocket, because it might kill you. That you’ll never find the right kind, and that someone that makes everything in you scream is coming to take you away. That you’re out of the way, you failed to control yourself and now this shrewd woman has won.
You can see the sun. It’s warm. It feels safe. The grass is green, and it’s reaching up to the sun.
And you let go. You stop trying to keep yourself steady and strong, and you let all the exhaustion and loneliness and horror out into the air. Someone screams, and it might be you.
Glass shatters, and something stings your skin. There’s blood on your hands, and you don’t only belong to you anymore.
But you can feel the sun.
———————
In the week after the Believe Expo, Ben started to lose his mind.
He’d been in a meeting when it had started. Sat silently a few tables down from where MM, Mallory, and Butcher were interrogating A-Train. Ben had been kicked out of the actual process, because apparently nobody fucking appreciated how all his questions were about Her, and if she was okay. What did her smile look like, if she was even smiling. Was she having nightmares, and was Homelander keeping her locked up. Why was A-Train such a fucking weak pussy who didn’t help her.
So he’d glared at them from across the room, trying to both listen to A-Train list off stupid fucking passwords and building locations and not break the glass in his hand. It would shatter everywhere, and Ben would probably have to fucking clean it up.
That’s not glass, Pretty Boy. It’s plastic.
Feels like fucking glass.
Well, it’s plastic. You really think the CIA would give us real glass? When most of us can’t seem to stop blowing shit up and Hughie startles at the smallest sound?
Ben had smiled into the air, ducking his head so that nobody would see him looking like a fucking idiot. Plastic can still goddamn break, Sunshine.
Her voice hummed somewhere in his chest, right next to the Thing. Well, it’s easier to clean.
He’d snorted, and looked up as the doors from the hall swung open. Hughie and the French Prick had burst into the room, both shouting incoherently and tripping over each other.
“The bloody hell is wrong with you two, ain’t you able to see we’re busy?!“
Kimiko had stepped over Hughie and the French Prick as they untangled themselves, ignoring Butcher as she marched over to Ben.
He’d frowned up at her. “What.”
She’d glared at him, signing something she fucking knew he didn’t understand, and dropped her phone in front of him.
It was Her. A picture of Her, at the Believe Expo, frozen on the stage. Staring off into the distance, stage lights washing out her perfect features, her mouth open and her eyes wide. The headline above the picture read Anomaly’s Speech Interrupted by Terrorist Attack from the CIA.
“The fuck is this.”
Kimiko signed at Ben aggressively, and he didn’t fucking understand-
“She says that it is all over the news.” The French Prick had stumbled up behind Kimiko, translating with a frown. “That it is bigger than the court trial. People are, to quote roughly, ‘losing their fucking minds’.”
“Frenchie, what the hell are you talking about.” MM had called, still seated across from A-Train. “What’s bigger than the court trial?”
The French Prick had said Her name, still watching Kimiko. “She is everywhere. The article Kimiko is showing Soldier Boy is from VNN, and there are many more about her and Homelander and the Believe Expo and-“ The French Prick had sighed. “Mon Coeur, I am not saying that to them.”
Kimiko had turned to him, gesturing again with another point to Ben.
“Because it will not be helpful.” The French Prick had looked at Ben, then said in a lower voice that Ben had still fucking heard, “this is already not very good-“
“If you don’t fucking tell me,” Ben had growled. “I’ll rip off your hands and make you eat them.”
Kimiko had stepped between the French Prick and Ben, still gesturing at the former with only a brief pause to flip the latter off.
The French Prick had let out another fucking sigh, and said the words slowly. “There are many… outlandish rumors. About her,” The French Prick had nodded at the phone, still in front of Ben. “And the nature of her life.”
“Frenchie,” Butcher had drawled from across the room. “If you don’t start talkin without being a cryptic cunt-“
“Many are calling her a messiah. Some think she is an insider, a spy for either the CIA or Vought. There are investigations into her past, her paternity, and relationships with Homelander and…” The French Prick had winced as he spoke. “Monsieur Butcher.”
Ben had needed to take a walk. His fist had curled against the table, blood had pounded in his ears, and Her voice in his head had hummed do not kill Butcher. It will be messy and just a huge inconvenience for everyone, so Ben had stood up—the bench screeching as it flew out from under him—and stomped out of the dining hall.
Butcher had, surprisingly, not been a total fucking dickless piece of shit about it. Nobody had even mentioned it as more and more rumors and speculations poured in, each more fucking insane than the last. Ben started to long for Her to haunt him again, because right now he was being suffocated with this version of her that wasn’t fucking Her. It wasn’t even a goddamn person, it was a product, an idea for the fucking masses to project onto. She wasn’t a liar, or a honeypot, or a silly bimbo just caught up in a whirlwind romance that had gotten away from her. She was a brilliant, beautiful, fucking perfect woman. She wasn’t brainwashed—Ben pitied the fucking idiot who would try to, She’d give them a run for their money—or anyone’s fucking bastard child, and she had a PhD. In Anthropology, because she cared so fucking much about people and making the world good. Because She was good. She was the only person in the whole fucking world who was good. She wasn’t Homelander’s or Butcher’s or CIA’s, she was Ben’s. She was the most painfully strong-willed woman he’d ever met, and she wanted Ben.
And he had to just fucking watch, like an undeserving fucking pussy, as people kept talking about Her like they knew her. They didn’t know her. Ben knew her. He knew that this was part of Her stupid plan, and that she’d be home soon—She’d fucking promised—but that no matter what he’d wait until everyone else was dead and the building around him was in ruins for Her to return to him. He knew that, if this wasn’t tearing the country apart and inciting riots in the streets, She’d find it all hilarious.
That’s the third person this week to accuse me of getting a BBL. She hummed in Ben’s ear as he listened to Hughie ramble on about the newest developments. Like I could afford an ass this good on a waitress’ salary.
He coughed to cover his snort, and Mallory shot him a glare.
“Is there anything you would like to say, Soldier Boy?”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m your reporting officer-“
“You’re still not fucking paying me,” Ben sneered. “I’m not here for you, or your shit fucking ideas. Hughie, keep talking.”
Hughie nodded nervously, and continued. It was a lot of pointless shit about how they had to keep to their stories, what allegations were worth addressing and what was just nutjobs talking out of their asses. Ben wasn’t really fucking listening, just staring at another photo of Her, in that stupid fucking costume, wearing a smile that wasn’t Hers.
He missed Her smile. Ben missed every fucking thing about Her, but her smile was a goddamn work of art. When it was real it was wide and toothy and made everything around it brighter. Her eyes would scrunch with it, and it always looked like she was keeping a secret. Something just for Her, about how beautiful the world was and how she got to see it. When She gave Ben that smile, he got to be in on the secret. He got to see every single fucking perfect part of Her—understand a little more about why She loved this shit life so much—and if she let him he’d keep making Her smile until everything was almost as beautiful as She was.
He kept his promise. It had clearly been important to Her—for reasons Ben didn’t understand—that Ben was better to the Kid. She’d cashed in a fucking favor for it, and Ben knew she wouldn’t forget that it was Her last one. She’d wasted them on making him watch TV and read goddamn books and getting her some chocolate from the dining hall in the middle of the night—he’d have fucking done it without the favor, because She’d sprawled herself across his chest and held his face between her hands with a pretty pout on her lips—but She’d never used that last one.
But She wanted Ben to be nicer to the Kid. So he marched into the dining hall for dinner and sat at the almost empty table.
The Kid stared at him over a book, and Ben grunted. He didn’t have a goddamn clue how to do this.
“The fuckin hell are you doin here?” Butcher appeared through the kitchen doors, two plates in hand. He set one down in front of the Kid, dropping down across from Ben with a scowl. “You ain’t been to one of these since-“
“Shut the fuck up.” Ben muttered. He didn’t need another fucking reminder She was gone. “I live here just as much as you do, you fucking pussy. I can eat wherever I damn well please.”
Butcher narrowed his eyes at Ben. “Then where’s your food.”
“I only just fucking sat down-“
“You can have mine.” Ben felt his jaw clench as the Kid pushed his plate across the table. “I’m not that hungry.”
“Ryan, you eat your own fuckin dinner and let me-“
“Kimiko gave me some cheese earlier.” The Kid mumbled. “I was showing her my homework and she was eating cheese. I asked for some-“
“Ryan-“
“I didn’t mean to eat all of it, I was just hungry-“
“Ryan-“
“And Mom said sharing was good!” Ryan looked at Butcher with wide eyes, and the pussies face fell into a glower. “She said sharing was important!”
Butcher’s glare turned to Ben, and Ben pulled the plate closer to his body. He wasn’t that fucking hungry either, but Her voice kept ringing in his head.
Be kind to Ryan. For me.
“Uh,” Ben looked at the Kid, who was watching him with an openly nervous expression. “Thanks.”
Was that so hard, Pretty Boy? You were almost civilized.
Shut the fuck up.
Her laugh echoed around Ben’s head, and he gave the Kid a small nod. “What are you reading.”
“Of Mice and Men,” The Kid answered, and his voice was so fucking quiet. “Aunt Grace says it’s important for my education-“
“That the one about the huge idiot who gets shot in the head, yeah?” Ben frowned, because he’d read that book. Over 80 years ago, but he’d read it. “It’s-“
“Lennie gets shot?!” The Kid’s face had fallen, and Ben blinked.
“Uh-“
“Bloody hell.” Butcher sighed, pulling the book away from the Kid with a glare at Ben. “Tell him about your homework Ryan. I’m gonna go get you another fuckin book.”
There was silence for a second after the door closed behind Butcher.
“You don’t have to listen to me talk about my homework,” the Kid mumbled. “It’s not that interesting.”
Be kind to Ryan. “I don’t fucking care. Talk.”
The Kid started slow. He’d been right, it wasn’t that interesting. It was all books and history and science and fucking math. Ben goddamn knew what ecosystems were, and he didn’t give a fuck about calculating percentages, but the Kid seemed to. He got all damn cheerful naming the fifty states, and Ben didn’t have the fucking heart to shut him up. She’d asked him to be kind, and this seemed like the type of shit She’d love. She wouldn’t care that it was all for fucking children, She’d ask the Kid about his opinion on the symbolism in their stupid fucking books and his opinion on the Lousiana purchase.
So he let the Kid talk, all the way until the dining hall finally started to fill with the rest of the team. Annie and Hughie first, followed by Kimiko and the French Prick, all of whom gave Ben odd looks but didn’t interrupt the Kid’s ranting. MM and Butcher arrived—A-Train was still mostly keeping to himself, Ben hadn’t even seen him outside of meetings—and the Kid was cut off mid-sentence as Butcher dropped another book on the table.
Ben stood up. He’d done what he had to, and been nice to the Kid. He could leave.
“Are you not eating with us?” The Kid was frowning at him. “I thought you were going to eat with us.”
Ben wasn’t sure what to do. “I’m not-“
“Sit your ass down, Soldier Boy.” MM grunted, not looking up from his plate. “Eat your fucking dinner.”
The Kid was still fucking watching him with a sad expression that turned into a smile when Ben slowly returned to his seat.
Ben wasn’t sure how he allowed it to happen, but he was back in the dining hall the next night as well. He kept thinking about how fucking happy She’d be he was talking to the Kid, and how the Kid didn’t seem to care that Ben had tried to murder him at one point. He just seemed happy Ben was there, and his face lit up when Ben sat across the table again. So Ben was there the next night, and the night after that, and suddenly he was fucking eating dinner with everyone.
The Thing was still fucking trying to tell him something. He still didn’t fucking understand. It kept going on rampages around Ben’s body, trying to force him to get it. To just know what it wanted him to, what the Thing had decided was so fucking important for him to know. And it was still trying to tell Her. She wasn’t here, Ben had to keep reminding the Thing She wasn’t here, but it didn’t give a shit. It was rioting inside of Ben like it did when She was sad and he needed to help. To hold Her until her heartbeat was steady, or talk to Her until her perfect fucking brain was Her’s again. When it was trying to tell Ben to touch Her, that he should touch Her and all the pain and fear written across her pretty features would vanish, because Ben would make Her feel good. He’d touch Her and kiss her and bite her and fuck her until she was happy. He’d do fucking anything to make Her happy.
And the Thing roared.
There were points where the Thing would explode inside him, and Her voice would become clear. Like she was right at his side, grinning up at him as she spoke. Telling him about things only She would think of. The real Her, not the echo of her in his head. The Thing would squeeze in Ben’s chest in the middle of the night, and Her voice would start talking all too fast about how she couldn’t come home. She was weak and couldn’t come home. Ben told Her to shut up, because she would. Not coming home wasn’t a goddamn option.
And She still wasn’t wearing blue. She’d promised, fucking sworn, that she’d wear blue if Ben needed to come get her. But she wasn’t, so Ben just waited. Mallory turned on the Dining Hall TV for some sort of stupid Vought show, and She looked so fucking exhausted and small—shrinking into herself in a way that Ben knew meant she was afraid—next to Homelander. But Ben had to just listen to Sage give a speech about their fucking relationship, and not go help Her. He hated this, but he fucking couldn’t go until She gave the signal. The Thing was raging inside of him, and Her voice was following him—teasing him with a lightness in her voice—but Ben had to just watch. Talk to Her in his head about anything, because that’s all he could have right now.
