#mallory au

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 1 - Where Winning Looks Like Losing

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: This is story non-canon compliant, with the two main differences being; 1) Butcher doesn't have brain cancer, because I said so. 2) All of Gen V didn't take place, because I don't want to deal with the whole supe-plauge thing. Also that's too many characters to keep track of squad. Because of this, the story will start in a similar setting as s4e5, but with different events leading up to it, and will deal with similar themes and have similar events to the rest of s4, but at an inconsistent rate. If you have any questions about other, smaller changes I have made, feel free to ask! Enjoy!

Word Count: 4k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: See Author's Note for Summary. Contains usual tags. Chapter title is from Growing Up by Fall Out Boy.

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 2

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You were not, and never had been, in the business of fighting your wars bloody. You fought them smart, and you fought them dirty. You wouldn’t call yourself callous; if anything, you could use a little more misanthropy in your life, but your moral compass was… subjective. You��would steal bread to feed your family, you would cheat if you knew you wouldn’t get caught, and, as you had spent the last six months learning, you would quickly cover your hands in all the blood and grime in the world so that nobody else would have to.

Which was, unfortunately, not a figure of speech.

You let yourself lie in the mud, the cool texture soothing your always-warm skin, and fought the urge to sleep. You could hear someone shouting your name, strung together with an impressive array of obscenities and barely audible over whatever phase of the argument your companions were on, but god, you just could not bring yourself to give a fuck. Sure, the blood on your face was already dry, and the hay mixed into the mud itched and needled at your skin, but you’d live. You’d survived much worse, and at this point it was scientifically impossible for you to get sick, so everyone could just come back for you in a week or two. Maybe three. However long it took for the nightmare sheep to die and Vought’s stock prices to be lower in the mud than where you lay. Maybe a bit longer. Maybe until Homelander wasn’t a you problem anymore. Maybe they’d feed his corpse to the nightmare sheep when they came to get you.

You felt yourself smile a little at that thought. Dead Homelander, weak and pathetic; golden hair grimy; awful blue eyes milky and hollow. Dead Homelander, hands unable to hurt you, mouth unable to twist into that horrific smile. Dead Homelander, pretty face mauled and stupid outfit smelling like shit from being dragged in it to the barn. Dead Homelander, being torn to tiny pieces and eaten by sheep. Dead Homelander, the worst thing that ever happened to you, finishing his reign of terror shat out next to a creek somewhere.

Your smile covered your whole face at this point. It probably looked weird and creepy—the dire, life-or-death situation you were smack dab in the middle of not doing it any favors—but god, it was too perfect a daydream. You could live here forever, in the mud, with your fucked-up little fantasy on loop.

Tragically, you barely had twenty seconds in this ideal world when something hit you in the face.

“What the fuck?!" You sat up, ignoring the hand offering aid from Frenchie, glaring around the barn for your assailant.

“Bout time you join the land of the living, Love. We’ve got a fucking problem, and you don’t get to nap until it’s fixed.” Across the barn, Billy Butcher shot you a cocky grin that didn’t meet his eyes. To be fair, you weren’t sure it ever did.

“You didn’t have to hit me in the face, you ass.”

“That was me,” Frenchie cut in. “And you should thank me; Monsieur Butcher was going to shoot you.”

“You were going to shoot me?!”

“Would’ve felt the same either way, wouldn’t it?” Butcher shrugged.

“No! I’m not bulletproof, you dick!”

“You’d live.”

“So would MM if you shot him! I don’t see you gearing up for that!”

“Well, MM wasn’t sleeping in the middle of a crisis!”

You rolled your eyes, meeting Butcher’s glare from across the room. "Oh, please, you just wanted an excuse to try and kill me!”

“If I wanted to kill you, Sweetheart, it’d look more like this.” Butcher’s arms started to move behind him, where you knew he kept his gun, and you braced yourself, hands fisted at your side.

“Hey!” MM stepped forward, arms raised. “You, if you shoot anyone, I will throw you out to the sheep, I swear to God. And you,” he turned his gaze from Butcher, “turn it down; it’s the middle of winter in Maine, and I feel like I’m standing in the goddamn sun.”

You blinked, realizing that the room had rapidly become impossibly hot, and everyone had moved far as possible from where you stood. The new, alien feeling that sat under your skin was alight and sharp, almost buzzing through you.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, stepping back. MM lowered his arms, a look of what might have been concern flashing across his face, but turned away as the conversation returned to the murder-sheep issue.

You took a few steps back; nobody stopping you or asking for your contribution, fully allowing you to shrink into the wall. You felt your hand move up to your throat, trying to slow the tense, short breaths passing in and out of your body.

“Try thinking of something that calmed you down before.”

You jumped, not having noticed Victoria Neuman move to your side, and gave her a small frown as you responded. “What?”

“Something familiar. Anything that takes the edge off. Trust me,” she gave you a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve been dealing with this my whole life. It won’t get easier on its own. And that,“ she gestured to your hand. “Won’t help it long-term.”

You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to drag your hand from your throat. Something happy. Something happy from before. What had been happy before?

Briefly, city lights flashed in your head, a song on a stereo accompanied by your own hum ringing silently in your ears. It vanished just as fast, but something in your chest loosened, and the feeling waned. Glancing over at Neuman, you saw a small nod of approval before she left your side, allowing you a second to steel yourself before following.

You found yourself standing next to Annie, who gave you a quick and, as far as you could tell, genuine smile before returning her attention to the tense conversation between Butcher and Stan Edgar. The former's voice had grown to a shout, somewhat ranting about a goose-chase for the bioweapon supposedly on this farm, the latter just watching with a cold, indifferent gaze.

“Are you done, Mr. Butcher?” Edgar’s voice betrayed no anger or fear; the only signs of emotion on his face his tightened lips and raised brows. “Because if you are, I would finally be able to share my plan to get us out of this hellhole you dug us.”

Butcher scoffed, but before he could call Edgar either a cunt or a twat—both seemed equally plausible at the moment—the stone-faced man continued.

“While I will be the first to admit that an error was made in regards to a possible weapon against Homelander, I could not call today a complete waste. After all, you introduced me to this… charming young woman. The Anomaly,” he turned to you, and a shiver ran up your spine as he used your supe name. “Is going to help us.”

“Uh,” you paled under the pressing eyes of your team. “No. I don’t, uh, I… no.”

“Yes. You will,” Edgar said. “The V variant you carry is Homelander’s attempt to duplicate the original, the one used on Soldier Boy. Most likely a good attempt. And though the original V was unstable and less than suitable in any practical means, it was potent. I do not think I would be wrong in guessing you are just as strong as Soldier Boy, and likely immortal as well.”

“No.” Annie cut it in. “If you’re going to suggest we use her as fucking bait, the answer is no.”

“I was not going to suggest that, Ms. January, why would I waste such a good product on sheep bait? I am proposing that she simply eliminate our issue. I hear sheep catch fire quite easily.”

Everyone was looking at you now. Waiting for you to step forward and say something, anything. But you were frozen, mouth slightly agape, a million scenarios playing out in your head. You saying yes, and failing to do anything but start a forest fire, the barn burning around you as everyone remained trapped inside. You saying no, and the sheep breaking in and eating everyone alive. You saying yes, but losing control and hitting someone, watching them burn to ash as they screamed. You saying no, and everyone just rotting away in the barn; you yourself unable to do the same. The silence hung in the room, taunt with the way breathing had become labored in your chest, and you thanked a god you didn’t believe in as Annie stepped forward.

“She can’t control it,” she told Edgar. “We’ve been working on it for months, and she’s gotten better, but she can’t. It’s more complicated than it usually is, and it’s new.”

“Well, then I guess we should start to pray she gets lucky. I simply will not die in a barn in Maine, and unless anyone else has a plan, I must insist we start moving. Before the structural integrity fails us, and we all become dinner.”

The room was quiet for another moment, Annie looking as if she wanted to argue, but MM spoke first, his voice laced with reluctance.

“He’s right. We don’t have time to come up with something better.” He sighed, turning to you. “You’re the best bet we’ve got.”

“Still a shit bet,” Butcher muttered.

You agreed.

But Edgar was right.

“Everyone will need to stay inside,” you said softly. “Even if it works, this could get… messy.”

Murmurs of agreement were made, and you turned to Kimiko. “You’re the strongest,” you told her. “You can open and close the door the fastest. Crack it open, I’ll run through, and slam it as fast as you fucking can.”

She nodded, moving to the barn's entrance. As she passed you, she paused, giving your arm a small squeeze and you a small smile before she continued. You smiled back, trying to ignore the flash of her anxiety running through you at the touch. Everyone else began to move to the opposite side, hiding pointlessly behind hay and barrels. Neuman paused, though, looking at you with an unreadable expression.

“Something calm,” was all she said before turning to follow Edgar.

Something calm.

City lights. Music. Cheap burgers and cheaper beer. Carefree smiles. Music.

You stood before the doors, giving Kimiko a small thumbs up. She raised her hand, fingers falling from five to four, from four to three.

Two.

One.

You sprinted forward, waited for the sound of a slam behind you, and let go.

The world lit up.

It felt like a hurricane was spilling out of you, like a part of you was being ripped out and launched away. You could see the fire, but not quite feel it. If anything a chill had set itself through your veins, your skin becoming flushed not from heat, but exhaustion. Already darkness was creeping into your eyes, the effort to control the flames splitting the sky taking a toll. It was like a volcano trying to control its eruption, if any of its magma was under the control of the mountain.

But you had to. You could pass out after; you could sleep for a hundred years, but right now you had to control it.

The blood and muck on your skin had been long seared off, the clothes on your back turning into foul-smelling smoke. Your job was long finished now, nothing but bone and sinew remaining of the sheep, but a new problem emerged.

You couldn’t stop. You were burning and burning and burning, and the feeling in your skin wasn’t dulling, but growing. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by pure adrenaline, yanking you up and up, away from relief.

Something calm, Neuman’s voice echoed in your head, and you closed your eyes, trying to hear that long-gone music and see those phantom lights.

