#so this is one of the highlights of the year for me

[gukcnt]

01 | BOUND BY VOWS ⭒ JJK

your world crumbles when you're forced into a marriage with jeon jungkook, a man whose commanding presence terrifies you, reminding you of your father's cruelty. Yet beneath his coldness, jungkook’s unexpected kindness stirs a spark of hope, making you question everything you fear. Your life together starts—an emotional journey of two hearts seeking comfort, healing and a chance at love

pairing — dom!jungkook x sub!femreader

genre — arranged marriage au, forced marriage, marriage of convenience, age gap, reader is of age, forbidden love, forced proximity, enemies to friends to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, rich ceo!jungkook, shy!reader, virgin!reader, poor!reader, obsession and possessive love, pining, slow burn, contrast of worlds, romance, drama, lots of angst, smut, fluff

warnings/tags — 18+, childhood trauma, emotional abuse, power dynamics, mentions of domestic violence, grief and loss, several crying scenes, panic attack, mental health struggles, hunger, illness, manipulation from readers father, several mentions of trauma and fear, isolation, betrayal and sacrifice

wc — 6.8k

a/n — this series was highly anticipated by many of you lovies, so i hope y'all enjoy it! this is just the first chapter—there's so much more to unfold hehe! <3

series m. list | main m. list

────୨ৎ────

jungkook sat in his usual leather chair.

The chair creaking under his powerful frame as he looked at the laptop on his desk.

A half empty pack of cigarettes beside it.

At the age of 36, jungkook has built his empire with hardship, blood and sweat.

His muscular body straining against the black suit that hugged his broad shoulders and his dark, rugged hair was tied in a loose man bun, a few strands escaping it.

Those strands highlighted his sharp features even more.

His dark eyes held an intensity that was capable of even shaking the bravest people to the core with just a single glance of his.

The smell of his usual expensive cologne and cigarettes filled the office, a masculine scent that was his only.

The silence broken by jungkook's fingers tapping on his phone, each text of his was a command for his employees to get their job done.

His brows were drawn together, always with displeasure because all his workers were aware of how hard it is to satisfy the ceo.

His scowl felt almost natural to him now.

“Get me the reports by tonight.”

He'd snapped earlier that day, having no mercy at all.

When he spoke, his voice roughened with a growl, something that has evolved from years of barking orders.

“no excuses.”

The line went dead as he didn’t bother to hear what the person had to say, his lips twitched—not in satisfaction but from the weakness he’d sensed.

He hates weakness.

His office was something he was used to, like a second home to him, but it was also a prison.

There was nothing personal here, no photographs or memories because there was nothing valuable in his life to get priority.

A reminder of how cold his world was and how hard he worked to keep the outside at bay in order to maintain the grip he had on his life.

His name was whispered in fear, holding no challenges against him.

But behind the untouchable man was a past—orphaned at six, he'd been left with no one.

The memories still visible even though he tried his best to forget them—being left alone in the streets, the behavior of his foster parents who saw him as nothing but a paycheck and people betraying him.

Each wound had hardened him.

Turned his heart into stone.

Love was for the fools

He long since stopped believing in it. It was a trap he'd never fall into and so is trust.

The world saw a monster and jungkook never denied it.

His employees moved quickly in his presence, their eyes averted, and his rivals could never win under his strategies.

Even his handpicked men kept their distance in respect and fear.

“He’s not human,” they’d murmur in private.

“One look and you’re done.”

jungkook knew the rumors and he relished in them.

Yet in his quiet moments when he would be alone in his room, something stirred in him.

It wasn’t regret—jungkook had no use for that—but it was an ache.

An emptiness no amount of wealth could fill

He'd never known a gentle touch or had someone in his life and sometimes he just felt.

Lonely…

He would crush the thought as soon as it arises, lighting a cigarette instead and the smoke would ground him in the present.

His phone buzzed, a message from the secretary about another marriage proposal.

The third time this week.

jungkook's lips curled into a sneer.

“Tell them to fuck off.” he rumbles.

He leans back against the chair, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

Marriage was a contract.

Nothing more.

He had no interest in binding himself to a stranger that was so obviously going after his wealth.

Outside the sky darkened with the threat of a storm, his eyes drifting to the window.

His reflection can be seen on the glass—a man alone, unbreakable.

But that same feeling flicker once again, one he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray before returning to his work.

The only thing he enjoyed in a life that he built on control

The world could keep its love and its warmth along with its lies.

jeon jungkook needed none of it.

Or so he told himself because the void in his chest said otherwise.

۶ৎ

Your tiny apartment was heavy with resentment, every creak of the worn out floor was the proof of the life you were stuck in.

A life you couldn’t escape

The single rusted window in your room barely let any light in as you would sit and watch the world go on outside, so different than your despair.

At 21 you were a petite girl always wearing oversized clothes in order to hide your body, shielding yourself.

To cover your broken, delicate self

Anxiety always clung to you and your small hands, worn from hours of work, trembled when no one was watching, showing exactly how exhausted you were.

Your eyes held hopes and dreams that you never got the chance to voice but they were often filled with longing and sorrow from your life.