Then Homelander kissed Her cheek, and the table had cracked under Ben’s grip. Everyone was fucking looking at him, and She looked so fucking afraid. Homelander had touched Her. That weak, pathetic fucking pussy wasn’t supposed to touch Her. Ben should’ve been there to fucking kill him for even looking at Her-
Ben was moving before he was even aware of it. Stalking down the halls, back to the apartment, because he was going to get Her. The Thing was going fucking feral, and Her voice kept trying to stop him, but nothing could stop him. Nothing was going to stop Ben from fucking killing Homelander, right fucking now. He had his shield and himself, and V or no V, he’d take the shot and he wouldn’t fucking miss. He wasn’t going to keep fucking leaving Her-
Not leaving.
She kept talking to him, her voice desperate in Ben’s head. He had go goddamn save her, bring her home-
Her voice wouldn’t shut the fuck up. She wanted to come home. She wanted him more. She’d see Ben soon, but he had to wait.
He had to keep fucking waiting. He had to put down his shield, put his shirt back on, push his suit back into the dresser and just miss Her. Wait for her and miss her.
After a while, someone knocked on the door. Ben scowled—if it was Hughie or Annie here to talk about fucking feelings, he’d punch their teeth out—and went to answer the door.
It wasn’t Annie or Hughie to talk about feelings. It wasn’t Mallory or MM or Butcher to lecture him either, or even the French Prick to do whatever the hell the French Prick did.
It was the Kid, looking up at Ben with an anxious face.
“You, um, you weren’t in the dining hall for dinner. I wanted to see if you were okay.”
Ben blinked at him. He didn’t fucking love how he seemed unable to hold a normal conversation with the Kid. It was just a small fucking human. He could act like a grown ass man.
“I’m eating alone. Go back before Butcher starts fucking looking for you.”
Ben went to slam the door, but the Kid stopped him. Shot out a hand and stopped Ben. “Please, wait-“
“How fucking strong are you?”
The Kid stared at him. “I, um, I don’t know. My dad said I was really strong-“
“Anyone ever tested it?”
“Tested what?”
Ben sighed. “Your strength. Given you some weights, put you under a car-“
“A car?” The Kid shook his head frantically. “I don’t, please don’t put me under a car-“
“Calm the fuck down, I’m not going to do it right damn now.” Ben rolled his eyes. “I’ll tell Butcher tomorrow.”
“Tell Butcher what-“
The Kid’s words were still panicked, and Ben sighed, running a hand over his face. “We need to figure out how strong you are. Just so you don’t fucking break something.”
“I broke a cup,” the Kid mumbled, staring at the floor. “When I got here. And I’ve broken some people-“
“That’s not your fault,” Ben snapped, Her sad face flashing with smoke in his brain. “If nobody’s taught you how to control it, you shouldn’t be fucking expected to.”
The Kid nodded slowly, still staring at Ben. “Will you help me?”
“I don’t-” Ben’s fists curled at his side, and he cut himself off as he saw at the Kid’s wide, hopeful eyes watching him. Watching Ben like he was better than he was, like he’d somehow earned the Kid’s trust. Ben cursed himself, and sighed. “Fine.”
“Will you come to dinner?”
“No.” Ben wasn’t going to relent on that. He didn’t need everyone’s fucking sad, pitying looks, not right now. Not when the Thing was still rolling around inside him, not when he could still see Her face—full of frightened shock—and couldn’t do anything about it.
“Can I eat here?”
Ben blinked. “What.”
“May I please eat here? If, um, if it’s okay with you I can go ask Butcher-“
“Why.”
The Kid shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor. “I want to ask you some questions, please.”
Ben frowned. “About what.”
The Kid said Her name, and the Thing fucking moaned in pain. “I just, I want to know about her. Nobody will talk about her, and Kimiko said you were-“
“You can fucking talk to Kimiko?”
“I’m trying to learn,” the Kid shrugged, glancing up quickly. “It’s important to understand and respect others, even if they’re different-“
“Fine.”
The Kid looked fully back up. “Fine?”
“You can eat here. Don’t bother getting Butcher, he’ll be a fucking ass about it. If he whines like a dickless pussy, I’ll deal with it.” Ben stood aside in one sharp step, and the Kid walked in the apartment slowly, looking around with wide eyes.
“Your place is nicer than Butcher’s.”
“Everyone decorated their own,” Ben grunted, moving to the kitchen. “And Butcher’s fucking boring. No color in that asshole’s place.”
“Who decorated yours?”
Ben sighed, said Her name, and ignored the stab through his heart. “Sit the fuck down. We’re eating bagels.”
The Kid waited silently as Ben pulled out plates and prepped the food. When he stalked back over to the table—The Kid watching him and sitting with good fucking posture—Ben slammed the bagels down and dropped in his seat. The Kid was in Her seat.
He had to be okay with that. She’d kick Ben’s ass if he moved the Kid just because he didn’t think anyone else should ever even try to take her place in any fucking way.
The Kid took his first bite, and stared down at the bagel as he swallowed. “Is this-“
“Strawberry cream cheese,” Ben muttered, shoving half of his own in his mouth. “Better than fucking crack.”
“Oh.” The Kid nodded, and took another small bite.
Ben sighed. “She liked it.”
Don’t lie to the child, Benjamin. You love that shit twice as much as I do.
“She showed it to me,” Ben amended himself, face dropping into a scowl. “And I love it as well.”
The Kid nodded, but didn’t say anything else. Taking another bite, waiting for Ben to speak.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” Ben leaned back in his chair, glaring at the Kid. “Three questions. That’s all you fucking get. I don’t have to answer a goddamn one if I don’t want to, and you don’t get them back. So choose fucking wisely.”
The Kid nodded, and looked back down at his plate. Ben shoved the rest of his bagel in his mouth, watching the Kid carefully as he chewed.
“What’s her favorite color?”
“All of them,” Ben swallowed, his words becoming clearer. “She liked every fucking color. She said she didn’t want any of them to feel bad about being ugly, so she wouldn’t pick a favorite. All colors had something to contribute.”
“Even orange?”
Ben snorted. “Halloween and the damn Grand Canyon.”
The Kid took another bite, looking up at Ben. “How did you meet her?”
“She fucking kidnapped me.” Ben grumbled, and the Kid’s mouth fell open. Ben rolled his eyes. “Not like that. She woke me up to kill Homelander, and we lived in a safe house together. We grew,” Ben frowned, searching for the right word that explained how She was his whole life. How he’d decided that, in the end, he would fucking die and kill and bleed for Her. How She made him happy and was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. How She was perfect, and adored Ben, and they’d always fucking burn together. “Close. Once we stopped trying to damn kill each other, we grew close.”
“Okay.” The Kid looked fucking sad, his mouth hanging slightly open.
“Spit it out,” Ben muttered. “Whatever the hell you want to say-“
“I’m sorry.“ The Kid’s voice was almost a whine, and he sounded desperate. Talking too fucking fast. “I, um, I know she’s not here because of me, and what my dad did to her, and Butcher says it’s not my fault but-“
“Shut up,” Ben’s words were rough, but he was getting worried the Kid was going to make himself pass out. “Butcher’s, for fucking once, right. You’re not your shit-fuck father, buddy.” That felt like something She’d say. “And she wanted to help you. She doesn’t hate you.”
“Why?” The Kid gave Ben a pathetic, sad look. “Why did she help me? After what my dad, what Homelander did-“
“Because that’s not the type of person she is.” Ben snapped, and his voice was harsher than he’d meant it to be, but the Thing was bellowing inside him. “She doesn’t hold things against people, even when she fucking should. She wants to help people, and so she fucking does.” Ben sighed. “She thinks the world is good. She’s mean and rude and has a smart fucking mouth, but she still thinks this shit is worth something. And she’s a fucking genius, so she’s probably right. She probably didn’t even damn think to blame you, so don’t fucking do it for her. She doesn’t like people doing shit for her.”
“She doesn’t?”
“No.” Ben watched the Kid’s soft, eager expression. “She works her fucking ass off for everything, and earns every damn thing she gets. Never even asks for shit in return.” Ben scowled into the air. “She deserves a fuck ton more than people are giving her.” She deserved fucking everything. “Does everyone’s goddamn jobs and all she gets is an apartment and a limited company credit card in fucking Mallory’s name. If the CIA weren’t full of such fucking asshole pussies, they’d just give her goddamn control of everything and we’d all be home in an afternoon.”
“She sounds really cool.” The Kid mumbled, and Ben nodded.
“She is fucking cool.” He grunted. “She’s fucking perfect.”
The Kid looked up at Ben with big eyes. “Yeah, it, um, it makes sense why you love her.”
Ben’s whole world stopped.
He did.
He loved Her.
With every single fucking part of him, Ben loved Her. That was what the Thing was. Love. For Her. That’s what it had been trying to tell him. He loved Her.
She was perfect. She was the whole world and everything around it and between it, and Ben loved Her. She never fucking wavered, and was so fucking smart and beautiful and good, and Ben loved Her. She trusted Ben, she wanted him, and he fucking loved Her.
This was the stupid shit people wrote all those songs that She loved about. Where they talked about it like it was evasive and the most amazing pain you’d ever fucking feel, and how their person was the best person and nobody fucking got it like they did. This pain was fucking amazing, and Ben never wanted to stop feeling it. It made his heart—that’s what the fucking Thing was, and Ben was a goddamn idiot—ache because she wasn’t here, but it also meant he got to want Her. The pain meant She was in sight, and Ben just had to fucking wait. He’d never stop waiting. If the next time he saw Her was in a thousand fucking years, Ben would pick her up into his arms all the same and kiss her until she moaned into his mouth and he could breathe again. Because his person was the best fucking person. Nobody did fucking get it like Ben did. She was better than every other goddamn pussy fucker on the planet, and she was a goddamn force of nature. She made oceans part and lightning strike and the sun followed Her because it wanted to share Her warmth. She was so fucking perfect, so powerful, that she’d managed to make Ben’s heart beat in a way it hadn’t before. He’d been alive for over a goddamn century, and he’d never had everything be about his heart, and how it needed to be in time with Hers.
This was all the goddamn movies she’d made him watch, where two people would look into each other’s eyes and the music would swell and everything would fade to black as they kissed. This wouldn’t fade to black. This would keep going, and Ben would eat Her pretty face and suck her lips until they were swollen. He’d put wets kisses along her jaw and bite on her neck, and she’d fucking moan and the lights would stay up as Ben fucked her. Really, properly fucked Her like she deserved, made her unravelled and wrecked under him. Everyone would fucking see, because the whole fucking world needed to see Her how Ben saw her. And he’d keep going and going until she looked at him like he was everything, and Ben would keep fucking loving Her until someone figured out a way to kill him. And even then he’d crawl back to Her. They’d have to pull his fucking heart out of his chest and launch it into fucking space where he couldn’t follow it. He’d probably follow it anyways, because space didn’t have fucking shit on Ben, on his love for Her. His love was bigger, more important, and if space tried to take his heart Ben would just have to figure out how to fucking kill it and get Her back.
This was probably like poems and books, as well. She’d say it was. She’d say that love is the most poetic thing in the world, and that love in some form runs through every great story in history, even the tragic and heartbreaking ones. She’d make this shit poetic. She’d hold Ben’s face between her hands and say a bunch of things he didn’t understand, using allegories and metaphors and smiling at him, and it wouldn’t fucking matter what Ben understood. She would be there, telling Ben she loved him and smiling and saying it a million different ways because that’s who she was. Her brain moved too fucking fast, and She’d only be able to tell Ben she loved him in a way that was beautiful.
Ben didn’t need to be fucking beautiful. This was pretty fucking simple, he loved Her. That was all that needed to be fucking said, there was no other goddamn way to put it. Ben loved Her, like nobody had ever loved anything in goddamn history. Ben loved Her, and whenever he thought the words his heart would feel a little easier in his chest.
Once She was home Ben would get his hands dirty for her and do whatever she told him and make Her feel fucking good. That’s what he was here for now, to make Her feel good, to touch her and praise her and worship her until she understood that she was perfect. She’d fall apart because of Ben, and she’d fucking smile at him after, and that would be all he needed to keep living. She could have all his food, and take all his sleep and oxygen and goddamn peace, but Ben would fucking thrive. Because She’d be there and he could keep loving her.
But now, he had to get through the rest of dinner and show the Kid out while acting like everything was normal. He had to get through the rest of his fucking life acting like everything was fucking normal. Like he wasn’t in love, in stupid fucking love, with Her.
He’d tell Her. She had to fucking know. Ben would hold it within himself until She was home and happy, then he’d tell her.
He didn’t have a fucking clue how. He’d never done this shit before, where it really fucking mattered that he did it right. He could get her shit. Something she’d like, that proved that Ben listened. He always fucking listened to Her.
She liked those stupid off-brand Uought sunglasses. She’d wear them all the damn time, and they’d broken when he lost Her. He wouldn’t get Her blue one’s this time. She shouldn’t wear blue, unless it was to tell Ben to come fucking get Her. He didn’t want to get Her Soldier Boy sunglasses, Vought didn’t deserve Ben’s money—technically the CIA’s money, but who gave a fuck—or his likeness.