It wasn’t working. And you were only getting closer to an edge, a drop into something you’d been so careful to avoid. It was eating you, pushing you further and further. You'd jump into the freezing water of the river but it would just evaporate. You’d bury yourself in the mud but it would just boil, feeding into itself.

Sing, a small part of you begged the rest. Just sing. No use hiding yourself if you’re dead.

You gave in, and began to hum. An empty tune, your voice on key but strained. Slowly, you felt yourself come to, your body returning to your control. You followed the song to the end, and as it ended, just before you collapsed on the ground, relief rushed through you. The fire had lingered, a saving grace from your song. You hadn’t felt any effects, with no hallucinations plaguing your vision before it went dark.

————

The first thing you realized when you woke up was that someone had moved you from the dirt to rest against a tree. The second was that you were no longer naked. Someone had apparently managed to find you clothes, and though they were itchy and a few sizes too big, you were still grateful. The third was that you smelled like shit. You had thought you were covered in blood before, but that now seemed as if it had been bubbles and floral perfume. One might have thought thoroughly barbecued sheep would’ve smelled at least tolerable. They would’ve been wrong. Because you were covered in what of it hadn’t dissipated into smoke, and you smelled like a dumpster full of rubber and fish.

The only person who would come near you was Frenchie, who had forsaken his sense of smell years ago, and had evidently dressed you and pulled you to where you currently sat. Everyone else stood closer to the fence, waiting for their ride back to New York to pull up on the dirt road. You sat alone, eyes still drooping, startled out of your own head as Edgar’s voice cut through the air.

“I must say, I am glad to see my faith in you was not misplaced.”

"Yeah, well,” you shrugged, looking up at where he stood, only a few feet away. “I wouldn’t ask for an encore.”

“I am afraid I may have to. In our prior introduction, it seems you deeply undersold your capabilities.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t have time for self-evaluation when I was being kept in a fucking dungeon.”

Edgar sighed. “I must apologize for that. Though I was not made aware of Homelander’s little escapade, I recognize that you might feel as though I hold some blame.”

“Not an apology,” you muttered. “And I find that hard to believe.”

“Unfortunate, but I cannot force you to accept the truth.” He looked you up and down once before continuing. “And regardless, it is not what I am here to say.”

“I was wrong only once today, and it was when I said you were just as strong as Soldier Boy. You are not. You are much, much stronger. Not physically, of course, but overall. Overall, your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s, surpasses Homelander’s. I know you wish him dead, I would imagine you prefer it to be painful, and very few deaths inflict the suffering felt when one is burned alive. I suggest you learn how to control your gift, and learn fast. You were looking for a weapon, and I am telling you that you are it. Do not waste yourself.”

And he walked away, leaving your mouth open and your eyes wide. You stood to follow him, painfully pulling yourself to your feet, but made only a few steps before you felt a rock hit your back, and you whipped around to find Frenchie behind you, holding a hose.

“Starlight suggests you take a shower before our drive back,” he said, gesturing to the hose.

You blinked, looking back at Edgar, only to watch him be loaded into an armed van. Your brow wrinkled, a part of you wanting to chase the car down and demand Edgar elaborate, but you just turned back to Frenchie with a sigh.

“Sure, just count down before you–“

You cut yourself off as the freezing water hit you in the face.

Thankfully, Frenchie had thought to bring a towel—a gross, possibly moldy towel—but a towel nonetheless, and he handed it to you the moment the hose-down was finished. As his arm stretched out, you noticed a deep gash poking out from his sleeve.

“I can fix that,” you gestured to him. “I mean, I’ll have to touch you, but I won’t tell anyone what I feel, and you won’t have to let MM give you stitches.”

Frenchies frowned, looking at his arm as if only he now noticing his injury. “Are you sure? You must be tired, and–“

“I’ll be fine. Won’t hurt me for more than a few seconds.”

He hesitated, but gave you a nod, rolling up his sleeve before offering his injury to you. You took a deep breath and placed your hand over the wound. It hit you fast, it always did, the onslaught of emotions. You were suddenly twice as tired, a powerful and painful guilt sitting on your shoulders and a self-loathing that was familiar, but not yours, carved itself into your chest. After a second to adjust, you started to work. Your own arm, mirror to Frenchies, began to sting as the skin turned raw and red. You bit your tongue, ignoring it and focusing on keeping yourself going until the cut was gone, the skin was healthy, and there were no signs of any issues in the first place.

“Huh,” Frenchie stated at his unmarked arm, glancing at your own, which was already fully healed itself. “Merci.”

“No problem,” you offered him a grin. “Just don’t tell Butcher you accepted my evil supe healing.”

“You do not,” he frowned slightly. “You do not feel everything, yes? Just, simple, children’s emotions?”

It was your turn to frown. “Children’s emotions?”

“Oui. Joy, fear, sadness. No more.”

Oh. You hesitated to answer, debating if it was worth the lie. It would make him feel better, you reasoned with yourself.

But he wouldn’t trust you, a little voice whispered. And he’ll hate you.

You settled on the truth. You didn’t think you could stand another person hating you.

“No, I feel… everything,” you admitted. “But I wasn’t lying before. I won’t tell anyone.” You paused, watching his face carefully as you continued. “I won’t tell Kimiko.”

A look of shock passed over his face, but Frenchie nodded. “Good. Good. Tres bien,” he gave you a grateful look. “Merci.”

“Anytime,” you gave him a close-lipped smile, and the two of you returned to your group just as your ride pulled up. As you loaded into the car and began the long, tense drive, Edgar’s words replayed on loop in your head.

Your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s, surpasses Homelander’s. Learn how to control your gift, and learn fast. Do not waste yourself.

Do not waste yourself.

You thought back to the last time you saw Homelander. Though it had been from a distance, and he had not even known you were there, your body had frozen. Fear, white-hot and all consuming, had coursed through you. You had almost passed out from it. If you had been face-to-face with him, it might have killed you all on its own.

Do not waste yourself.

You couldn’t fight Homelander. You just couldn’t. You could be capable of overpowering him tenfold, and you still wouldn’t be able to fight him. You knew, in your heart, that his eyes would meet yours and you would be sent right back into that tiny white room, feel his hands holding you down, feel that hollow, empty hopelessness leak from you into the air.

But he needs to die, a small voice whispered in your head. And you’re the Anomaly. You could kill him. You’re the only one who could stop him forever, make sure he never hurts anyone, ever again.

No. No, you couldn’t be the only one. Yes, the biochem weapon had been a bust, and no one else could possibly rival Homelander and come out of it alive. But there had to be other options.

Your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s.

Do not waste yourself.

An idea started to form in your head. A terrible idea. A reckless and dangerous idea. But an idea all the same. And as it became fully formed, you managed to convince yourself more and more that it might somehow work.

Now all you had to do was convince everyone else.

——-

“No. No fucking way.”

The air in the meeting room was tense, mouths hanging open in shock. MM was glaring at you with a disdain you had previously only seen directed at Butcher, Butcher watched at you with a reverence you hope to never see on his face again, Grace Mallory looked all at once disgusted, intrigued, and impressed, and President-Elect Singer frowned as he listened, but gave you a nod to continue regardless.

“I know it’s crazy, but the problem last time was that you couldn’t control him, right? And I could. You can have us isolated, making sure we're out of the public eye and away from any possible collateral until you need us. I’d keep an eye on him, keep him in line, and he wouldn’t be able to hurt me.”

“I, for one, think this is an amazing idea. Best one I ever heard,” Butcher grinned at you. “Worst case scenario, it goes sideways, he kills her, we knock him out, and everyone still wins.”

“What part of ‘he wouldn’t be able to hurt me’ don’t you understand?” You snapped back.

“What if he blasts you with his fucking reactor?” MM pushed. “Makes you just another human? What’s your plan then?”

“That wouldn’t work on me,” you responded dryly.

Butcher snorted, but Mallory raised an eyebrow.

“Really? What makes you so sure?”

“One of the tests that was run on me was putting me in a room and blasting it with nuclear energy. They dropped Hiroshima on me, and it did jack shit. Soldier Boy throwing a temper tantrum won’t be any different.”

“And how do you think you could control him?” Singer asked.

“I can burn up to 5500 degrees Celsius. That’s hotter than a bomb. Won’t kill him, will knock him the fuck out. And it’ll hurt.”

“I just can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner,” Butcher mused. “It’s fuckin' perfect.”

You glowered at him. “Stop helping me.”

MM looked at Mallory. “The fact that America’s number one unstable asshole,” he gestured to Butcher. “Is on board should be enough to tell you how stupid this is.”

“Number two unstable asshole,” you said under your breath.

“Thanks, Love,” Butcher winked at you.

“Yeah well, don’t be so pleased. You’re only just losing to Homelander.”

Butcher shrugged, and you returned your attention to Singer. “Sir, please trust me. I, more than almost anyone, know how dangerous this could be. But Homelander is more dangerous. We needed a weapon,” you echoed Edgar’s words. “This is it.”

Singer nodded slowly, and MM scoffed.

“You can’t be seriously considering this. He’s a fucking unstable asshole murderer and a goddamn liability. What if we wake him up, she can’t control him, and he gets free?”

“We said whatever it takes,” you snapped. “I wouldn’t be pitching this if I thought it wouldn’t work. I can control him, I promise.”

“You’d bet your life on it?” Mallory asked.

“My life?” You snorted. “In a heartbeat.”

Mallory sighed. “Then fine,” she shot a look to Singer. “I’ll sign off if you do.”

“Sir,” MM said, sounding almost desperate. “I am begging you, do not do this.”

Singer just shook his head slightly. “Desperate times, they make you do desperate things. If I saw another way, I’d take it, but for now we’ll have to make do. I approve the request.”

“Thank you, sir.” You gave Singer a grateful nod, ignoring the searing feeling of MM’s anger.

“Don’t thank me, girl. If this goes south, it’s your head. Grace, set up a safe house for them ASAP, if I’m signing off on this I want it moving fast.”

Mallory nodded. “It’ll take a few days. We’ll have to transport him there before we wake him up.”