Your apartment was barely a place for survival, every piece of furniture seemed like it was close to breaking down.

Beside your bed on the table was a small piece of half eaten bread.

The only food you could afford today.

Your father was a constant threat in your life and his eyes held nothing but cruelty.

Always the smell of cheap liquors and cigarette smoke clung to the place because of him.

“Get up, you lazy thing.” he grunts.

The smell of his breath making you want to gag.

“You’re nothing and you think you’re different, huh? you’re just like her.”

The words barely brought out any emotions from you because they were repeated so often that you were used to it.

But every time his words left scars no one could see.

Your mother was your only anchor, the person who grounding you in this unbearable life of yours with love.

Her one smile was enough to light up your day.

Her hands warm and gentle as they tucked you into bed and in her presence you knew you could be anything you wanted.

“You’re my little girl.” she'd whisper.

“Don’t let this place, your father or any man tell you otherwise.”

But now she was barely alive in a hospital bed, her heart only beating with the help of machines, now even if you held her frail hand in yours, you could still sense the small bit of warmth.

That she was still there, she didn’t leave you

She was your reason to keep going.

The only person who'd ever seen you, truly seen you.

And her absence in your life was breaking you with each passing day.

Your father’s cruelty had shaped you in ways you couldn’t escape.

As a child you'd hide in the closet, your small body curled as you heard his fists meet your mother's body, hearing her muffled cries.

You'd press your hands to your ears, hoping to change the reality or stop it as tears streamed down your face, your heart pounding.

“Stop it, please.” you'd whisper to no one.

The memories were so vivid that even after so long they often came in your dreams—the smell of blood, broken things from your father's rage.

Those moments had transferred a deep fear into you, making you think that all men were the same heartless as your father.

That’s why you avoided them all the time, your introvert nature helping you.

At school, when boys tried to talk to you, their voices high with interest, you'd duck your head, cheeks burning and mumble excuses to flee.

Even friendships with men felt like a risk, their presence reminding you of the monster at home and the pain your mom endured for years.

Your job at the bookstore was your only escape, somewhere you could lose yourself in.

The shop was a cozy place full of books and you'd spent hours organizing shelves, placing the novels in their places.

Your coworkers, a small group of women who respected your quiet nature, were your only friends who never tried to pry further.

They'd tease you sometimes.

“You’re always scurrying away with a book, y/n.”

You'd smile slightly, but inside you felt trapped, wanting to scream.

You yearned for a life that wasn’t like this, where you had to tiptoe over everything so you wouldn’t mistakenly trigger your father’s anger.

And the only person who you loved was so close to death.

Your part time job barely covered your mother's medical bills and your father rarely gave any money for her.

You often lived with hunger, the growl in your stomach was something you'd learned to ignore and your father never paid you any attention to notice that.

Most of his money went for drinking or gambling but now that he needs to pay for your mother's expenses, his anger was always high.

Your energy was barely there, yet your dreams refused to die.

You still hoped to build a life where no one could cage you.

Always hoping.

The dreams you had were written in your notebook that you kept hidden—each paragraph a wish you had for everything that was a far cry from the reality you had.

The silence was broken one evening as your father came in, his face flushed with the drinks he had, your pen stopping at the notebook as soon as you saw him.

“What’s this nonsense?” he slurred

He snatched your notebook and a gasp left your lips, instantly reaching for it.

“Please give it back, dad.”

Your voice trembled.

He laughed, amused and tore a piece of paper.

Tears welled in your eyes.

“You think you’re some writer?”

“You’re nothing but a burden.” he spat.

Tossing the notebook to the floor, but you refused to cry—not in front of him.

You waited until he stumbled to his room, then gathered the torn pages, fingers shaking as you pressed them to your chest.

“I’ll make it out,” you breathe.

“For mom. For me.”

Your fear of marriage has grown larger with each passing year.

You'd seen your mother's life fade under your father's control.

The idea of binding yourself to a man and having the same fate as your mother often kept you up at night.

You'd lie in your small bed and stare at the cracked ceiling above, your mind imagining a faceless husband of yours whose hands were as cruel as your father's.

“I’ll never marry.”

You'd murmur the words like a mantra.

“I’ll never let anyone own me.”

But with your mother’s illness and the tight grip your father had on your life, it felt like the future wasn’t going to be yours any longer.

And you wondered how long you could hold onto your dreams.

Even though there was almost no light in your life, you refused to break completely.

Every day was a battle.

But you carried on.

Driven by the love for your mother and the stubborn hope that one day.

You'd find a way.

To be free.

۶ৎ

It was late at afternoon and you were in a diner. You sat alone at a small table by the window, fingers trembling as you unwrapped a burger.

The burger was a rare treat that you purchased from the last coins you'd saved after skipping breakfast and lunch.

Your hunger too much to ignore.

You were about to take a bite when your gaze drifted outside, noticing a movement on the pavement.

A puppy, small and tiny stood trembling beside a trashcan, its fur full of dirt, you could see his ribs from how skinny he was.

You froze, the forgotten burger as empathy crashed over you.

You'd always loved animals.