Ben got Her green ones. Simple fucking green ones with the same aviator frames, that he could give to Her and say he loved her and she’d smile at him.
He kept eating with the team. The Kid kept asking Ben questions, a lot about history—like he was supposed have a fucking clue just because he’d been alive for some of it—and a lot about Her.
“I wasn’t alive in the fucking 1800s,” Ben muttered as the Kid showed him a worksheet question. “I don’t have a goddamn idea what that painting means.”
“The book said it was about Manifest Destiny,” the Kid frowned. “But I can’t find a definition, and Butcher and Aunt Grace don’t want me to have a phone.”
Ben actually agreed with that. The Kid didn’t need to see all the shit people were saying about him, or about how Homelander and Her were in love but maybe She’d been fucking Butcher. Ben wished he could unsee it. Wipe it from his goddamn brain. He was about to say he didn’t have a fucking clue about the Manifest Destiny shit, but She must have told him at some point. This seemed like shit she’d tell him about, and suddenly her voice was reminding him.
“It’s the nationalistic belief that Americans had the right to expand westward, and should exert the means to do so.”
The Kid blinked at him. “Really? Are you-“
“I’m fucking certain.” Her voice in Ben’s head had been fucking certain, so he was as well. “That’s what it means.”
“Okay.” The Kid started to write on the paper, and people began to trickle in for dinner. Butcher sat at the Kid’s side—glancing over the worksheet once and giving an approving nod—as Hughie and Annie sat on Ben’s bench. Neither flinched when Ben glanced at them. MM and A-Train arrived, the fast pussy finally seeming to develop some team spirit, and the French Prick and Kimiko were late. Ben hoped they were finally just fucking. If they kept making silent heart eyes at each other without just fucking, he’d shoot them. The French Prick specifically, because Kimiko would just be a waste of a bullet. If Ben couldn’t fuck his woman, everyone else better start appreciating what they goddamn had.
“You still need my phone for that bloody school shit, Ryan?”
“No,” the Kid didn’t look up from his paper. “Ben helped me. Manifest Destiny means,” he paused, squinting to read his own handwriting. “The nationalistic belief that America should expand to the west.”
Butcher scowled at Ben. “That so?”
The Kid hummed, and Ben shrugged. “I’m fucking right, so don’t lose your stick up your own asshole.”
“You seem real fuckin sure-“
“He is right, Butcher,” MM muttered. “That’s the definition. Not sure how he knows-“
“All of you seem to be real goddamn convinced I’m a fucking idiot,” Ben snapped. “I’m not a boring pussy, but I know things. I’m not a goddamn asshole without a fucking brain.”
“I think we just aren’t sure what you would know,” Hughie mumbled, glancing at Ben nervously. “I mean, you haven’t been in school in a while. And I don’t think they taught westward expansion with any, like, nuance in the early 1900s.”
“They didn’t,” Ben sighed, and said Her name. He needed to say Her name more, it made his heart squeeze but it always sounded fucking right. “She told me. And she’s a fucking nerd,” he tried not to smile. He fucking missed her. “She’s always fucking right about that shit.”
A-Train was looking at Ben weird again. Ben was about to fucking ask what the hell is problem was, why the pussy wouldn’t just talk to him. Ben hadn’t even ever really tried to kill him—as far as he remembered—and everyone else was talking to him. He’d defiantly tried to kill everyone else at least once, so why the fuck A-Train was being so damn strange-
“Does she like school?” The Kid was asking Ben with those same fucking wide eyes, and he couldn’t not talk about Her if he fucking tried.
“She says there are massive flaws in the American education system,” Ben shrugged. “But she likes learning, because she’s fucking insane.”
“What was her favorite subject?” The Kid’s voice was growing eager, and everyone else was silent. “In school?”
“English. And the fucking social one. Anything about people.”
“Arts and Humanities,” MM offered, frowning at Ben. “If it’s not STEM, it’s Arts and Humanities.”
Ben didn’t have a fucking clue what STEM was, but Arts and Humanities sounded familiar. “Sure. That shit.”
“I like English as well,” the Kid was smiling, and Ben couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching. “But I also like science. Biology is my favorite-“
“Let the old ass fuckin eat, Ryan.” Butcher muttered, standing up. “You want pizza rolls?”
“Yes, please.”
Butcher nodded and stalked off, and the Kid turned back to Ben.
“Does she like biology?”
Ben sighed. “She likes everything. I think she gives at least a small shit about biology, because she talked about it when she’d work on my shell shock.”
The Kid needed to stop asking fucking questions about Her, because Ben was learning he was incapable of just lying or telling him to shut the fuck up. His stupid heart would grab his mouth and use any fucking excuse to talk about Her—about how good she was and how she made everything around her good as well—because it wasn’t allowed to say Ben loved Her yet.
“What’s shell shock?”
“PTSD.”
“What?” Annie leaned over Hughie, frowning at Ben. “What are you talking about?”
“She was doing her fucking brain magic shit on my head.” Ben snapped. “She asked to, and it was fucking working.”
It had been working. Ben would never tell Her, because she’d get that pleased look in her eyes and bounce around the room, taunting Ben until he grabbed Her and kissed all the smug words out of her mouth—actually, he would tell Her, because that sounded fucking amazing—but it had been working. Ben’s nightmares about Russia and pain had faded, and he didn’t hear drums in the constant background anymore. Now it was only Her, following him and making him lose his fucking mind.
Annie nodded, and dropped it for the rest of dinner. Ben answered a few more of the Kid’s questions, ignored A-Train’s silent, strange looks, and ate his barbecued ribs. When he was done he cleared his plate, dropping it into the sink, and nearly punched Annie when she came up behind him.
“Soldier Boy?”
Ben whipped around, fist’s clenched. “Christ on a fucking cross-“
“Why didn’t she tell us about the PTSD treatment?” Annie crossed her arms, standing her ground. “We should know-“
“Me and you pussies weren’t exactly buddy-buddy,” Ben drawled. “And you don’t need to know shit about what she and I do.”
“If it affects the team, we do.”
“Well it fucking doesn’t-“
“It was probably hurting her,” Annie pushed on, and Ben’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t just vanishing. Whatever she was doing to fix you was going into her.”
“She’d have fucking told me-“
Annie shook her head. “She wouldn’t.” Annie said Her name with a sad expression, and Ben’s heart hurt. “She, well, you know her. She wouldn’t ever tell anyone she was hurting, not until she had to.”
“She’d fucking tell me.” Ben insisted. She’d never fucking lie to him, and he’d never doing anything that would hurt her. “If it was hurting her, she’d have told me and I’d have fucking stopped her-“
“Just, listen.” Annie sighed. “I know she cares about you. A lot. And if you care about her, you won’t make her keep doing that when she gets back. It’s not her responsibility to fix you, even if she...” Annie looked him up and down. “Cares about you.”
“I fucking know that,” Ben hissed. “You think I don’t fucking know that? I care about her more than you’re goddamn capable of imagining-“
“Then don’t hurt her.” Annie shrugged. “She won’t say it’s hurting her, but her nightmares were getting worse even before the tower. She’s dealing with a lot, do this one thing for her.”
Her nightmares had been getting worse. And She’d been staring at corners and shadows when she didn’t think Ben was watching. “How the fuck did you know that.”
“She’s my friend,” Annie frowned. “She told me stuff.”
“What other stuff did she tell you?”
“Enough for me to believe that you don’t want to hurt her.”
“Stop speaking in fucking riddles-“
“Soldier Boy,” Annie shook her head. “I’m not trying to fight with you. Not right now, with everything being so fucked. But just, don’t hurt her.”
Annie left, and Ben couldn’t fucking move. He’d never hurt Her, he fucking loved Her. Everything in him was dedicated to protecting her and loving her, and he’d rather go back to sleep or ship himself to Russia that let her hurt anymore-
She knew that. Ben was certain She knew that. She didn’t know he loved Her, and he wished her voice would stop trying to fight with him about that, but she knew Ben would never fucking hurt Her. He’d keep her safe, he’d always care for her and make her happy. Everything good was Her, and Ben’s heart kept beating so she could have it when she came home.
The blood in Ben’s body had turned into Her. This is what people must have meant when they said love would drive you mad. Her voice, growing clearer and clearer in his head, was still telling about strange fucking things Ben hadn’t been thinking about before. Sometimes it would even say that She loved him, and Ben decided that he was getting a little too fucking into this fantasy. Where he could ask Her voice in his head questions and she’d answer like it was Her. Really Her. When he’d finished buying Her sunglasses—She’d be real fucking proud, he’d used Amazon without calling Hughie to make him do it—Her voice had been tired and sour around him, but still so slightly amused. Sounding like Her.
Do you think he watches tentacle porn?
Ben had frowned into the empty apartment. What the fuck are you talking about.
The Deep. Do you think he watches tentacle porn?
I don’t fucking know. Why the hell would I know that.
You don’t have to actually know, Pretty Boy. You can guess, or offer another type of porn. My vote is tentacle, but if you think there’s another-
What’s that one you told me about that I couldn’t fucking understand. With the dogs.
Beastialty?
No, smartass. With the costumes-
Oh. Furries.
Ben had nodded at nothing. Is there an ocean version of furries?
Maybe. I don’t actually know.
You don’t have to actually know, Sunshine. You can fucking guess-
Shut up.
No.
Benjamin-
No.
Fuck you.
I will. When you get home I’m going to blow your fucking mind. There’s not a single goddamn thing I won’t do to you, not if you ask real fucking nice-
Not a thing? Are you going to tentacle fuck me?
Brat.
Cunt. And there probably are ocean furries. Rule 34 and all.
What the hell is rule 34.
Her snort had rumbled in Ben’s chest. Oh, that’s going to be so much fun to show you.
You can just fucking tell me-
No. I want to see your face, it’s going to be adorable.
I am not goddamn adorable-
Yes, you are. You’re downright cute, Benjamin. Deal with it.
Ben had sighed. You’re lucky I love you.
Ben, please. Stop saying that.
No. I fucking love you, and there’s not a goddamn thing that will make me stop loving you-
Ben-
His phone had buzzed with a message from Butcher about another A-Train meeting, and Her voice had vanished into the hum of Ben’s heart. He’d smiled at her sleepy face, still his lockscreen because there was not a fucking chance in hell he’d change it now, and left to go hear A-Train list out another bunch of stupid fucking passcodes.
He kept hearing Her. Her voice was only growing stronger, and Ben must miss her somehow more than he’d thought fucking possible because she was always there.
Benjamin.
He’d tensed, standing in the shower after returning to his apartment from dinner, and repeated Her name back to her in his head.
Would you hate it if I asked you out?
What.
If I told you I loved you, and asked you out. And don’t say you love me. You’re not allowed to say you love me.
Shut the fuck up, I’ll tell you I love you as much as I fucking want-
Ben. Please just answer my question.
No.
Benjamin-
My answer is no. Why the fuck would I hate it if you asked me out. And if you told me you loved me-
I don’t know. Gender roles? Guys are supposed to ask girls out.
We’re not fucking children. Let me finish my damn sentence. If you told me you loved me, there wouldn’t be a single fucking thing you could ask of me that I wouldn’t give you. And it doesn’t matter, because as soon as you’re home and safe I’m going to tell you I love you and fuck you stupid.
Stop saying that-
No. I’m going to make you cum all over me a hundred times in every single fucking position I can think of. Then I’ll make some new ones, and figure out which ones are your favorite, so I can keep fucking you forever.
Ben had almost been able to hear that small sound She always made when she was trying to hide how wet he’d gotten her. I’d like that.
Good. Because it’s fucking happening. The moment you say the word, you’re fucking mine, Sunshine. And if you want to suck my cock, I won’t stop you.
What a gentleman. I’m one lucky gal, having such a generous… Her voice had trailed off, and Ben had seen her pretty lips falling into a frown. Heard the chew of her cheek. Boyfriend sounds stupid.
Boyfriend is stupid. Ben had scowled, because boyfriend was too weak a word to describe what he needed to be to Her. And girlfriend was a fucking pathetic thing to call the most perfect woman to ever exist. And I’m not ever going to call you my girlfriend, because we’re fucking adults.
That’s true, hundred year old men shouldn’t have girlfriends. That’s pretty embarrassing for you.
Brat.
Cunt. There was a beat of silence. What would you call me?
Doesn’t matter, Ben had shrugged, even though She wasn’t real and couldn’t see it. As long as we’re fucking together, I don’t give a shit what we call each other.
He’d want to call Her his wife. Suddenly he was goddamn certain that, one day, he’d fucking marry that insane and perfect fucking woman. If She’d let him. As Her voice hummed and faded away again, Ben decided that whatever she’d give him he’d take. He’d ask, at the right times, what she wanted. If it was everything he wanted. But if she didn’t—she might never want exactly what Ben wanted, not with Homelander as a stain on her head—Ben would genuinely be fucking fine. Not Her type of fine, where she just didn’t want to talk about how much everything was hurting Her, but just fine. As long as She was with him, Ben would be fine.
His dreams were getting fucking horrible again. He’d wake up from nightmares filled with blood, unable to breathe with Her voice in his head.
Blood. So much blood. I don’t have time to clean all this blood-
Breathe, Sunshine. He’d glare into the dark, because even if She wasn’t real it was fucking painful to hear her voice so afraid and weak. Just fucking breathe.