“Do whatever you have to,” Singer said as he stood to leave. “If this is our only shot, we can’t afford to miss.”

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

dude thats my nostalgic ghost!

[weirdnotal]

Jason Grace and Leo Valdez au where they both die but due to a mishap end up in Valhalla.

Hazel didn't like Leo's plan so she switched the potions and tried to talk him out of it (didn't work tho) and he ended up in Valhalla, obviously Percy and Annabeth don't know about Valhalla yet.

Once Jason's dead he also goes to Valhalla since they're the same age they end up on the same floor and see each other again. Then the whole Magnus Chase thing happens and Annabeth learns about him. Right after they're last adventure Alex and Magnus explore the building and accidentally get to the others floor.

They good friends but eventually Magnus is like "hey wanna come meet all my dead friends Annabeth" cue spiderman meme

*also imagine the combination of shenanigans and himbo-assery of Alex, Leo, TJ, Halfborn, Mallory, Magnus, and Jason as friends

[zepskies]

Break Me Down - Prologue

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: For those of you who enjoyed “Checkerboard,” here’s the requested prequel series! It’s going to be a long and bumpy road to get to that version of Soldier Boy. Technically this is an AU set post-season 3. [18+ only! This story is rated M.]

Song Inspo: For this story it's "All My Livin Time" by Radio Company! You'll notice it in some of the chapter titles.

Word Count: 2,800Warnings: Violence, character death, bondage (not in the good way).

Prologue:

Well, this fucking sucks.

The thought rattled through your mind as you were led down a hallway, across a cold expanse of tile floor.

You couldn’t see where you were going with this stuffy bag over your head, but you knew it was tile. Your bare feet all but scraped across it as they dragged you.

Whoever held your arms in a vice grip eventually forced you to sit in a rickety wooden chair. They pulled your wrists behind the chair and bound them together with a zip tie.

You felt the slit on your dress sliding open, so you crossed your legs, for whatever good that would do you. At the very least, it would give the impression that you were sitting here casually, and not (figuratively) shitting yourself with fear. 

“What the hell is this?” a deep, familiar voice asked.

“A gift.” You knew this voice as well. Neither one instilled you with calm.

Then the bag finally came off your head. The gag did not, however. You knew your red dress was in unfortunate tatters. You knew you were bruised and scratched, and overall worse for wear.

But when your gaze found your kidnapper, you glared up at him with a stubborn tilt to your chin.

Soldier Boy stared back at you with raised brows, and instant recognition in his eyes. His lips curved into a smirk.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Three months ago…

You watched the footage in disbelief.

Soldier Boy managed to grapple Homelander long enough to blast him right out of Vought Tower.

The two of them tangled in a big ball of nuclear light, and the resulting impact into the ground created a tremor throughout New York City. You had felt it even from the Surveillance office of Supe Affairs.

But now, an hour later, you stood at the site of the crash landing. You still couldn’t believe that Homelander’s lifeless body (complete with two suspect bullet holes to the head) was already wrapped up by the CIA.

The body would be destroyed, if Grace Mallory had anything to say about it. Though you knew that Vought would try to claim custody.

They can try, you thought. Grace had briefed you of the situation: Soldier Boy’s strange new power had taken away Homelander’s in the blast. That had allowed Billy Butcher to finish the job.

But as enormous a win as that was for the S.A. (for the world, really), Soldier Boy had unfortunately escaped in the aftermath of the crash. 

You watched Butcher’s team being treated by paramedics. They all seemed to be in good spirits, considering. Talking and laughing through their bloody cuts and bruises. Butcher seemed the most contemplative, maybe because his nine-year vendetta had finally come to a close.

But you knew, even with this victory, their troubles were far from over.

Mother’s Milk snapped back at something Frenchie said, but when he looked up and caught you staring, you looked over pointedly at the massive crater in the ground. His lips thinned into a determined line.

Soldier Boy’s still out there.

You took a break from staring at the double surveillance screens at your work desk to answer your cell phone.

“Hey, Yvette. How’s it going?” you said, smiling.

“Oh, good. Just clinging to a sinking ship,” she said wryly. “My department’s down to two people.”

Your eyes widened. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. In customer service? Is Vought insane?”

Yvette was the only friend you still talked to from your time at Vought. Though the two of you had been in different departments, they’d been on the same floor in the tower.

“Company shares have dropped into the toilet after…well, Homelander,” she explained. “Somehow I made it through the preliminary mass layoffs. But they want us to operate on a damn skeleton crew with no support.”

You bit your lip in sympathy. “You’re looking for another job, right?”

“Of course,” said Yvette. Her tone was hushed, and you heard her underlying worry. “Chris and I can barely afford Devon’s private school as it is. We won’t be able to renew for next year if I lose my job.”

You frowned. Her son Devon was in elementary school, a bright kid. But unlike his wealthy classmates, he’d gotten into the school on a partial scholarship. That alone was enough to single him out among the other families (even the kids, unfortunately).

“Do you want me to see if there’s anything for you here at the S.A.?” you asked. “I make an excellent reference.”

As in, you’d track down whatever department was hiring and talk them around until they agreed to look at Yvette’s resume, if for no other reason than to shut you up.

“That would be great,” she said with a sigh. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Of course!” you agreed.

Yvette had been one of the few people to actually support you after you left Vought. After that, she’d cemented a place in your life from “work friend” to something real, and as honest as you’d let yourself be in a long time.

When the phone on your work desk started to ring, you let out a sigh.

“Sorry, Yvette. I’m getting another call.”

“No problem. Still coming for dinner on Friday? I finally talked Chris into making his arroz con gandules. And in honor of you, I’m making pain patate. My grandma's recipe, if I might add.”

“Oooh, excellent,” you said, already mentally rubbing your hands together. Yvette was Haitian, married to a Puerto Rican man. Both were ridiculously great cooks, and had been teaching you their ways in the kitchen for the past few years.

Before you became friends with Yvette, you could barely boil an egg. Your mother, bless her, wasn’t the best cook. So you and your sister had survived mainly on boxed meals growing up...mainly on Hamburger Helper and the like, if you were honest.

But you were a quick student, according to your friend. You could even make baked macaroni from scratch now.

“I’ll definitely be there,” you said. “See ya then!”

You hung up your cell and picked up your work phone just as it was about to stop ringing.

“Surveillance department,” you answered.

You positioned the phone between your ear and your shoulder and checked on the surveillance cameras you were monitoring. Nothing was amiss (yet), but you were watching in case a telekinetic went off the rails on her next drug bust.

There had been reports of this particular supe being too careless with her arrests, even putting a teenager into a full body cast after flinging him off a second-story building.

But you were only half-shaken out of your thoughts when a woman greeted you on the line.

“Can you come up to my office please?” she said.

“Who’s this?” you asked distractedly.

“Grace Mallory.”

You paused. Oh shit.

The head boss lady of this whole operation was on your phone, and she wanted to see you.

“Uh…yes, ma’am,” you said. “Right now?”

“…Yeah. Right now,” she said dryly. And she hung up on you.

You heaved a sigh as you also hung up the phone at your desk. Your manager (and the head of S.A. Surveillance) was already working your team over time.

And for some reason, Grace Mallory wanted to have a little chit chat.

You didn’t know why she singled you out, but you had a handful of guesses. All of them were making your stomach churn.

You popped your head out of your cubicle and leaned over to the one next to yours.

“Hey Jess, I need you to cover for me for a bit,” you told your coworker. Jess didn’t have as much experience as you, but she was solid at her job and you could count on her to handle things while you were gone for a bit. The blonde smiled and bobbed her head.

“Okie! No problem, friend,” she said.

Her bubbliness grated on your psyche a bit, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hate her either. It wasn’t her fault the world hadn’t kicked her in the ass yet.

You nodded and went up to Grace’s office, where she welcomed you in and asked you to sit down in the plush chair in front of her rather large mahogany desk.

It was leagues above your small, plain gray cubicle, but you supposed these were the kinds of things that came with being the head of the operation.

The S.A. was now strictly her domain, following the clusterfuck of Victoria Neuman departing the organization to join Robert Singer’s presidential campaign.

“What can I do for you, Grace?” you asked.

The other woman gave you a patient, if knowing look. “I think you know why I asked you here.”

“Can’t say that I do,” you replied, tight-lipped.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the manhunt for Soldier Boy is now this organization’s top priority,” she began. “I’d like to recruit you, beyond surveillance. I want to put you in the field.”

You were already shaking your head before she’d finished speaking. You’d been happily sitting at a desk for a year now.

“I don’t think I’m qualified, ma’am.”

She gave a small huff of a laugh. “I beg to differ.”

You shifted in your seat, impatient and uncomfortable, as she folded her pale hands on her desk.

“Before you joined Supe Affairs last year, you were a private investigator…on Vought’s payroll,” she said. “I promise, you will have even more resources at your disposal. And my full support.”

“You’re CIA,” you said, hiding your nervousness. “Why do you need me?”

For a moment, Grace just stared at you. Her head tilted just so, lips pursing.

“Because this is an all-hands-on-fucking-deck situation. I need every single body I can throw at this,” she said, her blue eyes unyielding. “I’ve seen your track record. Here at the S.A., your years at Vought, and before. When you worked at your father’s firm.”

Your spine tightened at the mention of your father, but you forced yourself to relax.

“You get results,” Grace continued. “And I think you’ll do well working with Butcher’s team.”

Your eyes widened.

“Billy Butcher?” you repeated. “Oh, hell no. I’m not working with that crazy bastard…with all due respect, ma’am.”

You lowered your eyes in embarrassment.

You’d only worked in Surveillance for the past year, but you’d often heard Victoria Neuman’s bitching to Hughie Campbell down the hall—especially in the break room.

“I understand your reservations, believe me,” Grace said wryly. “But he’s the one who found Soldier Boy in Siberia, after forty years of him being presumed dead.”

“In part, thanks to you,” you couldn’t help pointing out…maybe a bit too petulantly to a high-ranking CIA agent.

Grace’s lips thinned even further, but after she considered you a moment longer, she relaxed with a slight smile.  