Their loyalty a big difference compared to humans in your life, but your father's rules never allowed you to own one.

Without hesitation you pushed through the door and walked to the pavement before kneeling in front of the puppy, ignoring the way the rough ground scraped your knees.

“Hello, sweet boy.” you coo.

You tore the burger into small pieces and the puppy stares at you hesitantly, his doe eyes glistening, but as you hold a piece in front of him, his nose twitches.

Then, without a warning he lunged forward and devoured the food in a way that was almost feral, making you giggle.

And you realized exactly how long it has been since you laughed.

The curve of your lips almost seemed foreign to you now.

Its tiny tongue lapped at the oil on your finger once he was done eating a piece, making you grin further.

Your heart warming as you stroked the puppys fur, petting him

Tears almost streamed down your face because in that moment the puppy was more than a stray—he was a moment of joy for you that you could still feel despite the weight of your life.

Your hunger was overshadowed by the puppy's grateful nuzzle, his wet nose pressing against your wrist.

“You’re not alone, okay? not today.”

You whispered, your words carrying meaning.

Across the street jungkook sat inside his expensive car, that was custom made by himself, eyes fixed on his phone screen, a frown in his brows.

He was immersed in emails of his work, the world outside irrelevant to him like always, until a flash of something caught his attention.

He glanced up, his dark eyes narrowing as they landed on you kneeling on the dirty pavement.

You looked very fragile to him.

Your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder revealing your skin and your face—was soft with lips parted in a tender smile, yet there was a sadness that he could see visibly.

jungkook's breath hitched, fingers tightening around his phone.

He watched, not blinking as you fed the puppy, your hands trembling not from the cold but from a hunger he could sense even from this distance.

Your movements were too slow like it was costing you to use up all your energy.

The sight of you giving away your meal—the only one of the day that he suspected—hit him.

“Foolish”

He mutters under his breath but the words felt like a lie.

There was something so human in your act, stirring a sensation in his chest that he hadn't felt in years.

A crack in the wall he'd built around his heart.

He saw the tears streaming down your cheeks and the way your lips trembled as you petted the puppy.

You were lonely.

Not the small loneliness of a moment but an isolation that he could relate to himself.

But he'd never admit it.

Your selflessness and your quiet strength—it unraveled him.

He didn’t understand why you matter, why this small glimpse of you seemed to shift something in him but he couldn’t look away.

His jaw clenches and he wanted to dismiss you to forget about this feeling under the pressure of his work.

But he can't, he can't just leave you in this state.

“Dammit.” he grunts.

He didn’t do this—didn’t care, didn’t let anyone in.

But you were different and that realization terrified him.

Before he could think otherwise, he was out of the car, the door slamming with a thud as he started walking towards the diner with intent.

He entered, and the room fell silent, his presence powerful enough to bring their attention to him.

The waiters froze mid step, the customers all quickly glancing away like they could sense the danger emitting from him.

His eyes scanned the room, landing on the counter where a waiter stood wide eyed and trembling.

"Get me the most expensive meal you have.”

jungkook ordered in his authoritative voice, leaving no space for argument.

“Everything—the best one you have. Now”

He slid a black credit card across the counter, the waiter fumbling to catch it.

“And give it to the girl outside.”

jungkook added, his gaze falling toward the window where you still knelt, unaware of what was happening.

The waiter nodded quickly.

“Y—yes sir, right away.”

jungkook didn’t wait any further, turning and walking back to his car.

He didn’t look back, didn’t dare to, but your image lingered—a small, sad girl who’d given him something he didn’t know he needed.

A glimpse of light in his endless dark life.

Inside the diner, you returned to your table, the puppy trailing behind, tail wagging.

You were about to leave, stomach still knotting with hunger and it was almost painful, but you'd manage.

That’s when the waiter approached.

His arms carried an entire feast that made your eyes widen.

Several grilled steaks, fries, salads and rice at the side, along with a tall glass of iced tea, were set before you.

The smell of such a rare meal made your head spin.

“I didn’t order this.” you said, shakily.

The waiter, still pale from jungkook's intensity, shook his head.

“Someone… someone paid for it.”

“For you, miss. They insisted”

Confusion filled you, but the scent of the food was too much to resist.

You ate slowly, each bite feeling like a luxury—you’ve never had such expensive, flavorful food in your life.

For the first time in weeks you felt sated, your hunger gone and the feeling was something you'd almost forgotten.

Tears welled again. not from sadness but from gratitude, though you had no one to thank.

You glanced outside, half expecting to see the mysterious person but the street was empty except for the puppy curled at the door.

You wrapped the leftovers in foil, you'd take them home for your father, a small gesture to please the man who made your life hell.

Because despite everything, you always treated him with respect, a kindness that maybe he didn’t deserve.

As you stepped outside, the puppy barked at you, rubbing himself on your leg and you smiled your heart feeling lighter.

“Stay safe, little one.”

You didn’t know who’d changed your day, didn’t know the man whose dark eyes had seen the hunger in your soul, but now you felt a small bit of happiness—and you’ll keep it tucked away.

Afraid it would break too soon.