There’s blood, Ben. It’s everywhere, and it’s not mine, and I miss you. I miss you so much-
Wear blue, and I’ll come fucking get you, right now.
No, I’m so close. I can’t.
Then breathe.
Ben’s own heart had slowed, and his own breathing became even.
Thank you. Her voice had whispered, right in his ear. He could almost feel Her soft hand, gently tracing his jaw in the dark. I’m sorry.
Shut the fuck up. Don’t ever thank me, or apologize.
Please-
No. I don’t want it. I want you home, because I fucking miss you. Nothing else.
Okay. Silence, then. I’ll see you soon.
He’d sighed into the dark, and stared up at the high ceiling. He’d forgotten to turn off the bathroom lamps, and there was light leaking under the door of their empty bedroom. I’ll see you soon.
They were still looking for V. A-Train had given them a list of warehouses and Vought storage spaces, so right now Ben’s job was to comb over them with Butcher, Hughie, and the French Prick for clues. There were hundreds of warehouses and cargo ports and underground bunkers, and Hughie kept finding fucking more. There was one in Sacramento that A-Train had claimed was full of V, but Hughie couldn’t find it on any records. It had seemingly disappeared off the face of the damn planet. There were fifty more like it, a lot of others in fucking places like New Orleans and Austin that held supe gear, and several in Akron and Portland and Chicago that were label miscellaneous. They’d kept Ben’s shield there. In a fucking miscellaneous warehouse.
“This is getting us fucking nowhere,” he muttered, crumpling another paper in his hand as Her voice turned back to an easy song in his head. “It doesn’t fucking matter where Vought kept them. Sage would fucking hide anything she didn’t destroy.”
“You got a better fuckin idea, Gov?” Butcher snapped, not looking up from his own papers. “We ain’t got much to go on, we’re doin the best with the shit we’ve got.”
“Our best is fucking dogshit-“
“Maybe it’s offsite?” Hughie paused his tapping of the computer. “Vought has, like, a lot of shell companies, right? Maybe Sage moved it there, off of any records.”
Butcher nodded slowly. “Frenchie-“
The French Prick sighed. “I will go tell MM.”
“What about Homelander,” Ben grunted, frowning at Hughie. “Are you looking where he’d keep it?”
“We can’t be sure he has any-“
“He does.” Ben’s snap was cold. “He might be the one keeping it offsite, where Sage can’t fucking find it.”
“Lad, he’s ain’t totally fuckin wrong,” Butcher glanced up and Hughie with narrow eyes. “Homelander ain’t tryin to hide it from just the CIA, he’s tryin to hide it from everyone. And Vought’s his fuckin playground. He might be keepin it wherever he damn pleases.”
Hughie sighed. “Maybe, but I can’t check that without the list of shell companies.”
“Do your fucking braking shit,” Ben scowled. “Isn’t that your whole fucking thing-“
“It’s hacking, not braking. And it’s not my whole thing-“
Hughie cut himself off as the Kid pushed into the dining hall.
“Is it pizza night?” He sat next to Butcher, right across from Ben. “I know it’s early, but I’m really hungry-“
“It’s Friday, ain’t it?” Butcher started to pull his papers into his chest, shoving them down to Hughie. “And we can eat early. We’re the cunts in charge of ourselves.”
Ben returned his papers to Hughie as well, because this wasn’t going to do fucking shit. There wouldn’t be V anywhere, Sage was too smart of a bitch to leave it lying around. Ben could eat dinner, and then hang over Hughie’s shoulder until the man proved himself fucking useful.
He ate Her favorite type of pizza. He’d been eating Her favorite type of pizza, because it reminded him of Her. Of her smile and the soft look on Her perfect face when Ben would get it without her asking. She didn’t need to ask. Ben knew everything about Her that he needed to in order to keep her happy. It was how he was able to answer all of the Kid’s questions, and usually that knowledge would make his heart a little slower. Make Ben feel a little more at ease that She be safe and happy with him. That there was at least one way in which he was deserving of Her. But tonight his heart was going a mile a damn minute and he couldn’t fucking figure out why. He felt like something was choking him, like every nerve in his body was burning and he was cold. The pizza was warm, the dining hall was warm, but Ben felt cold. And it only got worse and worse. He felt fucking sick, something felt wrong. The longer the night went on, everyone having joined them to eat and talk about anything but the mission—a recently imposed rule by MM after Butcher had said the words supe jizz might have fuckin V in it and everyone had lost their appetites—the worse Ben felt. He was dying. Everything fucking hurt and he felt like he was going to fucking collapse-
The whole room lit up red, and deafening alarms started to sound through the building. Ben and Butcher were up first, MM and Annie close behind them as they stormed to the door.
“What’s going on-“
“Stay right fuckin there, Ryan.” Butcher roared, and the Kid froze in his steps. “Hughie, don’t let him out of your sight. Everyone else-“
“We don’t know what’s going on, Butcher.” Annie’s words were loud, but unsure. Ben could even fucking hear her heart racing over the sirens. “It might just be a fire drill-“
“We ain’t supposed to be hooked up to the drills,” Butcher snapped, pounding the wall and opening a full fucking arsenal panel. Someone should’ve told Ben about that sooner. “And we ain’t supposed to get alerts unless it’s defcon 1. It might be-“
“It’s not Homelander,” MM held up his phone. “I’ve got a Google alert on the fucker, he was just in France-“
Ben caught the gun Butcher was tossing to him. “It’s fucking something.” He grunted. “Something’s real fucking wrong. Get a gun and start moving.”
MM frowned. “How the hell do you know-“
The doors burst open, and one of those pussy fucking agents—the man—yelped as five gun’s clicked with barrels aimed at his head.
“Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot-“
“What the fuck is going on,” Ben didn’t try to make his voice nice or kind. Something was going on, he’d never felt this type of goddamn suffering in his life, and when he’d paused for just a second he’d realized Her voice was gone. It wasn’t humming softly around in his head and heart anymore. It was just fucking pain.
“Soldier Boy, sir, I’m sorry to bother you but-“
“Fucking talk!” Ben roared, his ribs starting to cave in. “Stop pussying around and use your goddamn words-“
The agent shouted Her name, and the gun broke in Ben’s hand. “She’s in the lobby, but nobody can touch her-“
Ben didn’t wait to hear more. She was in the lobby. The sky felt like it was fucking falling and Ben couldn’t really see beyond something red lining his vision, but She was fucking here. He was sprinting down the hall, and into the elevator with Annie, Kimiko, and somehow Butcher the only ones managing to keep up. His fists were clenching and unclenching, nobody was daring to fucking speak, and as the elevator started to drop the pain began to subside. Like it knew he was getting closer. It knew She was home.
The elevator had barely dinged before Ben was out of it, ripping through the metal with his hands. They hadn’t stopped in the lobby—they’d stopped three or four levels above—and people were trying to get on. Scrambling forwards, then falling back with surprised sounds as Ben pushed past them. All of them looked fucking afraid, like they were running from something.
There was an overlook into the main lobby. The first seven floors had hallways that wrapped around the entrance, and Ben had a feeling that if he just kept walking towards what everyone else was fleeing from, he’d get there. Butcher and Annie were calling after him, but Ben didn’t fucking care. She was so fucking close, he had to fucking get to Her-
He heard Her screams first. They were raw noised of pure fucking pain, and she was probably trying to fucking say something. Ben could only hear his blood in his ears, and hHr screams, and her heartbeat. Fast and wild and pounding out of her chest.
Ben could hear Her heartbeat. That was Her heartbeat. He’d recognize it underwater and in deep space and buried twenty feet under the ground. It had made him turn around at the Believe Expo, because he’d have just kept walking and telling Her voice to stop torturing him with ideas that she might be there, but he’d heard her heartbeat. And this was Her fucking heartbeat.
She was alone, curled into Herself in the center of the lobby. Ben could finally fucking see Her, four floors below him, collapsed on her knees and screaming. Covered in blood, clothing scorched, and fucking screaming. Everyone was either fleeing, passed out in an odd pattern across the floor, or watching with wide-eyes from a wide circle that had formed around Her. Nobody was helping Her. Why was nobody fucking helping Her-
She wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t looking at anyone, her eyes screwed shut as she screamed again. It was the worst fucking sound Ben had even heard. He needed to fucking get to Her, now. He’d survive the jump down, he wouldn’t even fucking feel it. He took a step back, readying to go, go to Her, he’d wasted too much fucking time and he had to get to Her, but a small hand yanked him back.
“What the fuck-“
Kimiko was glaring at him, pointing at the people scattered around Her and signing something Ben couldn’t fucking understand.
“I need to help her-“
She shook her head, gesturing to the weak, knocked out pussies on the floor.
“They’re not fucking burned, there’s not even any fucking fire. And I’d fucking survive it anyway-“
“It ain’t fire, Gov.” Butcher was out of breath, shoving his way forward with a glower at Ben. “If you hadn’t just bloody run, you’d have heard what’s goin on.”
“If you pussies don’t let me go and shut the fuck up, I’ll fucking kill you-“
“It’s the empathy!” Annie was right behind Butcher, her voice desperate. Below, She screamed again and Ben died a little bit. “People were trying to help her, but they kept screaming and collapsing. There’s not any fire, she just,” Annie’s eyes landed on Her, flinching as She screamed. “They’re feeling Her. Anyone who goes too close to Her feels whatever she’s feeling.”
“And they’re all fuckin passing out from it, Gov.” Butcher sighed, shaking his head. “We just got to let her tire herself out, if anyone gets just a little too bloody close they’ll-“
There was not a chance in goddamn hell Ben was going to wait. She was here, she was home, he was done fucking waiting. If he felt that pain, or passed out, or even fucking died, at least it would’ve been to get to Her.
He yanked his hand away from Kimiko, sending her stumbling backwards, and jumped down to the lobby.
The floor cracked under him, and Ben braced himself for the pain. To roar and scream like she was and fucking crawl to Her if he had to.
Nothing came. There was a dull kind of ache, but no pain. Everything that hurt was the noise of the alarms and the horrible sound of Her screams. He took a careful step, closer, and still nothing. Another, and the alarms and gathered crowd fell into the background. Her heartbeat was louder, and it was all Ben could hear. Everyone could fucking watch with stupid pussy gapes, all that mattered was Her.
Her eyes were still closed, and when she screamed again he heard the words, running from her blood into his.
Ben.
He ran. It took two, bounding and powerful strides to grab Her. Hold Her in his arms. To fall to his knees at Her side, and pull her up into his chest.
Her screams stopped. Ben cradled Her head in his hand, his other squeezing her waist to make sure She was fucking real. He felt a flash of something boundless, something infinite and indestructible, and then she passed out.
Ben carried Her to medical. He wanted to carry her to bed, to let her just rest, but he had to make sure she was okay. That someone with a pussy fucking degree would look at Her and tell Ben she’d be ok. Everyone was parting around then, and Ben didn’t give a fuck. She was in his arms, and everything was going to be okay.
They gave Her a bed. Every doctor on the staff popped their head in—Ben thought they might be drawing straws for who’s turn it was to check on Her—and the French Prick came in with a vial of a golden liquid, attaching it to Her IV.
“The fuck are you doing,” Ben grunted, but didn’t move from Her side. He’d pulled a chair up beside Her, and wasn’t going to fucking leave until her eyes opened. Until She could look at him and say she was okay. She was going to be okay. She had to be fucking okay. And if she wasn’t, Ben had to know that so he could figure out how to help. If he could fix it or heal it or just had to stay there, at Her side until she smiled. Whatever it fucking took.
“It is a suppressant.” The French Prick glanced at Ben’s scowl. “It will not hurt her. It will help.”
“How.”
“We do not know what will happen when she awakens. This will make sure people other than yourself can approach her safely.”
Ben nodded slowly, looking back at Her face. Perfect, at complete ease in her sleep. “Fine.”
Then it was just them again. Ben’s hand was in hers—nobody could make him stop touching Her with a fucking nuke of Sage’s gas pointed to his chest—and she was sighing in Her sleep.
Perfect.
He loved Her more than the whole fucking universe, and he wouldn’t be able to tell her that when she woke up. When Her eyes opened, it was going to have to be about her. Ben would have to fucking swallow the words, and tell her he loved her when she was ready to hear it. When he was convinced beyond a doubt she’d be okay, and that she’d keep smiling at him no matter what she felt for him. She wouldn’t leave him. She adored him. Even in her fucking sleep her fingers had twined themselves into his, and Ben had never been more certain of anything or anyone. He was certain he loved Her. He was certain he didn’t deserve her, but that his whole fucking life from here on out was going to be about earning her. This was all about Her now.
Everything was Her.
And Ben couldn’t say it where She could hear him. But he had to say it, now, or he’d explode.
“I wanted to hate you,” he started in a low voice, watching Her eyes flutter in sleep. Perfect. “I should’ve fucking hated you, and I really goddamn wanted to. You seemed like everything I fucking despised. People who think they’re better than me because they’re too weak to see the gray of the world. People who sit in ivory fucking towers and think they’re worth more because they’re smarter than me. People who think they deserve to tell me what to do, pussies who are too fucking good for anything.” He sighed. “I really fucking tried to hate you. It would’ve been easier. Made this stupid shit so much fucking easier. But you can never make anything easy, can you Sunshine. You have to be the most beautiful fucking pain in my ass all the goddamn time.”