“I think you’ll fit in just fine,” she said.

You let out a deep breath. After Hughie clued you in on Victoria Neuman being an undercover supe, you’d laid low at the S.A., waiting for the right time to quit. After Neuman left the organization, and Homelander’s death, you’d actually thought it was safe enough to stay. 

You’d left Vought for several reasons, all of them good ones…

“What if I don’t want the job?” you asked.

Grace tapped a finger on her desk. “As I understand, you have a younger sister.”

Your lips pulled into a frown, your shoulders tightening. Your family had nothing to do with this. Was this the part where the CIA agent threatened you in order to get her way?

“Why do you ask?”

Grace raised a brow.

“I know exactly what Vought was paying you for your exclusivity clause. Which was then rescinded when you began working for Supe Affairs,” she said.

“They kept approximately six months of your backpay on ongoing assignments, and even tried to sue you for breach of contract when you gave Neuman your intel on their supes. Drugs, prostitutes, the whole gambit.”

You crossed your arms and leaned back in your chair; you saw her game now.

“You tried to fight back in the courts, but the earnings that once sustained you have since dried up," she added, and with a nod, "Yes, I checked your bank statements.”

You were affronted at the breach of your privacy, but you weren’t exactly surprised.

“Our American justice system at work,” you snipped. Grace smiled.

“I’m prepared to double their fee,” she said. “As I understand it, your sister Luisa is a gifted girl. First chair violinist. Auditions for Julliard lined up for next month. Tuition increases every year.”

And that was when you faltered. You still didn’t think hunting after the world’s most wanted ex-superhero was a smart decision. Not even for money…but damn this Mallory. Damn the CIA and Vought, Neuman, Stan Edgar, and everyone in between!

Julliard was your sister’s dream. For the entirety of her senior year, you’d been wracking your brain (and your pitiful savings) trying to find a way to give it to her.

Your mom was a hospital receptionist making barely enough to support herself. As it was, you were supporting Luisa financially.

Since the two of you were kids, you’d done your best to protect your sister. To be the one she could always count on when your mom just…couldn’t.

But still. Making this deal with Grace felt a bit too much like making that deal with Vought five years ago. And look at how that had come to bite you in the ass.

“I don’t think—” you started to say.

“Up front,” Mallory said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll get double your fee, up front,” she said. “Then you’ll get triple if Soldier Boy is caught and brought back into U.S. custody, or eliminated in the field.”

Dead or alive…

You knew what this decision meant for you.

Grace Mallory was Don Corleone, making you an offer. Could you afford to refuse?

After a beat to think, you drummed your nails on the chair’s arm and looked up at Grace decisively.

“You mean when he’s caught.”

Somewhere in South America…

Soldier Boy was having a great fucking time.

Thoroughly debauched, he’d rented out an entire casino for his 101st birthday. Bottomless drinks, drugs, whores, and poker. Didn’t get much better than that, in his (literally) high opinion.

Until a bullet ripped through his champagne glass.

The fuck. He glanced up and watched the unit of military personnel line up around all four floors of the casino. If his nose was mistaken (and it never was), most of these guys were hopped up on V. It smelled like the temporary stuff.

Good fucking job, Wannabe President Singer, he thought.

The group of women that had been hanging out at his table had already fled, save for one cowering at his feet when the first shot rang out. She was a thin blonde with big Bette Davis eyes, but she was much easier on said eyes than that fucking broad had been.

Soldier Boy grabbed the girl up off the floor, like the dead weight she was, and gave her his room key.

“If you make it outta here, catch me at my place, would ya?” he told her, though his attention was on the guns surrounding him. She took the key with shaking hands and looked up at him. He spared her a glance.

“I’d go now, if I were you. Things are about to get fuckin' crispy.”

And that was when they tossed the tear gas.

The futile sniping began, tearing through his new silk suit but bouncing harmlessly off his skin. The girl screamed and cowered under the table.

Soldier Boy snapped off a roulette wheel from a nearby table and tossed it like a frisbee at the closest guns. The tear gas was just making him want to sneeze.

But he smirked and rolled his neck. Here we go...

By the end, Soldier Boy was the only one standing. And that included the casino. It was a mess of broken wood, overturned tables, and the blood and bodies of soldiers, staff, gambling patrons, and Bette Davis Eyes under the table.

Straightening his ruined blazer, he stepped out the back of the casino and disappeared into the dark.

On the only table left standing was a hand-written note, pinned down with a steak knife:

Try harder.

S. B.

AN: Well, then. 😂 I can say this is a very different story than I'm used to writing, but I couldn't not explore Soldier Boy. 😏

Let me know what you think of this little intro!

Keep Reading: PART 1

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List:

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @pallographsunspot @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26 @spnwoman @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @syrma-sensei @muhahaha303 @123passwort @xoxovienna @magnificentnightmarehadi @lollag0w0

[painypaintbrush]

Another fact about the future of the story

Molly becomes a villian, and Timothy has to fight her. When she turned 17 she steals the sorcerer hat from Mickey and runs away with Max and Dottie. Two years later an evil mouse queen emerged.

Everyone thought she was kidnapped and that her kidnapper stole the sorcerer hat as well. Thus Timothy at 18 sets out with Sadie, Oscar, and Mallory to find the evil mouse queen and defeat her to not only get the Sorcerer hat back but also find out where his sister is.

No one knows that Molly is actually the evil mouse queen. Timothy is forced to fight his own sister with the paintbrush until he finds out her true identity

[midgetmoth]

I made an OC for @sticktopia's Sanctuary AU! (TW: Stick harm, scars, implied death)

Meet Mallory, a male stick. He was born between two sticks, meeting his end early into his twenties. His end left him with a white eye he'd rather keep shut. He doesn't recall how he died, only that his chest has this massive "marking" across it. He put two and two together about the scars on him, but everything else is fuzzy.

He is attracted to both males and females, although love is that last thing on his mind right now...

[thatoneloonaticsfan]

I found this template, and I can't help but think this is how they would react to getting kidnapped by Mallory:

Yes, I did use what they looked like in the past, and I won't apologize for it.

[eemamminy-art]

Have you ever seen a boy so beautiful yet so sad? 🌼

bonus: moonfire faire!!!!

[technicolourcowboy]

😈🎸🥁

Metal AU by @evillillad

Two more oc wips to add to the pile <333

Still have to draw out the corpse paint (and add colour) but ✌️😔 here’s the bassist and drummer for [insert band name], Hudson found them on the side of the road

This is them ^^^ Yeah

[ask-mallory-and-detective]

_[ERROR] [ERROR]…

_[SPLIT POINT FOUND]…

A Wheres Waldo (OC’s) ASK BLOG

Inbox: open

Rp: Of course.

Main Acc: @brewingcoffi

Rules and information undercut

>[Coding Character Selection..]

File_Name: [Mallory]

File_Name: [Detective]

>RULES

I won't do anything related to romance unless its with Detective. It’s not like I am against the impression of shipping and I don't mind jokes hinting at ships between specific characters too, I'm just not comfortable and don’t know how to RPing that sort of thing. no NSFW either for the same reason, but some NSFW jokes are always welcome. Just don’t overdo it, I don't want my ask blog to be filled with NSFW jokes all the time.

I'm willing to RP with other OC’s and crossover characters, Canon or not. But please DM or at least give me some info about them or the plot of the RP if you're using an au of these characters, before we start RPing, my knowledge of characters and you're OCs is limited. So, I might not get them all the time.

[NOTES AND SOURCES]

> OC/Canon Friendly, Crossover Friendly.

> I'm an minor

> A bit rusty on Roleplaying

> Can get overwhelmed easily, so please be patient!

> Responses will be replied with text and sometimes art like this!

[amalthea-wolfwood]

Selfshiptober Day 27; decorations/cemetery

"Thomas, look!! My family was here!! They decorated my grave!!!"

"That's... Sweet, Mallory, but isn't it a bit morbid?"

(Molly- it/they, Thomas- he/him)

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 3 - You've Torn Your Dress

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: This one's the first of many doozies. I recommend you clock out now if you think the following will distress you: mentions of rape, but no scenes or explicit description. If not, read on! Chapter Title is from Rebel Rebel by David Bowie.

Word Count: 7.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Your first mission is delivered, and it goes about as expected. Contains usual tags, emphasis on mention of rape/non-con.

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

When your team stepped into the safe house, you could see the moment the smell hit their noses.

“Merde,” Frenchie was the first to speak, a poor omen within itself. “What the fuck am I smelling?”

“Uh, probably the milk and meat. They’re the strongest.”

Annie said your name carefully, watching your reaction as she spoke. “What happened.”

“He wouldn’t put away the groceries.” You said with a shrug. You were over it. It was like, ten bad things ago.

“So you just. Left them out?” Hughie said, seemingly baffled.

“Yeah.”

“Mallory said she delivered them on the first night.” Annie glanced between you and Hughie.

“She did.”

Hughie’s eyes widened further. “That was almost two weeks ago.” When you just nodded in agreement, he pushed further. “They’ve been out the whole time?”

You frowned. “He doesn’t get to win.”

“What are you, five?” 

You just sighed, giving Hughie a pleading look. “Don’t tell MM.”

“What?” Butcher taunted from the back of the group. “That he was right, and you can’t handle Soldier Boy?”

“I thought you were on my side about this.”

“I’m on the side of the truth, Love.”

Both you, Annie, and Frenchie let out huffs of amusement at that claim, with Hughie looking sheepishly amused.

“You can’t possibly believe that.” Annie gave Butcher a pointed look. He only winked in response, leaving her to turn back to you with an eye roll.

“Has it been like this,” Hughie gestured vaguely around him. “The whole time?”

“Nah. Worse.”

Really, hell would be a better word for it. After the knife incident, there had been the toilet paper incident, which you had won, the coffee incident, also your victory, the laundry incident, point Soldier Boy, the TV incident, point you, and the Lord of the Rings incident, another point Soldier Boy. The Elton John, Jimmy Carter, and Rockefeller Center incidents had ended in stalemates akin to the Cold War, but should those fuses reignite, you were sure you could take them home. Overall, you’d burned him seven times, he’d thrown two chairs at you, you tossed shit in his face once and threatened castration on fifteen separate occasions, and he had offered to sleep with you thirty-one times.