۶ৎ

In jungkook's office papers lay in stacks on his desk as he tried focusing on them—until he couldn’t.

He leans back in his leather chair, calloused fingers gripping the armrest tightly, his veins visible.

He had too much pent up energy in him, a few strands of hair slipping out of his man bun, damp with sweat.

His tailored suit was open, revealing the white shirt beneath clinging to his muscled chest, showing the tension in his body.

His eyes were unfocused, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers for whatever chaos that was going through his mind.

You.

You were the chaos.

A girl he'd seen only for a few minutes, a fleeting figure, yet you'd gotten deep into his thoughts.

He could still see you—kneeling in the dirt, trembling hands offering food to a stray, eyes filled with sorrow.

He related too much with you and it was absurd.

Because someone so insignificant could distract him like that

He was jeon jungkook, who bent industries to his will but here he was undone for a stranger.

His jaw clenched, reaching for a cigarette to distract himself and the lighter flicked as he lit the cigarette.

His lips pressed into an angry line.

He inhaled the smoke deeply before exhaling.

“She’s nothing. Nobody”

He stood abruptly, the chair almost falling and paced to the window.

He wanted to protect you, possess you and shield you from the world.

He didn’t understand it—this pull.

It wasn’t lust, though your soft curves and innocent eyes had brought out something primal in him.

It was something deeper.

“Why you?” he breathes.

His breath fogging the glass, a vulnerability in him that he hadn’t shown in years.

He slammed his fist against the window, rattling it, the pain in his knuckles helped with the distraction.

He wasn’t a man who spent too much time on feelings.

He often forgot about them under the weight of his deals and deadlines.

He was filled with frustration and need.

He never let emotions control his actions.

Yet here he was pacing like a caged animal, control slipping.

Someone knocked at the door before it creaked open, his secretary stepping inside nervously.

“Sir, these came in today.”

Her voice trembling as she placed the items on his desk.

jungkook's gaze flicked at the files before his head snapped towards her, his glare enough to make her flinch.

“I told you.”

His tone dangerously low.

“No more of these fucking proposals. Do I need to fire you to explain myself?”

The secretary's face paled, her hands fidgeting.

“I—I thought this was work related sir. I’m so sorry, I didn’t check—”

“Out.” he barks, cutting her off.

She scurried away, shutting the door behind her, leaving him alone with the file.

He stared at it.

His chest heaving, he should’ve just torn it and thrown it into the garbage, but something stopped him.

A nagging feeling.

With a scowl, he snatched it up, ripping it open with annoyance.

A small photograph slipped out falling to the desk and he froze.

It was you.

Your face stared up at him, your eyes wide and lips parted slightly.

The photo was a bit blurry, clearly taken without your knowledge but it was unmistakably you.

His fingers hover over it hesitantly, finally grabbing it, your face sating a deep hunger in him that he didn’t know was there.

He sank back into his chair and stared at the photo, his cigarette forgotten as his heart raced.

“You.” he rasped, very close to awe.

He didn’t understand why this one image out of thousands of proposals mattered.

But it did.

It was as if the universe had somehow planned to bring you back to him, make you both cross paths again.

The letter accompanying the photo was written in a shaky hand and jungkook could understand the false sincerity just by looking at it.

It was from a man claiming to be your father, offering you—his daughter—as a bride.

“perfect match” he thought for jungkook

The audacity of it made his lips curl as he puts the effort into reading the letter that he would barely look at.

In any other circumstances he would have barked orders to his secretary to fire whoever let it through.

Marriage was a trap.

A contract he'd spent years dodging.

But this time his hand stilled, not tearing the letter, the photo held delicately.

He slipped the photo into his breast pocket with care, the action almost intimate, like he was tucking away his secret.

The paper pressed against his chest like a heartbeat he'd forgotten he had.

His fingers lingered there over the fabric as if he was protecting something precious.

He didn’t throw away the letter and didn’t yell for his secretary.

Instead, he sat in silence.

“Who are you?”

He whispers to the empty room, a longing present there.

“What are you doing to me?”

He didn’t believe in fate, love or in anything above his usual power and control, but you—you were like a mystery he needed to solve.

He closes his eyes, your image there as soon as he does.

And for the first time in years jungkook felt something close to hope—a feeling he both craved and feared.

That could either ruin him or burn him altogether.

۶ৎ

The cramped living room was suffocating, the walls were yellow from years of neglect and the couch squeaked under the weight of jungkook.

His hand rested on his knees, one hand holding a cigarette as his intense eyes roamed around the room, noting every detail.

The cracked photo frame and other broken furnitures, along with the bruise on your father's knuckles are proof of his temper.

And the air itself in the room sensed jungkook's dangerous presence.

Your father sat opposite him on a chair, a nervous energy in him, his face slick with sweat.

His eyes darting between jungkook and the floor.

In jungkook's presence he was no longer capable of showing his wrath, he was only a trembling mouse in front of jungkook.

His usual confidence that he used to control the women in this house had reduced to a shaky man wanting to please.

“Mr. Jeon”

He began, voice cracking.

“It’s an honor truly, to have you here.”