She shifted slightly, heart still slow and steady, and Ben smiled. “You wouldn’t fucking stop proving me wrong. You don’t think you’re better than me, you are better than me. You’re better than fucking every sorry pussy in the world. You see all the gray, but you still keep doing good things, and that’s so fucking hard to do. I’ve been trying to, for you, and Christ, it’s exhausting. But you just do it, like there’s no other option. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever fucking met, and you’re fucking funny, and you never think you’re better. You explain everything you say if someone asks, and you’re not nice about it, but you do. You love answering questions, you love people, and I don’t fucking get it. I don’t fucking understand how you’re so fucking perfect, and why you couldn’t just let me hate you. Why you couldn’t just be a fucking bitch, why you kept smiling at me and laughing with me.” She hummed in her sleep, and Ben reached a hand out. Brushing his thumb along Her cheek. “You’re so good, Sunshine. I couldn’t hate you, because you’re just good. You’re too good for everything, but you’d never lord it over anyone. You’re the most beautiful woman in history, and you’re a goddamn brat, and I could never really fucking hate you.” He felt a lump form in his throat, and She leaned into his hand. “I love you.” He sighed Her name, listening to the easy sound of Her heartbeat. “I love you. You burn, I burn, and I fucking love you.”
She was safe.
She was home.
Ben loved Her, and they were going to be okay.
End Note: Can you guys tell I’m a whore for Chekov’s Gun? We did it squad. She's home. Thank you all for sticking through the darkest part (there WILL be more angst, but like. hurt/comfort. Lined with fluff and character growth that doesn't make us want to die), and every form of support you've shown me. You guys are the best, and I'm very sorry for doing that to you. See you soon!
If you like this story, reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
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Researchers have developed a new antibiotic that reduced or eliminated drug-resistant bacterial infections in mouse models of acute pneumonia and sepsis while sparing healthy microbes in the mouse gut. The drug, called lolamicin, also warded off secondary infections with Clostridioides difficile, a common and dangerous hospital-associated bacterial infection, and was effective against more than 130 multidrug-resistant bacterial strains in cell culture. The findings are detailed in the journal Nature. "People are starting to realize that the antibiotics we've all been taking—that are fighting infection and, in some instances, saving our lives—also are having these deleterious effects on us," said University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign chemistry professor Paul Hergenrother, who led the study with former doctoral student Kristen Muñoz.
Continue Reading.
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Palestinian coed tortured during her period, just for joining a Leftist student org.
From the Israeli Newspaper Haaretz
Mays Abu Ghosh, who I featured here before, because of her brutal and humiliating torture of being tied in the banana position, while on her menstrual period, and denied menstrual products and underwear. Endured all that torture on the flimsiest of pretenses, even according to the Israeli media.
"Now Mays is in prison and, according to her lawyers and other sources, she has been tortured during her interrogations. The five counts of the indictment against her sound serious and terrifying, but are for the most part revealed as ridiculous when the details are known.
The “unlawful association” that Mays, a fourth-year student in the media department at Bir Zeit University, is accused of belonging to is the left-wing students’ organization, Qutub. Israeli authorities claim that Qutub is affiliated with the outlawed Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, but the student group denies any such connection."
In this article attacking the "Palestine Writes” literary festival at the University of Pennsylvania, she is the 1st "dangerous terrorist" listed, all because she was convicted in an Israeli kangaroo court, even by the standards of the Israeli media, simply for belonging to a leftist student organization. They focus media attention on the Islamists, but this is how leftists and socialists are treated. Intentionally exasperating our natural menstrual pains to intensify our torture is such a depraved level of hatred of women, down to our very biology. And then after all they did to her, they make it as if she victimized Israel.
This is how Mays was tied for 3 days, without sleep, while on her menstrual period, denied tampons or underwear. This is the infamous banana stress position.
“The most severe thing was three days in a row without being allowed to sleep,” Mays, 23, said. “I had to stay in a chair and if I closed my eyes, a soldier would come over and shout at me. I was slapped in the face continuously.”
Mays was forced to stand and bend her knees, with soldiers pressing hard on her shoulders. She had to remain in such painful positions for long stretches of time.
Mays Abu Ghosh seized by Israeli occupation forces
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Trans research and scientific consensus
(2020) - Study of 139,829 students finds that in comparison to other students, transgender identity, especially non-binary identity, is associated more with perpetrating bullying than being bullied. Non-binary identity was most strongly associated with involvement in bullying, followed by [transgender] opposite sex identity and cisgender identity.
(2023) 21 leading experts on pediatric gender medicine from 8 countries wrote a letter to Wall Street Journal expressing disagreement over how gender dysphoria in youth is treated, voicing concerns against things such as the affirmative model and research conducted outside of the US has found hormonal interventions for gender dysphoria to be without reliable evidence. Among these international experts is Dr. Rita Kaltiala, chief psychiatrist at Tampere university gender clinic and author of several peer-reviewed studies on trans medicine and Finland's top authority on pediatric gender care.
(2023) Landmark study from Denmark on 3,800 transgender patients pulled data from hospital records and applications from legal gender changes and discovered 43% of this group had a psychiatric illness compared with 7% of non-trans group, and despite "gender affirming care" and legal gender changes, still had 7.7 the rate of suicide attempts and 3.5 times the rate of suicide deaths. Researchers state this rate is likely even higher due to missing data.
(2016) Study finds association with increased risk of multiple sclerosis for trans women taking estrogen/reducing testosterone levels.
(2023) Metadata study shows, at best, no improvement for patients in gender-affirming care. "The conclusions of the systematic reviews of evidence for adolescents are consistent with long-term adult studies, which failed to show credible improvements in mental health and suggested a pattern of treatment-associated harms. Three recent papers examined the studies that underpin the practice of youth gender transition and found the research to be deeply flawed. Evidence does not support the notion that “affirmative care” of today’s adolescents is net beneficial."
(2011) Long term follow up of 324 transgender people having undergone sex reassignment surgery in Sweden, found that trans women retained male patterned incidents and rates of violence and had a greater significance and rate of rape and sexual violence than cisgender men. The study also found, "Persons with transsexualism, after sex reassignment, have considerably higher risks for mortality, suicidal behaviour, and psychiatric morbidity than the general population. Our findings suggest that sex reassignment, although alleviating gender dysphoria, may not suffice as treatment for transsexualism, and should inspire improved psychiatric and somatic care after sex reassignment for this patient group."
(2020) Largest study to date on 641,860 people finds association with autism and "gender diversity", "Gender-diverse people also report, on average, more traits associated with autism, such as sensory difficulties, pattern-recognition skills and lower rates of empathy — or accurately understanding and responding to another person’s emotional state".
(2022) US study examining 10 years of data on 952 people finds large percentages of young adults prescribed hormones for trans identity no longer getting the drugs 4 years later. Discontinuation rate for both sexes combined = 30%. Female discontinuation rate as high as 44%. The standard disinformation pushed is that only 1-2% of people who begin medical transition end up desisting. But these figures show that in this cohort of young adults, the overall rate of discontinuing hormone treatment ranged from a low of 10% to a high of 44% within a space of just 4 years.
Abruzzese et al. 2023 'The Myth of “Reliable Research” in Pediatric Gender Medicine: A critical evaluation of the Dutch Studies—and research that has followed'
More to come.
#trans#transgender research#transgender health#trans health care#gender critical#detrans#desistance#detransition#FTM#MTF#non binary#gender studies#gender identity#LGBTQ#trans identity#gender diverse#autism#gender dysphoria#gender affirming care#gender affirmation#transitioning#protect trans kids#protect trans youth
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Blood's Thicker Than Water (Platonic)
Made this cause I love assassins creed and I hate how they left the plot point about Desmond having a kid from a one night stand. Like sure there’s a comic for Elijah but let’s be real, who here has read that comic?
Sorry if any of them seem out of character, I haven’t played the games in a long while lol
Also thanks to my friend for streaming the games so I can get back into them lol
You never really met your dad but from what your mother described him as he was….a troubled soul
Now to be fair you’ve never exactly met Desmond Miles yourself but from the stories she told it’s obvious he had his fair share of demons
Some of which seemed to spill from the cracks of his soul from the short time she spent with him
A bartender is what he was, until he suddenly up and vanished from said bar in 2012 and died not too long after
It didn’t really make sense then even to your young mind
The gap between his sudden disappearance and death leaving too much unsaid for your mind not to be annoyed by
But as a child you eventually put the thought away
Eventually you forget
Instead going on to pursue your next whim as you focus on the present, or in your case Learning about the past in the present time
Unlike your fascination with your father that went away, your love of history never faded with time
It just seemed to grow the older you got
Your not sure why but something about history just clicked with you
It was somewhere within the range of middle school and reading national geographic that you had realized you liked it
That despite how some areas of it were bleak and disturbing it was interesting
And it got even more so interesting as you delved deeper into the depths of libraries
Nose buried in books lined with dust and old parchment
Yellowed pages and old ink that you carefully decode from centuries of lost meaning and metaphors lost to the modern age
You studied from the ancients all the way up to Victorian
Easing your way though literal centuries of historical records as you soaked up information like a sponge
And it’s there you vegans seeing an odd…repetition of events that seemed to occur
Odd assassinations plagued each era you looked into, all of which connected somehow by people in odd dress
In some journals that had luckily stood the tests of time you uncovered more eye witness accounts
A solider’s log back in the revolutionary war talking about an odd man meeting with his superiors in the dead of night
The diary of a log master who wrote of an odd frequent visitor that had an odd blade hidden beneath his sleeve
The drawing of a Victorian child being freed from a factory that had a hooded lady and man on the rooftop
I’m one you found a symbol, one created from the bottom perspective of an eagle skull, something also commonly associated with these hooded figures
What’s odd as well is that with these hooded assassins you also find traces of another group
One well know to historians such as yourself
Oddly enough the symbol of the Templar knights keep showing up even after their annulment
It’s odd, but what’s more odd enough is that both seemed to be tied to other historical artifacts
Ones well kept in archives and from the public eye
Ones you shouldn’t technically know about if not for you sneaking into sections your don’t have the status to enter
Their always gold with odd symbols. Somehow always pristine and polished despite the fact their dated to be from before ancient times
They for some reason seem to call to you specifically
Tempting you with forbidden knowledge you wish to taste like Eve
But for now you choose to wait until you can do proper analysis on them without the risk of punishment
So you lie and wait
Admittedly you didn’t think anyone expected for you to be this good at your job
In their defence you were a university student here on Co-op and not an actual full time historian
Hell you were in first year for gods sake
But somehow despite it all
Despite the fact you had actual historians and people in the history program years above you here you quickly began to become an outlier
A shinning beacon within the large archive, so much so that you began being allowed in the restricted sections you already snuck into
Mind you, now properly allowed there with some supervision of sorts gave you much more flexibility in research
You got to touch these artifacts
Hold them in gloved palms as silk covered finger glide across its edges and ridges
You study them extensively decrypting and decoding the ancient texts and hieroglyphs
Jotting down what you found in both a report and your own personal journal
Your not sure why you do so but you chock it up to making sure no one takes credit for your work
And this continues to the point your eventually allowed alone with them
It’s great
You dedicate yourself to this task as you learn more and more
Soaking up knowledge like a sponge as you find out more of what was previously lost
Find new angles and perspectives on events
For history isn’t just a set time and date, it’s interpretation based on what we know from sources
And even then sources can be biased
Sources can lie and silence another person’s view on the event
Your more than happy to try make your own interpretations
Admittedly when you were asked to study what looked to be a necklace from these unidentified ancient artifacts you were ecstatic
How could you not be?