“He hasn’t, he hasn’t hurt you. Right?” Hughie wasn’t fully looking at you when he asked, his voice soft and nervous.

“No. I mean, he’s tried. Not in… that way, but I’ve had a few things thrown at me. All the physical violence died out around the laundry incident, though. Now we’re using psychological warfare.”

“Laundry incident?” Hughie said at the same time that Frenchie said, “Psychological warfare?”

“Don’t ask.” Was your response to both. You’d avoid revisiting the laundry incident in your mind for the rest of your life if you could help it, and the actual practice of your warfare was more childish than you’d like to admit.

“Well, as lovely as a reunion this has been, we need to talk to you both. Where’s the cunt,  anyway?" Butcher craned his neck to look down the hall.

“Probably moping around in his room.” You shrugged. “Let’s talk in the living room, standing at the door is weird.”

While the living room hadn’t taken even close to as much damage as the kitchen, it had not escaped you and Soldier Boy’s sparring unscathed. Books provided by the CIA, which were mostly stereotypical classics, had been upended from their shelves and strewn across the floor. The TV was still intact, as was the sofa, but the former was stuck on PBS, and the latter was, at this point, compromised of 70% trash.

“Holy shit,” Hughie muttered as he stepped over a copy of Catcher in the Rye. “You can’t plan on living like this the whole time?”

“Well, if America’s number one man-baby would stop moaning and bitching about his glory days, then maybe, yeah.���

Annie gave you a concerned look. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll castrate him.” Though the threat had now been made sixteen times, it never satisfied you less to say it.

“I’ve told you, Sunshine, if you did that, you would only be hurting yourself.”

Everyone in the room fell silent, their eyes trained over you with tense gazes. You turned to find Soldier Boy almost directly behind you. “I’ve told you, by definition, I’d only be hurting you.”

He gave a mocking pout. “Wouldn’t that plague your perfect little conscious?”

“I’d live.”

“Bitch.”

“Cunt.”

“Prude.”

“Manwhore.”

“Whiny Brat.”

“Waste of space.”

“Waste of good pussy.”

“Waste of government money.”

“Waste of Compound V.”

“Pathetic, assfaced Dickwad.”

“Stuck up, pretentious Ice Queen.”

“Geriatric, entitled, blue-balled G.I. Joe Fuckdoll”

The room had practically vanished around you as you and Soldier Boy fell into your now well-tread path of insults. Your blood was burning with that feeling, aching to burst across the room as both of you glared hard enough to, fingers crossed, kill the other.

“Jesus Christ,” Hughie said, breaking you out of your own spell.

“What are they doing here?” Soilder Boy asked, somehow having only just clocked their presence. “Do I finally get to do my job and leave?”

“No,” Annie answered. “We have no way of knowing how long you’ll be here at this point.”

“That’s what I said,” you muttered under your breath, turning back to your team.

“Yeah,” Soldier Boy said at full volume. “And I don’t fucking trust you.”

“Will you get off my ass about it now?”

“I think you like me on your ass, Sunshine. My offer never leaves the table.”

“Cunt.”

“Bitch.”

“Helpless man-child.”

“Prissy tease.”

“Glorified propaganda poster-“

“No,” Annie cut it. “We’re not doing that again.”

“Party pooper,” Butcher grumbled. “I was hoping they’d kill each other this time. Then we could just go home.”

“Well, did you at least bring me drugs?” Soldier Boy seemed to search the room, as if a pile of weed and coke would miraculously appear on the floor amongst the mess of wrappers and fluid-filled paper towels.

“We’re not buying you drugs with government money.” Annie said, giving you a look of apology. “As I’m sure you’ve been told.”

“Many times,” you affirm under your breath. You’d had to hide the glue on day five, which had let to the toilet paper incident on day six. A day had not passed since where you didn’t catch him trying to turn a new household object into something to snort.

“I thought weed was fucking legal now.” Soldier Boy glared at you, as if you were personally responsible for the CIA not buying him blunts. “It’s a free fucking country. I should be able to smoke whenever I damn please.”

“Porn is legal,” you reply. “Doesn’t mean the federal government is going to bring you some.”

“If they brought me porn and weed, I’d be far more open to whatever shit you want from me.” He winked at you.

“We gave you that last time,” Hughie pointed out, shifting nervously. “It barely helped.”

“Will you be a good little supe if we come back with porn and weed? Because we can go and-“

“No, we need to do this now.” Annie spoke over Butcher, and you noticed a line of worry on her forehead, along with Hughie’s nervous fidgeting. Though Butcher didn’t seem plagued by an anxious tell, he relented to Annie faster than you’d ever seen, and alarm bells went off in your head.

“Annie,” you bit the bullet, asking softly. “What is the ‘this’ you need us for?”

She gave you an apologetic look. “Trial run.”

“Trial run?”

“We’re giving you a test, Love.” Butcher said with a smirk. “See if your little experiment is even viable. Maybe take out a player in the process. All depends on if you and him,” he jerked his head to Soldier Boy. “Do your jobs right.”

“I don’t need your little ‘test’ to know if I can do my job.” Soldier Boy snapped.

“Last time you failed,” Hughie muttered.

Frenchie nodded in agreement. “In a spectacular manner, yes.”

“Because that bitch and that pussy stopped me.” An angry scowl was thrown at Annie and Butcher, who returned it and grinned widely back respectively.

“You were going to kill a kid,” Annie said coldly.

“He shouldn’t have been in the line of fire.”

“The line of fire? Do you hear yourself? Do you really care about others so little that-“

“I’d do it again,” he snapped back, unbothered by Annie’s disgust. “You don’t get to ask me for help and get mad when I do.”

You gave Butcher a pointed look. “Aren’t you glad you listened to me?”

Though all you got in response was a grunt from Butcher, Soldier Boy’s eyes shot to you. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

You returned his glare, steeling your own eyes to match his interrogating gaze. “We’re removing the ‘kill a kid’ option from your choices. You want to know why we’re stuck here? Because you fucked it last time, and we won’t let you fuck up again.”

“You won’t let me?” He sneered, leering at you coldly. “You don’t let me do anything, Sunshine.”

If the “Sunshine” thing continued to stick, you might have to throw yourself off a roof. But you didn’t flinch, just tilting your head mockingly. “You wouldn’t need a shock collar if you hadn’t bit the hand.”

“I wouldn’t bite the hand if it hadn’t tried to kill me.”

“Nobody tried to kill you, Mate.” Butcher interjected. Soldier Boy’s anger switched back to him with fists curling at his side, but Butcher kept talking with a bored drawl. “You shouldn’t have bloody fucked up.”

“And, like I said,” you shrugged. “It won’t happen again.”

“If I see the shot, I’ll take it. Whether you like it or not.”

Looking into his eyes, you believed him. No doubt fogged your brain that, given the opportunity, Soldier Boy wouldn’t hesitate to take out Ryan Butcher with Homelander. Part of you, the angry and bitter part still trapped underground, understood that. But you’d see Ryan once, from afar, and he had looked so young. You didn’t have to imagine his fear or touch him to understand what it was like. For your life to change abruptly and without reason, to have to sprint to keep up with your new one. Soldier Boy had volunteered for this life. Ryan hadn’t. You hadn’t.

So, holding Soldier Boy’s gaze, you made your voice clear and steady. “You don’t get to take the shot until it’s clear. Ryan will be out of the picture before you even see Homelander.” You turned to Annie. “What’s the test?”

“Head-popper.” Butcher answered for Annie with an odd look at you. His voice carried the usual light and oddly joyful tone he used when discussing murdering supes, but his eyes on yours were quieter, with less manic vengeance than you’d seen before. If you didn’t know better, you’d call them thankful.

“Head-popper?”

Hughie jumped in at your confused frown. “Neuman.”

“Oh,” you paused, looking over Hughie’s worried face. “We’re going after Neuman?”

“Who the fuck is Neuman?” Soldier Boy asked with a reluctant grumble. You had picked up on his consistent annoyance with new things after you’d found him screaming at the microwave three days ago, and not knowing new people didn’t seem to be any different.

“She’s a supe who can pop people’s heads like balloons.” Frenchie gestured in imitation for effect. “It’s disgusting.”

“And she’s the VP elect, which would put an ally of Homelander in the White House, one step from the Oval Office.” Annie said pointedly, giving Frenchie a look. You offered him a small smile over her head. Though the demonstration hadn’t been helpful, watching his hands fly around mimicking Neuman’s powers was undeniably entertaining.

“She's dangerous,” Hughie added. “But she’s not a bad person. We don’t want to kill her, just remove her powers.”

“What do we need her for then?” You didn’t have to look to know Soldier Boy’s accusation was directed at you. You bit your tongue, trying to ignore the way the words seeped into your skin.

Because he’s right. A cruel whisper said into your ear, and the itch on your skin began to feel like a rash. You were saved from the plague of your thoughts—the urgent feeling to fall prompted by almost nothing—by Butcher.

“If you think you’re going anywhere without her, Governor, you’d better get used to being wrong. She’s there for the same reason she’s here. So you don’t go postal.”

Soldier Boy gave you an unreadable look as the rush of your heart in your chest slowed from Butcher’s words. You turned away from him, but you could almost feel his eyes through your skull as you looked at Butcher with a blank face.

“What’s the plan?” You asked, praying it would be simple, with as few people as possible around and, ideally, in the middle of a desert filled exclusively with fire extinguishers.

“MM and Kimiko are doing recon on one of Bob Singer’s rallies. Frenchie will create a distraction for the secret service, and Neuman’s personal detail is going to suddenly disappear-“

“Disappear?” You interrupted Butcher with raised eyebrows.

“Keep your panties on, they’ve been bribed. Once she’s isolated, Soldier Boy’ll blast her, and we can all go home confident in your little gambit.”