“My daughter y/n—she’s a good girl, quiet, obedient, perfect for a man… like you.”

The words seemed rehearsed.

jungkook's jaw tightened, this man with his yellowed teeth and coward eyes dared to think of you like a servant, a thing to be used for favor.

The audacity sparked an anger in him that was burning hotter with every word that came out of his filthy mouth.

jungkook's expression remained blank, remaining silent.

He enjoyed watching the pathetic man squirm under his gaze and how it was taking away his courage.

He leaned forward slightly, the couch squeaking again.

“Tell me about her.” he said, darkly.

The command was simple but to your father it held the need to satisfy, and he was already sweating his ass off from jungkook intensity.

How he looked like he could crack your father's skull open with just the use of one single hand.

“She’s… well, she’s always been a good daughter.” your father stammered.

“Works at a bookstore, mostly keeps to herself… never gets in trouble. M—Mr. Jeon.”

“Raised her to know her place.”

He forces a smile, revealing yellow teeth once again that soon disappeared under jungkook's glare.

“She’d make a good wife—someone who knows how to please.”

jungkook's eyes narrowed, the disgusting hitting him ever harder.

He hated this man—hated him from the moment he'd stepped inside this rotting house that smelled too much of cheap liquor.

The way your father talked about you was angering him too much and the need to hit him was increasing.

But he held back, clenching his fists, knuckles whitening.

He wonders how this man in front of him was even related to someone as soft as you.

He took a slow drag of his cigarette and tilted his head, studying your father.

“Is that so?” he hums.

Amusement and a rage in his voice that makes your father tremble further

“I’m not here for promises. I wanna see her.”

The demand caused your father's eyes to dart toward the hallway where you waited.

“y/n!” he barked, panic still present.

“Come in here now!”

The command made you freeze, heart thudding.

Your father had prepared you for this moment and you weren’t aware that all his words were a lie.

“One of my colleague is coming,” he’d said, leaving no space for further questions.

“Dress nicely, behave and don’t make me look bad, you hear me?”

The request caused goosebumps all over your skin—men, especially strangers in your home wasn’t something you were comfortable with, their presence always something you compared with your father.

But you couldn’t deny it, not when his temper could be on you or worse, affect your mother’s care.

So you'd nodded and spent the rest of the morning in dread, unaware of the true purpose of his visit.

You’d chosen a simple baby blue sundress with tiny white flower prints, and it wasn’t something you wore usually since it hugged your curves.

You often hid beneath oversized clothes.

But you didn’t want to piss your father off.

Your hair was down, hands trembling as you smoothed the dress and you had no idea of the man waiting in the living room.

The thought of facing him made your stomach knot.

Slowly you stepped into the doorway and the world seemed to stop because jungkook's presence alone dominated everything the room.

Power, wealth and danger—he was all in one.

But it was his eyes that stopped you—dark and intense, locking onto you in a way that made your knees weak, as if he could see the depths of your soul.

The sight of you—small, trembling—deepened his anger towards your father, his earlier words still echoing in his mind.

And the urge to protect you from your so called father was nearly overwhelming.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress, he was unlike anyone you'd ever seen.

He was so… different in a good and bad way.

His gaze on you didn’t waver.

And you felt stripped bare, like every tremble of your body, every fear in your eyes was laid open for him

“y/n, this is Mr. jeon.” your father says.

You forced yourself to move your trembling legs as you stepped into the room.

You managed a small awkward bow, hair falling forward to cover your face.

“H—hello, sir.” you stutter.

You kept your eyes on the floor, anything to avoid his intense stare, your cheeks flushing pink.

jungkook's gaze on you was still there, almost like a physical touch, eyes tracing all over you—the way the dress clung to your body, the tremble in your small hands.

You were even more fragile than he'd thought, almost like a doll and the sight of you so vulnerable lit something fierce in his chest.

His cigarette burned between his fingers, stinging him but he didn’t flinch, too captivated by you to notice the pain.

Your shyness and refusal to meet his eyes turned him possessive in a way he didn’t know was possible and he wanted to claim you this instant.

Take you far away from this stinking man and this place because you deserved better.

You were like a puzzle to him and he wanted to understand to know why there was such deep sadness and fear in you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, y/n.” he said.

His voice softer than he intended, a deep rumble.

The sound sent a shiver down your spine, your body reacting before your mind could and you nodded, unable to form words.

Your father gestured to a chair and you went over before sitting down, hands still clasped tightly in your lap.

The room felt smaller with jungkook in it and there was too much heavy tension in the air.

The conversation followed between jungkook and your father, with jungkook barely responding because all his attention was on you.

“Always been a good girl.”

Your father forced a smile, eyes flicking to you.

“She keeps the house in order and is well behaved. She’ll make someone very happy one day.”

The words made your skin crawl, and you didn’t know why.

Unaware of what brought jungkook here.

jungkook's fingers tightened around his cigarette as he fought the urge to silence the man.

The repeated insistence on your “goodness” was further infuriating him, as if you were nothing but made to please others.

jungkook looked at you again.

“What do you do, y/n?” he asked, gently.