Intricate gold woven in something akin to Grecian jewelry
Yet also had hints of something akin to Egyptian
It also…glows? Or at least you swear you’ve seen it glow gold and pulsate a few times but that could be the sleep deprivation speaking
Either way it’s an honour
One you don’t take lightly as you study it
Spending countless restless nights and days trying to crack its code
An unknown source has been funding the archive and your research quite a bit
Betting big money on it much to your surprise and suspension
You get that this is potentially something big but it feels out of left field
Especially since no one knows the name of the company
It’s just under an anonymous donation every month
It’s sketchy
But you aren’t one to argue about free money to further your and your colleagues pursuit of knowledge
Not when this beautiful place used to be underfunded
Not when most historical records were donated by people with a good conscious
Not when this place was almost shut down
With a sigh you continue on your work
Diligently tact checking and writing up a storm
Your writing looks like chicken scratch but that was a commonality between all history majors
Well, along with being giant nerds
And it’s there at that desk at 3 am in the morning, tired and only running on 3 hours of rest you find something peculiar on the necklace
A sharp jaded edge that you absentmindedly prick yourself on by accident
With a groan you wipe the blood away on your pants
Then going up to get a bandaid
You swore to god if you died of tetanus you’d be positively pissed
Unknown to you the necklace starts to glow
When you get home your more exhausted than usual
Your limbs feel like their kade of concrete and your head is stuffed with tissue
Eyelids trying to glue themselves shut
You practically kick off your shoes before tumbling to the couch
Not bothering in changing clothes or showering for the sweet relief of sleeps embrace
So you flop down face first into the old leather cushions of your couch
Only putting in the effort of fishing a hand to grab a throw pillow and blanket from nearby that you burrowed yourself into
A comfy cocoon/prison you couldn’t will yourself to leave even as you swore for a moment you heard something in the house
But your mind writes it off
Your too tired to question anything let alone get up
All you want is sleep
And that’s exactly what you get as your eyelids shut
You fall into the realm of dreams, odd ones playing out in your mind
Blurred images of odd men
A weird void-like realm
The cries of an eagle overhead
A single word appearing in your head
Kenway
And then your eyes snap awake when the sound of arguing fills your ears
Yelling of several male voices jumbling up your already fogged up sense as you practically fall off the couch in a mixture of fear and confusion
Curses escaping your mouth when suddenly the voices go silent and your left in a realm of fear
Hair standing on end as the creaking of the house makes you more alert
Despite the fact you’d never fought a day in your life you will up the courage to grab a baseball bat and cautious cross to where you heard the commotion
Careful steps on the non-creaky boards of the home that you’d luckily memorized
And there you find several men in old garb
Accents of Red tying them together like a string of fate
Or a trail of blood fainting their very existence
they turn to you with sharp eyes
It’s the one in modern clothes that surprises you the most
The face of your supposed dead father staring back at you
Ocher brown eyes that had long lost their life now rejuvenated as they seem to find familiarity in your own features
Some of which mirror his own along with some of the others in the room
The bridge of your nose
A all powerful spark in your eyes as they flick between everyone and escape routes
The way your lip slightly twitches when you try to keep a brave face
Your posture as you decided what to do
It’s all too familiar to him and them in a way that isn’t just coincidence
Especially not when all of them are Kenway
Not when he had been able to prove to them that fact through the experience of virtually living through their lives up until his death
“I’m not sure who the fuck all of you are but get out of my house.” Your fingers twitch and flex as your palms grow sweaty, the wood absorbing the pressure and moisture “especially my dead dad look-alike”
You all but confirm his suspicions
Their suspicions
And it looks Ike for you tonight will be much longer than you anticipated
Turns out that artifact you were studying wasn’t just as normal one
Neither were the other ones you looked at
The way they explained it as was their “artifacts from dead gods”, a fallen civilization that engineered humanity into being their slaves
It’s a lot to take in
Even more so when your suspicions of something bigger happening throughout global history with those odd deaths were real
Oh, and these were you dead ancestors and dad somehow back from the grave and now in your home
…..yeah safe to say that’s a lot to take in after an already very long and tiring shift
You sit there as they explain this, half asleep, and half exasperated
Cause how the hell are you supposed to believe all this bullshit that for some reason feels correct
Something in you tells you that their right yet your mind is fighting that logic
You’d always been a logical person, when it came to most situations you used your brain instead of your heart
And in those cases things ended up fine
But now your faced with this
A situation where your heart is screaming for you to listen as your brain tries to take this all in
Cause logic is completely out the window at the moment
For now you have to trust them even if your still afraid
I mean, how couldn’t you be?
But you get the sense that they understand
At least a little bit by how their also thrusted into a new environment without much say
Perhaps that (along with your own apprehension) is helping comfort them as well
So for now they’ll stay
Your just thanking (the dead) gods that grandma and grandpa’s old home is big enough for all of them
Altaïr Ibn-La’ Ahad
The oldest down the line of your dad’s side of your lineage finds himself often reading through your books in your study
It was a bit of a surprise one day entering it to find him sitting in a spare chair but you don’t mind the silent company
Especially as he seems to find interest in your studies
Occasionally he breaks the silence and asks you a question about the subject he’s reading about
He’s by far the oldest (even if he’s back in the body of his prime) of them therefore he’s the one who has the most figuratively to catch up on
So you indulge him
And also asks questions as well that he seems eager in answering
Knowledge connects you both, scholarly intellect being the bridge between the two of you despite centuries of time apart
Typically he asks about thinks such as modern life and what is know about his home, what happened to it? What it’s known of his era
You answer as best you can
Especially since that era of time isn’t exactly your forte
But he appreciates it anyways
Appreciates that you try, appreciates that you passionately care about history in the first place
Admittedly your mom was supportive but never understood your love of history
She’d listen to your rants and long conversations with a polite smile but you knew she never understood what you were talking about
But he does
He does and contributes whole heartedly in just as much passion
It’s nice
What’s also nice is that he’s studied the artifacts you now study as well
So now your both constantly coming up and developing ideas together
A constant back and forth
Hypotheses, discussion, and testing
Delving deeper into discovery like you’ve wanted
But with this he also helps you see where passion and obsession mix together
After the loss of his wife and son he delved into studying as a form of escape
It drove who was left away
Made the pit in his heart deeper
He doesn’t talk about it often but he seems to see how you may go down the same path
And he warns you of it
Unlike his younger self (that he now appears as) he’s wise if a little rough around the edges
He encourages knowledge but not to the point where it’s an all encompassing and toxic obsession
Within the household he seems to take a somewhat neutral but quiet role
He helps out and offers advice and guidance
Much like a teacher and grandfather of sorts
Speaking up when he has to and making sure the house doesn’t end up in disrepair
He seems to have a fascination with modern appliances, or at least holds a thankfulness for them
Like a few others he sticks to his robes most the time but you’ve seen him sport more modern clothes once awhile
Stuff still somewhat reminiscent of what he wore before but with a modern flare. Things with hoods and draping. Silks and wool. Something with an accent of red mixed in
Sometimes when you fall asleep in your studies you find a blanket draped over you and a cup of tea at your side
He won’t admit it’s him but he’s the only one who knows your tea preferences
He keeps his worry for you deep down but it’s somewhat relived when seeing that you take his warning of not taking the pursuit of knowledge too far
“It says here there was something called the “French revolution”. Would you care to explain what happened here to me?” He asks making you pause your work for a moment, when he sees your smile he knows your answer. Sure he read some of this book and got the gist of it, but something about seeing your eyes light up at his inquiry makes him feel at peace for a moment.
“Would I ever!”
Ezio Auditore da Firenze
This man is quite literally all up in your (and everyone’s) business
Not in an annoy way per say but he’s definitely curious about the lives his descendants have led (both good and bad)
Ezio is very clearly a family man and it’s somewhat ironic to see since half of this household has some sort of familiar issue
Most of which is some sort of daddy issue stemming from either Haythem or Edward that trickled down the line to you
Something that Ezio is seemingly trying to wrap his head around
Out of the others he’s the one who opens up the most
Partially because you think he misses his immediate family and friends
It must be a lot to handle being away from home, now in a foreign land where everything has changed
Despite that though he keeps a brave face
Almost always flashing a smile as he drags you from your study to have some “bonding time”
You won’t admit it to his face but you don’t mind
Especially as he gives your poor hunched over back a break
And treats your pallet to some good old fashioned (literally) Italian food and not cup ramen once again
He tried it once and threw your supply out, saying he’d be supplementing you with food from now on
You can’t exactly say your disappointment or upset from the heaven that is fresh baked garlic bread and pasta
He cooks not only for you but for the others of the house as well, saying his sister taught him lest he piss off his future lady
Taking in their suggestions and cooking foods from their homes as a way of him offering comfort
Whilst he does these tasks he often hums in his mother tongue of Latin
You don’t have the heart to tell him it’s a dead language
Especially when he seems so happy that you can somewhat understand it
He’s happily rambling and teaching you words
Helping you sound out phrases and pronunciation correctly unlike your Latin professor
Some of his songs he lightly sings under his breath get stuck in your head since he has a good singing voice
But despite the facade you see the cracks
Sometimes you find him looking at modern objects mumbling about how Leonardo would have loved to see this or made something similar
Or how Claudia would’ve liked this book
How Petruccio would have loved this toy
It….leaves a bitter taste in your mouth
Once upon a time you felt this same type of longing for family
Once a time you thought of you dad before going to bed and staring at his old Polaroid with hope
One that would never come to fruition (until now)
It’s why you indulge him, to keep his mind off the deeper plunge of melancholy
Compared to the others he’s relatively open to modernizing
In fact he seems somewhat excited in these things
Raiding your wardrobe like a damn fashionista and critiquing what’s good quality
He also has a wide variety of looks, not sticking to something similar to his time of dress
Versatile and somehow up to date? Your not sure how but somehow he’s in fashion?
Like he must’ve found a copy of vogue or something cause there is no way he just guessed that this was the new trend
When you pressure him on it he replies that he’s simply that amazing
You call bullshit but have yet to find evidence
But in the meantime you ask get him to tell you about Da Vinci and you furiously jot down what he says
Sometimes when he looks at you he sees flashes of Claudia’s quick wit
It makes him long for home yet as he looks at his descendants and ancestor he also feels….something
A small pit of warmth developing as he gets to know the inhabitants of this house longer
Meet Altair besides through a weird vision
His home is in Florence yet that feeling of comfort from the Villa is bleeding into these old (yet new) walls
“So this painting is his most famous work?” He asks looking at your computer with a bit of confusion, his scared lips quirking at the digital image.
“Yeah. This is actually probably the most famous painting in the world”
“Really? Of all his works this one is considered the best? I’m not doubting his skill but of all his pieces?”
“Believe me, I get it. It’s only this famous cause it was stolen”
“Stolen?!? Tell me who did it! I swear-”
Edward Kenway
For someone who was a feared pirate on the seas he’s surprisingly much less violent than you’d think him to be
Sure, he’s scary as hell still but at least he’s not stabbing you in the back and making off with your grandmas pearls or something
Still your a bit unnerved by him considering you did a project on him back in middle school and he’s now in your home
Munching on some god damn biscuits as if this was a normal situation
His son Haytham avoids his as best he can but he seems to bond with his grandson quite easily
Or more easily than he does with Haythem
It takes some time but you eventually go to him when you find him awake at the dead hours of night
A whisky bottle in hands as he occasionally takes a swig in silence as he stares out the window
You don’t talk
You don’t need to when he drinks in silence for awhile staring at the moon before eventually talking about the guilt
In his pursuit of power and gold he let people die
Greed woven into his soul as he sacrificed good men for his cause
He changed and did good yet his past haunts him
Hands stained red
Guilt eating away
A son who doesn’t want anything to do with him
At some point when he stops his rambles you speak
Reminding him that while his actions weren’t good he changed
It doesn’t wash the blood away but it stoped more from staining his hands
Though Haythem avoids him Connor is more than eager to fill his place
It doesn’t fix his overlying problems but it does help
In the morning he ends up talking with you more after this as your initial fear melts away
You end up seeing Edward Kenway, not the fiercesome captain of the Jackdaw
You see a man burdened by past mistakes and still wishes to do better
You see a human being at its core
With history it’s easy to forget the people your looking at was once alive and a breathing being
One who was just as flawed as you and I
But seeing a infamous pirate captain cry about issues pertaining not just time him made you remember that
He isn’t opposed to modernizing but seems to keep a certain sea-like touch to his appearance
Clothes for labourers and something loose is what he normally sticks to
He’s lucky though since he doesn’t exactly have traditional robes and can incorporate what he appeared in with a modern flair
Occasionally when he gets drunk he slurs out old shanties and talks about his epic tales
You might or might not have freaked the fuck out learning that James kidd was actually a woman
Mind blown
Ezio and Altair had to drag you away from your computer from writing an entire essay
Sitting on your countertop he holds a glass of whiskey in hand, one held out for you as you sit down beside him. The moon casts its gentle rays and lights the marble slab you both sit on. “I prefer Rum but this’ll do” it’s said in a playful tone that makes you nod and take a sip.
“I can grab some captain Morgan later…speaking of which, did you know him?
“No, but I did find a few of his things laying about “
“Care to tell?”
“Aye, sure thing”
Haytham Kenway
As the only Templar in this house it’s safe to say he’s definitely the outlier of the bunch
A relative lone wolf from the group that all hold some sort of Ill feelings towards him
From his father its confusion and sadness
The others it’s a mix of that and anger
From Connor it’s just plain…well your not quite sure how to describe it
The two’s entire family situation is just plain messy and thick with tension that their blades could cut through
But here’s the thing, in this house your also an outlier
A neutral zone so to say
Hell, the entire house seemed to be a haven of sorts from their whole Templar vs Assassin conflict
To be honest you don’t really care about this secret war
Well that’s a lie you are interested in these war of secret societies but you don’t specifically care to get involved in their politics
Not when you have business in interfering in it unless a fight breaks out and your telling everyone to calm the fuck down
So safe to say your kinda the only one who talks to Haytham
He is…well sometimes he’s a bit of an ass (in the British type of way) but at the same time he’s good conversation
Specifically when it comes to that of morals and philosophical beliefs
He is a conflicted man
A flawed one
But he holds his beliefs and morals despite the fact he’s been hurt and betrayed by a man he viewed as a mentor
He doesn’t talk about it much but he’s still hurt
Still seething with venom that burns his soul and flesh
Makes him want to lash out despite his upperclassman appearance and attitude
That despite it all he loves his son, so much so he willingly walked into what would be his death knowingly
That despite what happened he loves his dad yet can’t face him yet on account of what he became
What ideals and morals he still believes in even now
It’s perhaps he’s venting this to you rather than a journal because he knows you won’t judge him unfairly on the basis of what side your own
Your judging him as a flawed man and as an equally flawed person
It’s with him as well you open up about your own frustrations
How you still don’t know how to feel about this all
The fact that a lot of what you once knew was flipped on it’s head
Along with the fact your not even sure how to address your dad
It’s an entire mess but perhaps your both messed up together and that also draws you both to talking
To discuss your feelings of insucurity and confliction
To feel comfort that your not alone in not having your emotional shit in order
On some especially…emotional nights you both both have a cup of tea
He seems to enjoy that each time you use a different type, much of which used to be hard to obtain due to shipping and it’s prices
He hasn’t really yet grasped modern technology but your slowly helping him with it
It’s kinda like trying to teach a grandpa to figure out a phone, but now it’s him with the concept of a microwave
Like some of the others he’s yet to really also change his clothes to something modern
There has been a few times though he sported sweaters and vests
Your now working on helping his wardrobe since he prefers a sophisticated look
Occasionally he looks at the photos that line your walls, looking as you evolve through the ages
It’s…odd
With Connor he never had the chance to watch him grow
Never a snapshot to immortalize what he was like a child but now ones of you litter the walls like paintings
He feels melancholy
Yet at the same time he’s happy to get another chance maybe
One that is seemingly being helped by your gentle hand unknowingly
“I never thought about it until now but the stars are different” he says taking a sip of his matcha tea, he lets it pool on his tongue and experience the flavour. Not his favourite but not the worst
“That’s cause of light pollution here…though the stars do move so it it’s possible they’ve shifted position in the sky”
“Do they teach you about the stars in your schooling?”