You hesitated, trying to imagine the last political rally you’d seen. Group of people in tight groups, electrical wiring for microphones, speakers, and lights. Gates and closed doors, hallways leading out onto streets. “How are we going to isolate her?”

“Me and Butcher will work on that,” Annie said, almost reaching for you with a reassuring pat, but thinking better and jerking her arm back. She opened her mouth, an apology certainly on her, but you raised your hand to cut her off.

“How long until we leave?” You asked. Maybe they’d say ‘three hours’ and you’d get to talk to someone who didn’t think swing music was sonically viable for a bit.

Hughie checked his watch. “Ten minutes ago.”

“Ago?” Your eyes widened.

He gave you a sheepish look. “We thought it would take less time to get you.” He turned to Soldier Boy. “Your suit’s in the van. I can bring it out-“

“I can change on the way.” Soldier Boy grumbled, ignoring Hughie’s start of sputtering protests. “Let’s get this over with.”

———-

Much to his annoyance, they had forgotten Ben’s shield, and nobody would let him change in the van. He tried several times, only to be met by a chorus of groans, shouting, and swearing. He had listened to their complaints only because she had started giving him a look he recognized as a flag for a storm of uncontrolled fire. No hot disgust or sparks of rage, only a cold and quiet, almost glassy-eyed stare. Her heart steady but her breathing too fucking controlled to be natural, measured so equally that it sounded mechanical. So, because he figured she would only become more bitchy to live with if she incinerated her alleged “friends”, Ben stopped trying to pull his shirt over his head.

Once he did, the van fell insufferably silent. The edged pleasantries and conversation he’d overheard during Butcher and his band of Assholes arrival had ceased save for tense questions and hushed conversations. Ben didn’t fail to notice all the spineless avoidance and careful words directed at them both. She, even after the foggy look faded, remained curled into a corner, trading small and toothless smiles with her team. More timid than he’d seen her before, almost like a scolded child as she looked around the van nervously. Her eyes watched the shadows as though Homelander himself might jump from them, the chew of her lip giving Ben a headache. The only words she spoke were a jab at Ben when he’d said something about political rallies post-election being fucking pathetic—giving him a lecture about American politics now heavily depending on something called “going viral”—only to fall silent once more after. Her team looked at her like a glass bomb, as if she was a delicate statue looming over their heads and not the vulgar, violent woman who slept down the hall from him. That woman infuriated him, testing his patience every time she opened her mouth, but this paranoid, skittish pussy of a girl was so much worse. So when the van halted and Butcher’s team began to filter out, he called her name. When she ignored him, he reached out and grabbed her arm.

“What the fuck!” She pulled herself out of his grip in a second, staring at him with anger. She glanced down at her arms, a look he didn’t understand crossing her face, before returning her attention to him. “Do not touch me.”

“I barely touched you,” he glowered, annoyance quickly flooding him. He had only brushed skin, with a light grip she had thrown off, there was no need to be so dramatic. “When I touch you for real, you’ll fucking know, Sunshine. And you’ll fucking beg for it. I needed to make you listen, you were fucking ignoring me.”

Her brows knit, and he heard the chew of her teeth on her tongue. “I’m not going to beg for anything, and I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“I said your name, and you kept fucking walking.”

“I didn’t hear you.” She snapped, but didn’t relent. “Speak up next time.”

She knew just as well as Ben did that they were both far from quiet, pussy-voiced fuckers. And while he definitely hadn’t yelled for her attention, it shouldn’t have fucking mattered. He’d seen her pick up his grumbled insults and mocking comments just fine over the past two weeks. “Bitch.”

“What do you want?” She asked with a sigh, ignoring his jab and looking at him as if he exhausted her just by breathing. “We have to go, and you still need to change.”

“You shouldn’t let them treat you like that.” He said, not hiding the contempt from his voice. He wasn’t going to skirt around his thoughts, lining them gently to help her fucking feelings.

Her body tensed, her limbs looking as if they’d locked into place. “Like what?” Ben heard her swallow as she answered, her voice not lost enough to make her sound clueless to his words.

“Like you’re a child they have to coddle. A problem they have to deal with.”

She stared at him, her glassy-eyes returning. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, cunt-face.”

Ben snorted. “They don’t treat you like the bitch you are. They always use that sweet, pussy voice, like they’re talking to a fucking puppy, when they say something to you. They’re always all fucking pouty when they look at you, pussyfooting around so they don’t make you sad.” He gave her a mocking grin, hoping the next words landed like a bullet. “They treat you like me.”

It had clearly worked, as the van had grown hot, and her eyes were clearing as her heart began to pick up. Ben felt an odd feeling cover him as he heard it, almost familiar and sparking pride in his chest. She wasn’t a jittery shell anymore, she was going to try and kill him. It made his grin grow genuine, and the van grew only more heated, the air waving around them.

Her mouth opened, and Ben hoped whatever came out of it would be vile and crude.

“Hey!” She turned her head and clenched her jaw as someone called her name from outside, the van rattling as a fist banged against it. “We need to go!”

The door opened to reveal the Cocksucker, whose face grew quickly red, a bead of sweat falling from his hairline, as he was blasted with a quickly dying wave of heat.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, turning from Ben as the heat dropped further. “Coming.”

Cocksucker gave her a worried look, his gaze flying quickly to Ben, but just nodded and stood aside for her to move past.

As the door closed and Ben began to change, he listened for their soft, tense words.

“Are you okay? Did he do anything to you?” Cocksucker’s voice was nervous and gentle, like being suffocated by one of those fucking fluffy blankets Ben had seen in the empty bedroom of the safe house.

“No, he just grabbed me to talk. And you don’t have to keep asking me that. I’m fine, and it’s not as helpful as you think it is.” Ben frowned at her voice, the malice from it drained entirely in only a few seconds, replaced with only a tired hollowness.

“Grabbed you?! Like, he touched you?”

Having anticipated Cocksucker being more interested in the “talk” part of her sentence, or the shit that sounded like it was about feelings, Ben's brain rattled over Cocksucker’s word, his tone of panic looping in Ben’s head. He spoke of Ben’s touch as though it were a plague, and not something many people would kill to feel. Ben almost burst out of the van to say just that, but froze when he heard her answer.

“It was fast, I didn’t feel much. Even if I did, it doesn’t matter. I can’t go the rest of my life without touching people.” Her voice had a finality to it, and Ben could almost picture her downturned lips and wrinkled brow.

“You touch us when you heal us.” Even Cocksucker’s voice didn’t sound sure of his response.

“It’s not the same, and you know that.”

There was a momentary stall in their words, and Ben took the opportunity to emerge, securing his belt as he walked to the door. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see, but Cocksucker looking pathetically around, anywhere but the woman as she curved into herself, wasn’t it. She held a white-knuckle grip on the sleeves of her jacket, her thumb running up and down in small movements. They both turned to him as the door banged open, and Ben caught the empty look behind her eyes before her indifference slipped back into place.

“Did you hurry me just to sit around like pussies, or are we going to start fucking moving?” He asked, the air feeling too uncomfortable to sit in.

Cocksucker blinked, glancing at his watch. “We have a few minutes until they arrive, but I guess it can’t hurt to be vigilant-“

“Arrive?” The woman’s eyes widened, and Ben saw smoke curl from her hold on her jacket. “They’re coming here?”

Cocksucker nodded. “It’s a high-security escape exit-“

“It’s a fucking street, Hughie.”

“That’s used as a high-security escape exit.” After a moment of searching the area, Cocksucker pointed a few yards down, at a large door set against brick. “Neuman will come right out of there, and her guards will close her out here, where Soldier Boy will blast her.” He paused, glancing at Ben, before looking back at the door and taking small, cowardly steps away from his spot between them.

“It’s a public area, anyone could walk past! What the fuck were you thinking?!” Her voice was hushed and agitated, and Ben had never seen her face lose color at that speed before, had never heard her heart stutter and jump as if trying to escape her body.

“It’ll be fine,” Cocksucker’s voice wavered, giving them both a nervous look. “It should be fine. MM said it would be fine.”

“You heard him, Sunshine,” Ben gave her a wink, adding a half-cocked smile when she didn’t even return him with a dirty look. “MM said it would be fine. And have some fucking faith in me, I’m not a fucking monster. I won’t blast any running pussies except for this head-popper broad.”

“You don’t even know what she looks like.” Her tone wasn’t quite the vicious mockery he was used to, but it was better than the apathetic, empty voice she’d been using. She was rolling on the balls of her feet, speaking without looking at him, her eyes moving restlessly from the door to the end of the street. “And I don’t believe you.”

Ben just shrugged, allowing the silence to hang. The wind was picking up, whistling through the chill of winter air, making the heat around them, emitting from both Ben and the woman, all the more obvious. Despite the biting cold, Cocksucker had taken off his stupid puffy jacket, even stepping back further from where they stood, with Ben in the center of the street and the woman off to the left. Despite her slowly stepping further and further back, her back now almost against the wall, Ben could feel her watching him, hear her heart continue its new and erratic beat.

“How long now, Hughie?” Her voice was raised to carry over the wind, though it hadn’t lost that stupid fucking weakness. Cocksucker, thank fuck, didn’t get a chance to respond with pathetically comforting words, as only one skipping heartbeat after she spoke a shrill fire alarm sounded.

“I’m assuming that’s your stupid French fuck's plan?” Ben asked dryly. “Start a fucking fire? I thought you pussies were all about minimal damage.”

“He probably just pulled the alarm.” The Cocksucker’s answer lacked any confident assurance. “And I think we’re just against needless murder.”

Ben almost started to rant about their so-called needless murder being a mighty high horse for a group of people who had manipulated him just as much as Vought, who’d been willing to help him kill all those backstabbing pussies from Payback so he’d help them. About how their stupid fucking moral purity complex seemed to adjust perfectly to aid them, and maybe he wasn’t a fucking angel, but he was strong and powerful—something they fucking needed—man, and he wasn’t a pussyfaced liar about what he was, what he did. The words died on his tongue, though, as hundreds of frenzied footsteps reached his ears.

“Fuck!” he growled, turning around and pointing at Cocksucker. “You fucking pussy.”