The question caught you off guard and you blinked, as you weren't used to someone being interested enough to ask such a question, especially about something you loved doing.

“I… I work at a bookstore.” you mumble.

Eyes still fixed on your hands

“It’s… nothing special.”

It felt like you were exposing yourself for judgement, but jungkook's expression didn’t change.

Instead, his eyes softened just a fraction.

“A bookstore,” he repeats.

“Do you like it?”

The question was simple as if he genuinely wanted to know you, not just the version your father was telling.

You nodded, throat tight.

“It’s quiet.”

“I like the books. They… they take me somewhere else.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them and the confession was a glimpse into the escape you wanted.

You regretted your words instantly, cheeks burning hotter.

jungkook's lips twitched, almost smiling but it was gone before you could be sure.

“Somewhere else.”

He says almost to himself.

He leans back and takes another drag of his cigarette as your father goes back to talking.

Your words, so innocent yet so revealing deepened jungkook's resolve. He saw the grip your father had around you and his disgust for the man grew into something more dangerous.

He didn’t know why he cared, but the need to free you, to burn this already broken house to the ground.

Was getting to him.

The encounter stretched on, each minute feeling like an eternity and the entire time you kept your eyes down, heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

jungkook's presence was too much and you wanted to flee from him.

But you were trapped.

When it was finally over, jungkook rose, his movements predatory.

He said nothing to your father, not even a goodbye.

His eyes flicks to you one last time, the look lingering like a promise or a threat, you weren’t sure.

He left without another word, footsteps fading.

You stood, legs still shaky and excused yourself before rushing back to your room.

Your heart raced and you were sweating.

You pressed your hands to your burning cheeks, trying to get back, but jungkook's presence stayed with you.

His dark eyes, deep voice, the way he’d looked at you—like you were something precious.

You didn’t understand the feeling in your chest, the mix of fear and fascination.

But you knew one thing.

This man was something else.

And you were already caught in it.

jungkook meanwhile, stepped into the cool air, the photo of you still burning a hole in his pocket.

He lit another cigarette, mind racing.

He'd come here to confirm a suspicion, but he was leaving with a need and a hunger he was going wild for.

He saw you, and he wasn’t sure he could let you go now.

Ever.

He'd see you again and when he did, that pathetic man, your father, would learn what it means to cross him.

۶ৎ

You sat in your bed, hunched over, knees drawn to your chest, your hands clutching the notebook—your only escape from reality.

You were scribbling there and hidden under your pillow there was your mother’s scarf that smelled so much like her nurturing smell, you clinged to it when you missed her so much and couldn’t see her.

Your only source of comfort

The door suddenly slammed open with a force and your father was there, his eyes filled with a menacing satisfaction that made your stomach churn.

“Get up,” he growls.

“You’re getting married. In a week. To jeon jungkook”

The words felt like a slap in your face and you gasped as the pen slipped from your fingers and fell to the floor.

A wave of nausea hitting you, you almost didn’t believe his words.

“What?” you breathe.

You couldn’t hear yourself over how hard your heart was pounding.

“No… no, I never agreed to this. You can't—”

Your voice breaks into a sob, leaving you with panic as your shaking hands grip the bedsheets.

Your father's lip curled into a sneer.

“It’s done.” he snapped.

He steps closer.

“You’ll marry him, or I’ll stop paying for your mother’s treatment.”

A mocking, bitter grin on his lips.

“You want her blood on your hands?”

You flinched, broken cries leaving you.

Your father knew exactly where to strike, and that was your weakness: your mother.

The only person you would do anything for, even give your life for.

Your father knew that too well and he was taking all advantage of it.

“Please dad.” you beg.

Tears streaming down your face as you shook your head repeatedly.

“Don’t do this. I’ll do anything—work more hours, sell my things, anything—but this.”

Your hands reached out and you hoped for the mercy that he'd never shown you.

“I can’t marry him. H—he’s cold and older and I don’t even know him.”

“I don’t want this life. I have dreams, I have—”

You pressed a hand to your chest as you were basically having a panic attack, sobbing and begging.

Your words a mix of pleas.

Your father’s face didn’t show a single bit of emotion, only anger present and his hand twitched as if he might strike you, like several times he had done before when he didn’t get things done his way.

“Dreams?” he spat.

He steps closer, his drunk breath hitting you.

“You think your pathetic dreams matter? you're nothing y/n, just a burden I've carried too long. jungkook’s money will fix everything and you’ll do as I say.”

His voice drops lower as he points a finger at you.

“You marry him, or your precious mother is gone.”

You were getting dizzy, the room spinning, your sobs grew louder in a way that left you gasping for air.

You couldn't breathe.

Your hands clawing at the blanket as if it could tether you in a world where this wasn’t happening.

“You can’t force me.” you cried, desperate.

“I won’t do it! I’ll run away.”

You started rocking back and forth as you gripped the scarf, clutching it to your chest like a lifeline—anything to keep you from losing your mind.

It was all you had left of her.

He laughed darkly, no pity, just amusement.

“Run? where to huh? you’ve got nothing, no one. You think you can survive without me? without my money keeping you and your mother alive?”