“Yeah I took some. Not sure why, it just kinda spoke to me. Maybe it’s the Kenway blood”
Ratonhnhaké:ton/Connor Kenway
Of the group Connor is the most quiet and surprisingly the one whom you connect with the best for some reason
Perhaps it’s cause your both socially awkward in ways that let you relate
Or the fact you’ve both been ostracized by society for various reasons
His company is that of a quiet one but one you accept it with ease as you both sit and enjoy each others company
A quiet kinship made of unspoken but understood words from one another
The reminder that someone else is there and your not truly alone
He is perhaps the one you feel you can understand the most
And it’s the same likewise for him
Your both people deeply hurt and still bleeding internally
People raised by only their mother in a cruel and harsh world
People who were let down one way or another by their father
People who are still mad and angry but use that to further their determination
It’s odd but you feel truly understood
Like your soul was peeled back to reveal at your core your still a lone spirit lost in the world
One clinging to what they know as their only lifeline in this confusing and jumbled mess of a situation
The hulking 6 foot 2 man shows you trails near your home
Taking to the forest paths you’ve know your entire life and helping you discover even more about them
And while he does this he teaches you more about the world as you both walk the old beaten path
He tells you how to identify what type of tree is which, which stones are likely geodes and what tracks belong to who
It’s honestly petty interesting especially since he adds snippets of stories from his heritage
In return you talk about what you know as well
Snippets of your own knowledge that he seems to store into his mind just as you do with his stories
An equal exchange of sorts
On these walks you begin to notice he takes you out on these when your at your most stressed
The times in which your mind is overworking and consuming itself with anxiety
The times in which you need to breath
Connor doesn’t seem like one to vocally express his care but he does so through action
Small inconspicuous actions that mean a lot more than what meets the eye
It’s seems that his towards you is helping you when you need it most
Taking you away to just take a moment for yourself
To just breath in the fresh air and let the sunset coloured leaves of autumn crunch under your boots
Letting the cold breeze take away your worries
It’s perhaps better than any type of verbal support
Yet another unspoken action of care and compassion through knowing and watching
Of watching and knowing when you need a break
When you realize this and give him a small tired smile as a thanks he seems to know
Only giving a small nod with a minuscule smile of his own
It only grows bigger when you begin to ask him if his traditions, of the stories and practices of his people that he’s more than willing to tell when he knows you ask out of genuine curiosity and respect
Connor is somewhat 50/50 in modernizing
He adapts quite well but still needs help with certain things as he navigates the situation
But like usual he is anything but resourceful as he watches what you do and figures it out
He helps the others quite a bit with what he’s picked up and somewhat takes pride in the fact he can help them
Whilst he’s privy to wearing his robes he isn’t against more modern clothes
The only problem though is sometimes finding stuff that fits him considering he’s not only a giant but also fairly muscular
But your both eventually able to find some stuff for him to wear that he likes
He really appreciates though that you try to buy clothes and jewelry from nearby indigenous peoples
It might not be his but he appreciates the sentiment and familiarity that the beaded jewelry give him
“I’ve lived here my whole life and walked down these paths a thousand times yet it seems more like your the local here” you say with amusement as you follow Conner through an area you’d be never been before.
He smiles, it’s small but there as he adds “just a matter of perspective. You see the paths your used to and I see ones you hadn’t noticed”
Desmond Miles
Yeah so this is entirely awkward for you
Like how the fuck do you emotionally deal with this and the fact your very dead dad who didn’t know you existed till now is now very alive
And living in your house with his very dead ancestors that are also now alive
Case and point you don’t, specifically you ignore the problem and act like everything is fine
You lock yourself away and try to avoid him like the plague
Somehow Scurry past him and into the kitchen to grab something before returning to your abode to eat
But then things got complicated
Things change
You began talking to the others
Slowly coming out the darkness of your study and joining the dinner table
But you still try to avoid him
It feels like the sight of him burns your mind, all those nights as a kid coming back to you
The hope and then disappoint in learning he died and that he likely never wanted you
Your mother never said this but the other kids did. They always teased and picked at the fact you were a mistake
It’s why you push so hard now to be the best, To prove them wrong (to prove to yourself that your worth existing)
The fact is that now he’s here and you don’t know how to deal with that
How would you even start?
What do you even say to him?
You quiet down when he enters a room because you don’t know what to do
Whatever your about to say dying in your throat like a caged bird and all that came come out are garbled noises as you evade him
Eyes casting down to your hands like a child averting their gaze from their parent when in trouble (he is your dad so it’s the same thing right?)
Leaving the room he’s in as quickly as you can once a take is done
The others notice quick, I mean how can’t they? A damn butter knife can cut through the tension
The whole thing with Haytham and Connor is less tense than this
But what can you even do?
How in thick do you talk to him and how can he even talk to you?
Your 18 and in university, he’s 25 and was a bartender in New York before apparently sacrificing himself for the world
He’s closer in age to being a big brother rather than your dad.
But even besides that he’s been long dead and gone since 2012
It’s been years since that point and more importantly he’s someone important and your not
He’s an assassin born to a bloodline of other assassins
Someone who was raised in this tradition with greatness not only in his origin but also in his death
And your you
A child born from a one night stand who’s only achievement is being good at knowing about old people
It hurts but it’s true
If he’s a star then your a candle compared to his light
A mere blip or spark to the greater picture
There had been times he looked like he wanted to say something but you scurry away before he can say anything
Sometimes you catch the looks and small gestures Ezio tries to make as if to encourage him to go up to you
How Connor sometimes brings up to you how he wishes for reconciliation with his dad and that perhaps it’s possible with your own
Altair not beating around the bush and plainly telling both him and you to talk
But it all feels for naught and dies when those feelings and thoughts return
But eventually he corners you
Well not really corners you per say but he catches you as you leave your study after a talk with Altair
“Listen I don’t have any grudge against you. For one you died, I’d be a dick if I blamed you for that or your decision to save the world and whatever. Second you didn’t know about me in the first place” you say briefly looking up at him before averting your gaze, he looks like he wants to say something but he can’t get a word out before you continue “but you don’t have to act like my dad or anything. You never asked for me, it was a mistake, I was a mistake and I’m fine with it.” (Your lying to yourself)
You leave before he can get a word out, and he’s left alone in the hallway. When he returns to Ezio he just sits down in silence. It’s enough for everyone to know I didn’t go the way he wanted.
Admittedly when you begin to notice odd figures at the achieves you write it off
I mean it could literally be anyone plus the supervisors aren’t making a fuss about them here
If anything their welcoming them and looking at them with hopeful eyes
Small glances full of opportunities in them
It’s odd but maybe their just some non-profit here to support the archive
Or even private benefactors of sorts
But then they turn their attention to you
Plastic smiles on their faces, artificial pleasantries as their main spokeswoman sits in front of you in a slick suit
Her stilettos tapping against the ground as your eyes trail to her bodyguards of sorts
They stand not too close nearby
Watching
Waiting
And then she begins talking
And slowly you grow more and more uncomfortable
Hands playing with one another, fingers twitching in your palm as crescent are indebted in your skin
They apparently are interested in your findings
In your research
But more specifically you
They’ve researched you…a lot
Down from where your mother was born to her great great something grandfather
And your father
…but that’s not public knowledge
It wasn’t even on your birth certificate
This….this isn’t
She smiles though now the darkness melts away into something more knowing
Dangerous and sadistic of sorts
And it’s there on her little pin showing her name you recognize the logo
Within your house you’d vaguely heard whispers of the others talking in hushed tones
You didn’t mind
The less you know the better in that sense
Out of sight and out of mind
But sometimes you’d hear the mumbles of a name that you didn’t put together until now
One spat with venom just as they did with the word of the Templar
Abstergo
You barely have time to react before your black bagged and sufficiently knocked out
Mind drifting to that of panic
What would happen to you?
What will happen when the others find out?
But then those thoughts fade away into the dark void of sleep
When you wake up things are odd
Everything is a sterile white and too bright for your foggy sleep tinged eyes
The room is blurred as is your senses as you weightlessly drift
Everything feels odd
And then it happens sharp and pure pain that leaves you writhing and screaming into the void
And that’s when you notice that white light had left and your in a void of sorts
Empty glitching effects all around you as your left to look around in confusion until you see something
A memory? Specifically one of your memories
Your staring at a simulation of sorts of your past self
A 8 year old in their bed with chubby cheeks pulled up into a melancholy smile
You recognize this moment, your small hands holding a picture that had long been put away into a scrapbook and forgotten
Your left wordless and confused
And then that bitch’s voice appears again and she explains
This entire thing is a simulation of your memories
And essentially their gonna go through your head picking through them to not only learn what they want but then use you as their lab rat cause of your bloodline.
Cause apparently memories of your ancestors could be accessed that way and it was generally easier to have a descendant rather than finding objects and artifacts
And it’s there in that simulation it feels like your mind is being ripped apart
Memories ripped from your mind to play out in front of you as she makes comments and documents them before their forced back in and another is ripped out
Like book having pages torn out and then crudely stitched back in
It hurts so damn much
Over and over
Your just left in screaming again on the ground of this simulated world as she makes idol comments
Left begging for it to stop
For someone to help
For the love of god someone help you make it stop
Of course this would happen to you
You’ve always had shit luck despite your whole family motto being “make your own luck”
What utter bullshit
You can’t make good luck from bad
Can’t just change things when the scales are already tipped one way
But then like a miracle from above she goes quiet and suddenly the memory is gone
And your left in the void still reeling from it all
Still on the glitching ground before once more white encompasses your view
Blinding and bright as your still recovering
And then an unfamiliar voice tunes in
“Your safe” it’s heavily accented, in an Irish twang that’s soft as he says these words to you. A reminder that your ok now, it’s over. “Can you walk?”
You try to look at him with squinting eyes yet they still can’t adjust, your limbs feel heavy like solid rock. Unmoving even as you try. With some difficulty you shake your head
“Aight, I’ll have you carry you then. Are you alright with that?”
“Just get me out of here…please. I just want to go home, I miss my family” it sounds pathetic but as tears begin to fall the stranger doesn’t seem to think Ill of you.
“Don’t worry, I get what that’s like.” The tone is sympathetic and like before is soft “you’ll be home I no time, I promise”
You think for a moment before responding “I trust you”. For a second you feel him go still at that before he picks you up.
For awhile there’s buzzing alarms and panic as your saviour gets you out whoever’s you were taken too
There’s not a moment of silence as he sharply runs and dodges past what you think to be gunshots
Occasionally he grumbles something but for the most part he seems calm
Composed despite the chaos of it all
So much so that it makes you wonder if this is an average Tuesday for him
There’s so much shout and yelling for your already pounding head
But sometimes the yells are silenced as the sound of a blade cuts it short
Footsteps far behind eventually stopping
Sirens getting more and more distant and allowing you and the man to breath
It’s there in the pocket of silence you learn his name
Shay
It sounds familiar, like really familiar yet you can’t put your finger on it
Either way your grateful because how can you not be?
Your away from that place
Away from the torture of having your mind picked apart like a lab experiment
Having the privacy of your memories looked at and prodded
But now your somewhat okay
Your eyes feel weird, your vision feels weird like it keeps switching between something
Your at least somewhat able to walk though it’s unbalanced
but Shay doesn’t seem to mind
He offers an arm that you cling to for support
A kind smile on his face as he makes sure you didn’t injure yourself further
And then you notice his clothes are….old
Like Haytham and Connor level old
And…shit
It’s halfway home through the trails you recognize due to Connor that your vision changes
The world feels bigger as if your third eyes opened or something
Shays figure and presence is highlighted in a clover green
And perched nearby is another green figure, one waiting for a good moment
Shay follows your sight before promptly having to duck out the way from a knife that flies at his head
He pushes you back behind him, you stumble back vision switch between monochrome and normal as someone else grabs you
Instinctively you almost yell before realizing who was now helping keep you steady
And the other person now attacking Shay
“Connor! He’s good! He saved me!”