Cocksucker gave him an idiotically confused stare. “Dude, uncalled for.”

“She,” Ben pointed to the woman, whose heart was beating impossibly fast and looking on with a bloodless face. “Was fucking right. This is a stupid plan, because unless your head-popper walks like a human centipede, it’s not going to be just her that I fucking hit when that door opens.”

Cocksucker only gaped at him like a fish as the footsteps grew louder, annoyingly unsure stutters  escaping him, and just as Ben decided it might be good to slap the idiot out of his daze, the woman stepped forward.

“We need to move, Hughie. Now.” Her voice wasn’t steady, her whole body was tensed and hyper, but it held a determination Ben almost admired. “We can’t be here.”

“He- he could be fucking lying, or wrong-“

“That’s not a risk we can afford to take.” She cut off Cocksucker’s doubts, and Ben found himself surprised at her defense of him, even if it could barely be called that. Her hands were smoking once more, but she had firmly planted herself in the middle of the road, eyes turning sharply to Ben. “If people see you, any element of surprise over Homelander would be lost. We need to fucking move, you need to get in the fucking van now-“

The door banged open, and the streets flooded as hoards of people in star and stripe-themed outfits flooded the road. Everything became so loud, and that rapt, snapping sound in Ben’s head started to spread through him, spurring the drum in his chest. They were finding rhythm so fast, everything fading as Ben tried to slow it. But there were screams and shouts, and everything was getting further and further away from him while carving into him all the same, so though Ben could hear the sounds of metal clanging and shouts of his supe name, he couldn’t think anything past the beat beat beat, until he lost it all at once.

As his vision grew clear with his head, Ben expected to see shattered bodies and bloody walls. Instead, all he saw was the woman and fire. Her face was flushed red, her eyes crazed, and her clothes had become charred with holes as the fire surged from her into a barrier, cutting them off from the crowd. Cocksucker was yelling her name, urging them both to return to the van and leave, but as Ben moved, he glanced back to see the woman frozen and heard her heart as if it were his own. The wall was growing wider and shooting high, Cocksucker wouldn’t shut the fuck up about moving, but her eyes had squeezed shut, unresponsive to anything but the growing flames.

“We need to fucking go, now!” Ben turned to see a large man he vaguely recognized barreling down their side of the street, his face twisted in anger. Butcher, Starlight, a small woman he remembered fighting, and that French prick followed him, all loading into the van as the large man stopped beside Cocksucker.

“I told you he’d fucking blow it,” the man said, giving Ben a disgusted look, so flawlessly revolted Ben wouldn’t be surprised if he’d fucking practiced in the mirror.

“Hey, I didn’t fucking blow it, you pussy-“

“You said that Neuman would come out of here, that it would just be her!” Cocksucker, much to Ben’s shock, cut him with a high voice and a wave at the wall of fire. “That’s way more than just her! Is she even there?!”

“No,” the man said gruffly. “Neuman saw Butcher and figured out something was up. She’s long gone.”

“Fuck!” Cocksucker yelled, running a hand through his hair.

“Oi, we can go over how MM fucked up later,” Butcher leaned out from the van. “We need to go before she sends Homelander.”

“How I fucked up? You’re the one who disobeyed me and blew our cover-“

“What’s wrong with Madame Anomaly?” The French Prick appeared at Butcher's side.

Cocksucker glanced at the woman, calling her name before turning to the large man Butcher had called MM. “She absorbed Soldier Boy’s blast. I think it got her stuck.”

“We don’t have time for this. Get Soldier Boy in the van, I’ll take care of the Anomaly.” MM repeated the French Prick’s words, and Ben realized they were, for the first time, using the woman’s supe name.

“You heard him, Gov. Get in the bloody van.” Butcher’s words were clearly directed at Ben, but as he climbed into the van Ben saw Butcher’s attention locked on the woman.

MM had moved closer to the woman, a move Ben deemed more fucking stupid than brave. If she had “absorbed his blast,” as Cocksucker said, he wouldn’t recommend any non-supe be anywhere near her. MM seemed to realize this himself at the last possible second, taking a pathetic, stumbling step back with a pause. He and Cocksucker exchanged a look, something passing between them that Ben didn’t understand, before Cocksucker leaned down to grab a pebble from the road. Ben watched as he shakily shook out his arms, wound up, and tossed the pebble at the woman.

It was a terrible fucking idea, Ben didn’t have to be Einstein to know that, but the chain reaction that played out still managed to go worse than he might have guessed.

The woman whirled around, her eyes blazing, with a roar sounding from her chest. Fire shot from the wall directly at Cocksucker. In almost slow motion, Ben watched her face become painted with horror as she recognized her target, a different, fearful sound leaving her. She reached an arm out, her heart seeming to falter, and barely redirected the flames before they hit Cocksucker in the chest. The blaze just grazed Cocksucker’s arm, passed the van clear of anyone else, and hit the building with a boom.

The moment the bricks caught fire and the ground began to shake as the building crumbled, the woman's wall of fire fell. The woman herself remained upright, but only barely as MM shouted her name and she started to stumble to the van. Cocksucker was hauled in by Starlight and the French Prick, the former fussing over his burnt arm—Ben had seen worse at Herogasm and nobody whined about it—and Cocksucker waved her off. The woman pulled herself in, ignoring Butcher’s outstretched hand, and the door closed behind her. MM appeared in the driver’s seat, and as the engine started everyone fell into a heavy-breathed silence.

Through the ride, Ben watched the woman open and close her mouth a million times, returned to her fetal position in the corner but watching Cocksucker with a strained face. Her hands tapped against her still-smoking jacket, reaching out hesitantly before she pulled them back into herself. No words were spoken, not even the anxious whispers of the ride there. Ben felt relief as the van stopped, MM climbing out and opening the doors to reveal the exterior of the safe house, grateful for any excuse to leave these stupid, sniffing pussies to wallow in their failure.

MM led Ben and the woman to the doors, opened them by leaning oddly at the doorbell, and gestured for them to walk through. The man followed them in, shutting the doors behind him with a rough push.

“If we failed the test, I am not doing that fucking shit again.” Ben grumbled as MM turned around from the now-shut entrance.

“Butcher told me about the fucking mess you and him made in here.” MM ignored Ben entirely, speaking to the woman as if he wasn’t even there. “A team cleaned it up while you were gone, and Mallory will send more groceries tomorrow night. I saw a picture, it was fucking gross. I’m only doing it once, because I don’t want a new disease to develop in here. You’re an adult, you should take care of this place by your goddamn self.”

The woman looked at her feet, humming a small acknowledgment. She didn’t look up as she spoke. “Is Hughie going to be okay?”

MM sighed. “The kid will live. I’ll look at him when we get back.”

“I could help-“

MM cut her off with her name. “He’ll be fine. We’ll make sure of it.”

She gave another nervous hum, and Ben jumped in.

“Can you answer my fucking question-“

“We’ll let you know what our next steps are after we talk to Mallory and Singer. This wasn’t good, but it’s not the end of the damn world.” Once again, MM ignored Ben. It was starting to feel personal. Before Ben could push further, MM reached a hand out to rest on the woman’s shoulder, right over a hole in her sleeve. Her head shot up with her heart, but the panic in her seemed to evaporate just as soon as it appeared. Her name was gentle as MM spoke it, eyes locked with hers. “You didn’t fuck up. You did your job.” She nodded slowly. “It’ll be fine.” With those last words, he exited the building, leaving Ben and the woman in the hall.

“What’s his fucking problem?” Ben grunted, half directed at the woman, half to just say it.

She gave him a flat look. “You killed his family.” Before he could come up with a clever response, honest or dodging the annoying feeling of guilt forming in his throat, the woman turned from him and walked away.

———-

You were so tired. Your bones ached, oddly cold in a way you hadn’t felt in a while, your skin crawled with feverish chills, and when you closed your eyes, you could see the flames graze Hughie and the building turn to dust. As MM’s lingering calm he’d offered you faded, all you felt was tired. Worthless. A liability. You had fucked up, just as much as Soldier Boy. Maybe more so, because he had PTSD, even if he would deny being a “hung-up pussy”. He had lost control because he’d been tortured by Russians, you’d almost killed your friend and definitely destroyed a rec center because you’d been startled. You just wanted to sleep, to deal with the inevitable fight about groceries in the morning, running on more than quickly expiring adrenaline and caffeine pills stuck in your throat.

You made it to your room, changing into one of the pajama sets folded in your drawers, hoping someone mentioned that the allegedly fire-proof wardrobe you’d been given apparently wasn’t strong enough for the full force of your fire combined with Soldier Boy’s nuclear explosions. A shame, you’d liked the pants you’d chosen for the mission. You’d live without the jacket, though. You’d hardly pulled the shirt over your head when the door ripped open, a still suit-clad Soldier Boy standing at your door.

“What fucking happened to you?” His question was blunt and confusing as he entered your room, remaining near the door but over the threshold.

Your body was too heavy to fight with him right now. There was no tense prickling on the bridge of your nose, only the throbbing stab of a headache. “Go away, Soldier Boy.”

“All of you have a fucking thing. A weird, sad reason to whine around and pretend you’re better than me.” He didn’t budge, but rather leaned forward. “What’s yours.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You said I killed MM’s family. Butcher’s always pussying around about Homelander stealing his girl. Cocksucker mentioned something about that fast asshole doing something as well. I’m not sure what the French Prick bitches about, but I’m sure it’s something.”

“First of all, you did kill MM’s family.” You really don’t want to do this right now, but maybe he’ll give up and fuck off. A fruitless wish, a small part of you knows, but you have nothing left to push back with. “And Homelander didn’t ‘steal Butcher’s wife’, he raped her.”

“Right.” Soldier Boy watched you, his expression unreadable in the shadowy room. “Those are all fucking things. So tell me what yours is.”

“I don’t have one,” even as you speak the insistence, it sounded fake and hollow.

He takes another step forward. “Yes, you do. I saw how you froze, nobody without a thing locks up like that. I heard Cocksucker ask you if I ‘hurt you’. Just for the record, Sunshine, I may not be a Boy Scout, but I’m no fucking rapist.”