He gets closer to your face and you back away, whimpering.

“This is your place, y/n. You live off my money and now you'll belong to jungkook. Its final.”

He stood as he turned to leave, slamming the door shut behind him loudly.

You were alone again.

The silence was loud, only your broken cries could be heard, arms wrapping around your knees as you rocked once again.

The tears wouldn’t stop.

You hated your father and hated the life that had trapped you.

You especially hated jungkook, the man you barely knew and he was nothing but a monster who'd own you.

By forcefully marrying you.

You searched him up once he left and you'd seen several rumors—his ruthlessness, power and wealth.

All of it sums up into a man who'd cage you and break you just as your father had broken your mother.

Your greatest fear was gonna occur before you, all of your nightmares coming true.

But this time you couldn’t escape it.

A marriage to a man who'll turn your life worse than what it already was.

You thought of your mother and how she was barely hanging on with all the machines.

She adored you so much, always dreaming of a life for you that would be filled with happiness and love that she'd been denied.

The thought of her dying, of losing the only person who'd ever truly cared for you, made your chest hurt physically.

You couldn’t let her go, couldn’t bear the guilt of her death from a decision of yours.

So with a numbness, you made the choice that felt like betraying your own self.

You'd marry jungkook.

You'd sacrifice your dreams and freedom in order to keep her alive.

The thought was suffocating you and you pressed your nose into her scarf as if it would bring her back, help you out of this nightmare and fight your father for you.

Because she always did.

And now she wasn't here to do it anymore.

Your life will be destroyed right in front of your eyes.

And you could do nothing but watch.

The night stretched on like that as you lay there, your eyes ran out of tears, only leaving faint tear stains behind.

You didn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep.

Each day from today will be a step closer for the new cage that awaited you.

jungkook's face haunted you now, a man you'll be forced to obey.

You didn’t know him but you knew enough to fear him and the coldness that seemed to emit from his very being.

The notebook lay open beside you, its pages filled with short stories you’ve written from your imaginations about heroines who fought and won.

Who found love in a world that didn’t hurt them.

But you weren’t a heroine in a story.

You were always a small, miserable girl trapped in a story.

With no happy ending.

────

taglist: @wintaemoonjen @minewlove @chaelvrx @nanisblogg @slutology00 @kelsyx33 @furioustrashlover @jjeonjjk7 @kooever @svnbangtansworld @xcviis @asyr97 @ttanniett @bratzdaull @yunhoswrldddd @jeonzll @endlesslysassy @elmarimochi9513 @fangirl-coco-goddess @lisax-30 @moodytangerine @taetaecatboy @katwiththatrat @yikes-ukiyo @minimoninini @lachimolalajeon @flutterguk @snuglymalicioussea @nellbyy @l4yl44 @captainengineer-trixie @cristy-101 @universallywizardkoala @kookxin @mageprincess7 @satisfied18 @existentialzaddy @strawberryberrygirl @tranquilreign @honeybearmin @melooooosusupp @thvflowr @jimineepaboya @granataepfelchen @cherricherryy @tatamicc @minghaosimp @kooko009 @clrwonuu @withmuchluv-tannie

[snowyrestinginnature]

thank you so much for the tagg

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

yo i am so boring

i used to play an instrument until i got bored with it

i don't really know if i smile often or not, maybe it's a work in progress 😭

writing and reading aren't my thing, since i'm restless when reading.

my dad wants me to cook, but my mom doesn't. it's a big mess.

tagging random people because i got no other friends 😔

@lofijazz @sinfulasever @tagmeinyourshit

tag game 🤭

rules: color the sentence that's true about you

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

this is a whole lot of yellow lmfao

no pressure tags: @marthawrites @schniiipsel @aemonddtargaryen @aemondsbabe @adragonprinceswhore @arcielee @black-dread @lovelykhaleesiii @aemondsbabygirl @valeskafics @connorsui

[bluebanistrs]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪rockstar girlfriend !

op81 × rockstar ! gf

warnings ; kinda suggestive, description of reader, age gap (five years, reader is nineteen and oscar is twenty-four), drinking, smoking, and flirting. again, english is not my first language. sorry for any errors !

Oscar was having some days off in Dublin when you met him. It happened in a bar, after a show by the band of which you were the guitarist and vocalist.

He didn't know you. He had no idea who you were. But when he saw you in the dark place, lit only by colored lights, something clicked into his mind.

“That guy won't stop staring at you." said Gene, your friend and drummer.

“He was probably at the show. I kinda recognize him…”

You were too drunk to remember that guy was Oscar Piastri, your little brother's favorite F1 driver.

Your dad was obsessed with motorsport. When you were younger you used to watch a lot of races with him. But growing up, you got always more busy with your band, always writing about your feelings, practicing, and even doing some shows in random bars.

“He’s hot. You're single. You should go talk to him!” Gene continued. 

“I'm definitely not doing it.”

You went to the bar and asked the bartender for a cuba libre. 

Oscar kept staring at you. He loved the way you looked. Your makeup was a little messy, but in a sexy way. Your little white dress combined with a red laced bra fitted your body in a perfect way. It had a little transparency, letting some things for his imagination. Your bangs above the eyebrows highlighted your brown eyes. You were the most beautiful thing he ever laid his eyes on.