“He’s a Templar!”
“So is Haytham and you haven’t killed him…again have you!”
At that Shay pauses, turning to look at you with confusion as Connor stops his attempt as slitting his throat
Ezio on the other hand helps you up but keeps a firm protective grip
Watching Shays movements like Connor in apprehension before the two settle down and stare at you for more detail
Both waiting on your word
“He saved me and today has been a long ass day-“
“You’ve been gone for 4 days”
You pause momentarily at that before adding “long 4 ass days of having my mind literally ripped apart. Can we please head back to the house and settle this there? Thank you”.
The moment you get back your almost immediately tackled to the ground by a familiar white and red hoodie wearing absent (dead) father
It’s….odd but nice
Desmond (still feels too awkward to call him dad) is holding you like a lifeline and you notice bags beneath his eyes
He looks like hell
But none of the others are any better either
They all like positively exhausted yet light up when seeing your safe
Your home
It reminds you of your mom when you returned home from school
The long work day evident on her brow but her smile lighting up the room at the sight of your face
It’s no different compared to then except for the fact they all (except Haytham) then protectively pull you away from the nearby Shay who’s being glowered at by Connor
Safe to say it’s a little awkward until you somehow pull free of Desmond’s death grip hobble your ass between the two lone Templars and Assassins
A long discussion having to take place between them all as you not only explain what happened but also it seems you all forget one crucial thing
It seems you forgot about your mom’s side of the family
Whoop de Doo you have more things to process and so does everyone else here
Specifically Connor and Haytham Because before apparently knew (or know of) Shay
Great, another complex relationship in this household like there needed to be more of that
But with this entire situation it also highlights something bigger
Your not safe
None of you are safe
Perhaps you never truly were
And that in turns leaves you with the difficult decision of what to do next
Because In this difficult game of politics between two ever warring groups your a neutral force
You wanted to stay that way but unfortunately fate had other plans
as your drug into this game your left with limited options of sides for not only yourself but for the others who seem keen on following you
Even the two (former?) templars seem to follow your decision
So When Des…er your dad suggests finding his old friends it seems like the best option
It’s either that or be kidnapped and prodded again and who knows what abstergo will do to everyone else (even one’s that once upon a time we’re on their side)
Besides, he says you’ll get along well with someone named Shaun so It can’t be too bad
So he sends out a message and you leave the home you find yourself look at with melancholy
It stopped being a home when mom died but now it seemed like it was just that again
Only time can tell what will bring upon you next
But….you think you’ll be ready for whatever is thrown at you when you have this odd group of family at your side
The expression of blood is thicker than water never really held much weight since you only ever had your mom until she was gone
But maybe you understand it a bit better now
#platonic#assassins creed x reader#assassins creed imagine#desmond miles x reader#ezio auditore x reader#ezio x reader#altair x reader#connor kenway x reader#haytham kenway x reader#shay cormac x reader#edward kenway x reader
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Now you mentioned i, I am a bit surprised Smallville is prominently and consistently in Kansas? It's Smallville, Kansas. There might be others and certainly cities located vaguely within a real region, but it's definitely the first fictional town or city of D.C. in a real-world American state to come to mind.
So this gets to the weirdness of D.C geography. When Superman was first established, there was much less of a cohesive "universe," so if Siegel and Shuster wanted Superman to specifically be raised in Kansas, that's where he was from and the rest of the geography would have to work itself out.
IMO, this early slapdash approach to world-building has (over time) led to some things that just don't make sense to me as a student of urban history and urban studies:
Metropolis shouldn't be in Delaware. It doesn't make sense in terms of urbanization, given the context of an already-crowded Northeastern Corridor - Delaware simply does not have the capacity to sustain a city of 11 million people, and you wouldn't get a municipality of that size right next door to New York City (as well as D.C's other fictional cities in the area). The whole idea of Metropolis and Gotham being across the river/bay from each other has never really worked for me; you can still do Superman/Batman team-up stories no matter where they are, because Superman can fly and Batman has his own personal fighter jets.
More importantly, it doesn't make sense in terms of historic patterns of urban migration. Moving to the big city in search of the American Dream is a big part of the Clark Kent story, but historically people moving from rural to urban areas overwhelmingly go to the nearest large city, depending on how transportation networks are arranged, whether we're talking about train lines or direct flights or highways or bus routes. There is a reason we can track regional movements of black communities during the Great Migration, because who went where depended on which train lines ran through which states:
This is why I've always felt that, while Metropolis has aesthetically been associated with New York City, it logically should be Chicago. It is the biggest city in the Midwest, one very much associated with robber baron industrialists and corruption at the highest levels, and absolutely stuffed with art deco architecture for Superman to pose on top of. Up until the Tribune Company began to strip it for parts, it's also been a major newspaper town with a long tradition of muck-raking investigative journalism that would inspire a starry-eyed cub reporter like Clark. As one of the original transit hubs and the U.S' own "nature's metropolis," it is precisely the place that a Kansas farm boy would hop a train to, because all trains go to Chicago. Also, culturally I like it better that Clark Kent represents the City of Wide Shoulders whereas Bruce Wayne is the typical Tri-State Area Type-A personality.
Going back to D.C's bizarro Northeast geography, I likewise have an issue with Gotham being in New Jersey...if New York City is also supposed to be a major metropolitan area in the D.C universe. Just as Delaware would struggle to support a city of 11 million people, it would be very difficult to grow Gotham into a city of 10 million people so close to the gravity well of the Greater New York Metro Area. New Jersey is a pretty urbanized state, but its biggest cities tend to range in population from 300,000 to 100,000 - which works very well for a place like Blüdhaven, which is supposed to have something of an inferiority complex vis-a-vis Gotham - because a lot of the population tends to gravitate to NYC for work and eventually housing as well.
I've already said my piece about the lack of cultural specificity of D.C's Midwest.
As far as the West Coast goes, I've always found it a bit odd that Star City isn't where Seattle is supposed to be. Let's face it, the only place where Oliver Queen's facial hair would go unnoticed is Seattle. Also, Coast City is often depicted too far north on the map - if it's supposed to be a half-hour away from Edwards Air Force Base, it should be significantly more southern, down by Kern County and San Bernadino County, not practically up in San Francisco.
#dc#dc meta#the world outside your window#urbanization#urban studies#urban migration#urban demographics
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Excerpt from this story from The Columbian:
A simple coat of black paint on the white blade of a wind turbine could save countless birds from flying into the machines and to their deaths each year.
It’s working in Norway, and now researchers from Oregon State University are trying it in the West. With $400,000 allocated by the state Legislature, Christian Hagen, an associate professor in the university’s Department of Fisheries, Wildlife and Conservation Sciences, is leading a team that’s painting turbines at a PacifiCorp wind farm in Wyoming. A doctoral student and officials with the U.S. Geological Survey, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and U.S. Department of Energy are collaborating on the project.
Studies show that wind turbines kill anywhere from 140,000 to nearly half a million birds each year, in addition to the hundreds of millions killed each year by flying into buildings or by house cats.
A study from Norwegian researchers published in 2020 in the journal Ecology and Evolution found painting one of the three blades of a wind turbine black reduced bird mortality by more than 70%. Researchers found that birds – especially birds that hunt from high in the sky such as eagles, hawks and other raptors – experience “motion smear” that prevents them from seeing a fast moving, monochromatic object up close. They don’t see it because their retinas can’t keep up with the velocity of the blade. With one blade painted black, it creates a contrast between the blades, increasing visibility and reducing the motion-smearing effect, researchers found.
Since December 2023, the OSU and PacifiCorp team has added black paint to 28 turbines and plans to finish painting eight more this year. In a news release, Hagen said the Norwegian study used a smaller sample size and that the researchers wanted to see whether they could measure the effect on a larger variety of birds as well as bats by painting more turbines.
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I was debating with myself over wether I should post this or not, but y'know what I like thinking about Fairy Tail and I'm gonna post it. Just incase it makes someone else as happy as it makes me.
NOTE: the words I bolded below the cut are words/terms I believe the Heartfilia women associate with their personal idea of Zeref.
So: What do the different generations of Heartfilia women associate with Zeref?
-Anna met him in the woods one day without knowing his identity for quite some time. He was a mysterious hermit mage with unbelievably high levels of magic power, and to Anna he had a lot of potential. Eventually he shared his ideas with her, a gate to connect the past and present, she instantly envisioned its usefulness and how it could save future generations.
To Anna he was a muse, a scholar and the guiding light who brought miracles into reality. But he was also a murderer, even if not by his own will or intentions, he had begun experimenting with the creation and manipulation of souls long before she met him. Her friend and teacher was the Black Wizard Zeref, she knew of him centuries before the terms 'Black Wizard' or 'Dark Mage' were conceived.
(Personally, I think Anna would also associate him with the Morning Star. The last star seen as dawn bleeds into a new day. He's a relic of the past even as far as Anna would be concerned because he's the last surviving student, and teacher, of the Mildian academy of Magic. Plus, the morning star is very closely associated with Lucifer. Depending on which interpretation of demonology you believe Lucifer either is a prince of hell who serves under Satan, or is Satan himself and Lucifer is just another name for him. I dunno, I can see connections between the two.) Also, Zeref's name is derived from the word Seraph as in the Seraphim Angels.
-Layla grew up hearing about the despicable actions of cults who claim to be following Zeref's last will. She knew that many scary stories about the dark mage himself were made up by parents to frighten naughty children into behaving themselves. But Layla wasn't a foolish woman, she knew he existed once and may still exist somewhere in the world she grew up in. Her ancestors' journal regarding the Eclipse Gate likely spoke of a brilliant wizard, one who Layla probably wondered about.
Could a man like Zeref, with all of his infamy and supposedly impossible accomplishments even be human? Chances are Layla thought he might be a God or Demon, maybe even a Demon God. Zeref was credited with creating a unique species of demons after all, and humans can't just make life so carelessly or easily as myths and legends said Zeref had. Maybe he was a Celestial Spirit, one who did something awful and was banished for his misdeeds? One who's constellation was no longer visible? Whoever and, or whatever Zeref had been and still might be, Layla would always feel like his name is a Dark Omen especially after having her daughter Lucy.
-Lucy knew of the scary stories that used Zeref's name. She knew about the legend of Lullaby, a death flute he had poured dark magic into thus creating a weapon of mass murder. He was the author of Demon Books and his name alone carries an Omen of Death.
Lucy saw Lullaby in person and nearly witnessed first hand its terrifying cursed power. Then on Galluna Island there was Deliora, another demon crated by Zeref who ruined the lives of so many people, including her own guildmate Gray. During her first year with the Fairy Tail guild alone Lucy encountered multiple demons made by Zeref's hand and nearly half a dozen groups of people (mostly dark guilds and cults) who were connected to his image in some way.
To Lucy Heartfilia, even before the incidents on Tenrou Island, Zeref was a real person. A monster in human skin, perhaps, but he had been real once.
And then Tenrou Island happens. Zeref is real in more than just a lingering image or some remnants hanging on from the Dark Ages of Magic. He's an immortal, who the members of Grimoire Heart believe to have mastered One Magic, the origin and completed form of all magical power.
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Now I want to go into some speculation of what Lucy's image of Zeref; as a person and legendary mage, could've been if they had ever gotten some one-on-one interactions!! (Seriously, Lucy and Zeref could've had some very interesting interaction at any point in the series. There is just too much to unpack here, though.)
If Zeref and Lucy had met face-to-face (no, I don't count his unconscious body being manhandled across Tenrou Island. He was unconscious, she couldn't have gotten a read on his personality while he was unconscious...) at any point after Tenrou Island I feel like her impression of him would be similar to mine.
He's like a porcelain doll, empty and cold with unnaturally smooth edges. He fakes his smiles so often that they look natural now, but he's very good at pretending and I feel like Lucy would recognize this due to the environment she grew up in. He's unstable and unpredictable. Zeref is like a black hole he takes in so many things from knowledge, magic power, people, and even the essence of life which is stolen by his curse. In Lucy's mind he is a void that cannot give anything but death and sorrow. His curse makes him a cosmic force compressed down into a human body barely restrained by his own ability to compartmentalize his emotions.
Natsu, on the other hand, is like the North Star to Lucy. Her own guiding light always leading her back home to Fairy Tail. Natsu is Lucy's Polaris. (I need someone to write a fic with some of this imagery, please I am begging on my hands and knees. The huge difference in how Lucy views Zeref as a terrifying cosmic force in human skin with a sort of uncanny-valley appearance v.s. how she sees Natsu as everything that embodied her idea of 'home'! The way these two are brothers who are both so alike in certain ways but vastly different in others-!!)
I think about the Dragneel boys a lot. They are my favorite shade of angst and literary symbolism, I think. (Oh also, @spot-of-tea I'd like this to be seen by them.)
#fairy tail#fairytail#fairy tail zeref#zeref#ft zeref#zeref dragneel#anna heartfilia#ft anna#Layla Heartfilia#lucy heartfilia#fairy tail lucy#fairy tail natsu#natsu#natsu dragneel#natsu and lucy#dragneel brothers#symbolism#imagery
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