“You’ve tried to sleep with me thirty-three times.”

“And I’ll blow your mind when you realize how much you’d love it, no sooner. What’s your fucking thing.”

You stare at him, the intensity in his voice throwing you off. He’s insistent, comfortable in your room but standing at his full height, attention fixed entirely on you. That impression of dissection has returned—the feeling as if he’s trying to pick you apart for him to play with. “Why do you even care?”

“Because maybe if you tell me, I can kill what supe fucked up your pretty little head and you’ll be less of a bitch.”

You can’t stop the snort that escapes you. “What a selfish fucking cunt reason.”

He shrugged in something that could’ve been an agreement. “Maybe.” He falls silent, but doesn't leave.

You collapse to sit on the edge of your bed, staring ahead as you rub your temple. “Please just go.”

“No.”

You look at him, not caring if he sees the desperation in your eyes. “Can this not wait six hours for the morning?”

“No.”

“Do you know any words but no?” You mutter under your breath.

You didn’t miss his annoyed humph. “Oh, just fucking tell me.”

“No.” It was your turn to snap. Your exhaustion was becoming lined with bitter childishness, and you didn’t care enough to try and suppress your urge to sneer at him.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re an idiotic, self-absorbed, sadist asshat who wouldn’t know empathy if it started sucking his dick.” You mocked.

He grinned. “Ok, now name my bad qualities.”

“I’m not telling you.”

“I’ll start guessing,” he took another step forward, now almost directly before you. “Did that red-headed lesbian steal your puppy?

You frowned up at him. “Maeve was bisexual.”

“Did Noir take credit for a college project?” He ignored your comment, leaning down with a mocking smirk.

“Trust me, I got all my dues in college.”

“Did that gay-for-Jesus blond steal your boyfriend? Did the fast asshole that stole Cocksucker’s girl break up with you? Did water-boy eat your goldfish?”

“I’ve never met Ezekiel, A-Train actually murdered Hughie’s girlfriend, and The Deep famously doesn’t eat seafood, he fucks it. But by all means, keep going.”

Soldier Boy blinked. “He fucks it?”

“Yep. It’s gross.” You shrug. “Are you done?”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

You give a toothless smile. “Not until you get all your guesses out.”

“Oh?” There was unquestionable surprise in his voice at your relent, only making your fake cheer grow and your immature anger fully overtake you.

“I want you to feel like a real fucking asshole when I tell you.”

His face split open with a grin. “Well then, did the Twins kick you out of Herogasm? Did that bitch, Crimson Countess, overshadow your big debut? Did a Z-lister get more attention than you from the Vought pussies?”

You just raised your eyebrows, crossing your arms as Soldier Boy continued until the list of supes ran dry. As the last jeer left his mouth, he mirrored your face of cold amusement.

“Well?”

You leaned back, watching him closely as you spoke. “Homelander kidnapped me, kept me in a dungeon, raped me in an attempt to make more mini-Homelanders, and, after you returned, started experimenting on me to try and recreate the V used on you.”

A small shock rushed through you after you spoke. You hadn’t said any of that out loud, not fully, since you’d escaped. You danced around it with Butcher and his team, with Mallory and the CIA leaders, always picking and choosing parts to omit so nobody would look at you with pity and fear. It hadn’t worked, they did anyway, but there had still been control over it. Up until this moment, nobody had known why Homelander had done all those things to you. Everyone had seemed happy to chalk it up to him being a fucking psychopath, not anything deeper. Certainly not attempting to create a small army of additional Ryan Butchers. Small things were still yours, flashes of hunger and warped sounds remaining in your head, but everything else you had just told him.

Why did you do that? A voice hissed as the high from your petulance faded. Why did you let him win? Why did you give him a weapon to use that could hurt you?

But looking at him, he didn’t appear to be a portait of self-satisfaction and heartless triumph. He was staring at you, scanning you as though the scars Homelander left would be visible on your bare legs and arms. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t weak or coddling, but angry.

“He kept you locked up?”

You nod, part of you getting ready to fight him over something.

“He hurt you? To try and recreate me?” Your repeated nodding only seemed to inflate whatever was happening. “Did it hurt?”

Your arms and face started at that, an uncertain feeling spreading through you. There had been no reverent tone as Soldier Boy had asked the last question, no sadistic for affirmation. But you didn’t know what he wanted to hear. Why he even wanted to know. But an involuntarily honest answer escaped you. “Yes.”

He stared at you for another second before he opened his mouth, only to close it without making any sound. Abruptly, he whipped around and began to leave, giving you only one more indecipherable look as he closed the door behind him, leaving you on the edge of your bed, alone in your room.

You lay down slowly, half expecting him to storm back in at any moment, but minutes passed, quickly turning into a half hour, and your body sat at the edge of collapse once more. Soon it was unbearable, and you lay down, your racing mind being forced to a halt as sleep pulled you under.

Your sleep, as had been the case for a while now, was haunted by nightmares of blue eyes and yellow, fluorescent lights. You woke up in a cold sweat, and took a long, needlessly warm shower before forcing yourself to leave your room around 9:30. Despite your lingering fatigue, no part of you wasn’t restless as you walked down the stairs. Your body tense and ready to run, your head spinning with hypotheticals and lining up words you may need—that feeling under your skin creeping up your spine and fluttering in your gut. But Soldier Boy wasn’t in the living room or the hall. You poked your head in the dining room, hoping to avoid the minefield of the kitchen, but it was empty, the plastic chandelier lights off, the table occupied only by a vase of wilted flowers. You moved to the kitchen, ringing growing in your ears, but he wasn’t there. You turned to walk away, continue your search, but double-back as it hit you.

Nothing was in the kitchen. It was empty. Of Soldier Boy, and of the groceries MM said would be delivered.

You wandered in slowly, watching the counters as if they might start to glitch and flicker, revealing hidden produce and dirty dishes. But, leaning over the sink, there was a single plate, soaking in water that was dotted with crumbs. Slowly, you moved to the refrigerator, slowly opening it as you glanced around the room. Your eyes widened at the sight inside. Milk, drinks, and produce had been placed inside, disorganized and haphazardly. There was a jar of mayonnaise in the fresh drawer, along with a box of pasta on a side shelf, but the fridge was full. You moved quickly to the pantry, which had been sorted in a similar fashion, but filled. And when you opened the last cabinet, you saw a piece of paper stuck under a jar of peanut butter.

I know I did a shit job. Clean up if it bothers you, but don't bitch to me about it. And tell Mallory to get smooth peanut butter next time, or I’m not doing anything for her but killing Homelander - Ben

[forthedancingandthethriving]

Meggy: You actually make a good argument.

Bob: I do some of my best work when I bullshit.

----

Nimbus: Do you have an idea of who Lady Gaga is?

Queen Melody: Presumably the wife of Lord Gaga.

----

Saiko: I’m a little low on cash.

Tari: How much do you have?

Saiko: Nothing.

Bob: How can you walk around with no money?

Saiko: I’m hot, I get by.

----

Ping: I need somewhere to sit.

Umbra: *gestures to a chair*

Ping: *throws the chair out the window*

Umbra: *sighs, pointing to his lap*

Ping: Aww, thank you, Umbra! You’re so sweet!

----

Mandy: I wanted to tell you a joke, but I only remember the punchline.

Juliano: Go ahead.

Mandy: Tooth hurty.

Juliano: When is the best time to go to the dentist.

Mandy: You should have been a clown.

----

Cody: And that concludes our presentation! LC, you’re up!

Lil Coding: Alright, it's time to see if you little shits were listening.

*kahoot music begins to play*

----

STH!Root: I fear no one.

Mrs. Mallory: Root, guess what? There are Beyonders here!

STH!Root, abruptly fleeing the room: I WAS NEVER HERE!!

----

SMG4: Ugh, I can’t even SPEAK the name of the woman who organized that monstrosity of a PTA meeting!

SMG3: I don’t give a fuck. Her name was Susan.

SMG4: FUCKING SUSAN!

-----

Cody, to LC&Lily: Wow, if your dads could see you right now they’d have a heart attack.

Bowser Jr: Good idea! I’ll take a picture!

----

Irene: Tulip! I think you set the oven too high!

Tulip: I'm the master of baking! Watch!

*Irene shrieks and runs away as Tulip pulls down the oven door, which spews out flames directly at her.*

----

Juliano: You’ve been stalking me??

The Abyss: You call it stalking, I call it "lovingly lurking in the shadows".

----

Chester: How are you still alive??

Aite: Honestly I’m just as confused as you are.

----

Mario: I am not party rocking, and I am not in the house tonight.

Luigi: but are you shuffling?

Mario: ..

Mario: Every day.

----

Meggy: What are you doing?

Mario: I’m holding my breath to see if I could last as long underwater as the characters in the movie.

Meggy: ..why are you watching Finding Nemo??

[birdie-yaps-alot]

I wanna know what would happen to the cast if they got under corporates influence

(because I’m evil and mean to ocs/j)

OOOOO OKIE!

Sunspot: They fold to the Corporate’s ideals and become a solider for it. Dragging more and more people into the show.

Corduroy: He gets melted down and joins the audience as one of the several distorted faces. His is constantly screaming.

Mallory: She becomes a director! She’s melted down and reset CONSTANTLY until she’s just eventually snapped out of existence because of all her failures!

Bella: She becomes the next HR. She’s more resistant to Corprates will, but still folds under it. She’s a little more aware than sunspot

Síofra: They join the audience! Or, due to their fucked up magical nature, something else happens to them. Maybe they become the embodiment of reruns or something. An entity that can completely manipulate future cast members into re-running episodes that the old cast had made

[trashcanplant]

SOME METAL DOODLES!!

Metal AU to @evillillad

Cowboy and I have been going HARD on this bs it’s been so fun,,

Sigh… I love having friends with characters I can shake in The Box of Sorrows..

References below..

[painypaintbrush]

Timothy and Mickey sketch

Along with older Timothy and Mallory sketches