Suddenly, he decided it was time for a drink, too. 

He sat down next to you, continuing to stare at you.

“Can I pay for a drink for you?” He finally said.

“Sure. Why not? I want a guiness.”

Seconds ago, you said you wouldn't talk to him, but now he was close to you, and you felt comfortable with that. He didn't look like the kind of person who would frequent this type of place. He was tall, in good shape. You could imagine him in a very well attended nightclub. 

“Were you at the 3Arena today? I can recognize your face." You took a sip of your beer. 

“No. I wasn't.” He said, looking into your eyes. “You probably recognize me because I'm a Formula One driver.”

“Oh God, sure. You're Oscar Piastri, right? My brother loves you.”

“Yes, I'm. That's good. How old is he?"

“Seven.” You said as you looked him straight in the eyes. 

The silence between your voices enveloped you. All you could hear was the speakers blaring music. It wasn't awkward. On the contrary, it was actually comfortable. Maybe you were both too drunk to have a decent conversation.

“What were you doing at the 3Arena?”

“Playing guitar and singing.” You gave him a little smile. 

“Oh, so do you have a band?” 

He started to find you even more attractive the moment you said that.  

“Yes, yes. I do. Since I was thirteen. We are growing now. You probably heard one of our songs on the radio recently.”

“That's fucking amazing.” He randomly said.

“Uhm… I really want a cigarette. Can we go outside?” 

“Sure, prettie.” 

You were leaning against the wall, with the cigarette between your lips, looking for the lighter lost in your bag. 

“Do you need that?” He said as he took a lighter out of his back pocket. 

Oscar didn't smoke. He tried it once, but it just wasn't his thing. But he always had a lighter with him, just in case he needed it.

You nodded, and he lit your watermelon marlboro.

Silence fell again. You only noticed how attractive Oscar was now. His defined chest and biceps were well outlined by the navy blue shirt. He approached you as you smoked and watched him.

He brushed a strand of hair from your face. You had never been so close. Your heart was beating fast with nervousness. 

He looked deep into our eyes, trying to find out if you wanted the same thing he did. 

He gave you a little peck on the lips, very sweetly. 

“Oh I'm so sorry. I'm so hypnotized by you that I forgot to ask your name.”

You laughed. “That’s ok, Oscar. My name is y/n."

He placed his right hand on your waist.

“And how old are you, y/n?"

“I'm nineteen.”

Younger than him. Oscar wasn't the kind of guy who dated younger girls. But there was something different about you, something that attracted him.  

“That's a beautiful name. Can I kiss you, y/n?" He said, whispering in your ear. You heard that Australian accent, and you could feel yourself melting from inside. 

You just pressed your lips against his while holding his hair. Your cigarette was lost on the floor at that time.

The kiss was slow, hot, and passionate. He held your waist tightly with both hands. He seemed to be afraid that you would run away. You had your fingers tangled in his hair. You could tell you would faint under his touch. You could smell his cologne, it was probably very expensive. He continued to pull you closer, increasing the intensity of the kiss. It only stopped when you both ran out of breath.

“Holy shit!” You got scared when you heard Thomas, your bassist, almost screaming next to you and Oscar. The other band members were with him. All of them with beers in their hands.

“We were looking for you. Who's that, y/n?” He continued.

“Oh, hmm… This is Oscar. Oscar, those are Thomas, Gene, and Paul. The rest of the band.”

Oscar greeted them politely. 

“We are going back to the hotel. Wanna come with us?” Gene asked.

“Sure, yeah, It's late. You guys can go ahead, I'll be safe." 

You could see the boys walking to the hotel. It wasn't that far, and they were probably too drunk to request an Uber.

“How are you going back to the hotel?” Oscar asked you.

“I'll probably just order an Uber, I don't know. I just wanted to talk a little more with you.”

He was holding you in his arms in the sweetest way possible. 

“We can do it later. I'll take you to your hotel, I just need you to tell me where it is.”

You were probably crazy to be in a complete stranger's car going to a place you weren't very familiar with. But the alcohol was coursing through both of your bodies, and something inside you knew nothing bad would happen. 

The music coming from the radio hissed at a barely audible volume. You stared at him as he drove.  

Oscar stopped right in front of the hotel. The street was dark, only a faint yellow light allowed you to see each other. 

You gave him a small kiss on the lips, which ended up evolving into a kiss as intense as the other you gave him. 

When you realized, you were already sitting on his lap, pulling his hair and biting his lips. His hands were traveling all over your body. 

You stopped kissing him when you felt his erection pressing against your thigh, just to tease him.

Still in his lap, you grabbed your bag and searched for a small notebook and a pen, writing your number on the last page and placing it in the car's cup holder. 

“Thank you, Osc.” You said after getting out of the car and before closing the door.  

⋆ ✴︎˚｡⋆ 

A few months passed and you were already dating. More in love than ever. 

Your band would perform for the first time as a headliner in a festival, and Oscar was there to support you.

The show was going amazing. When there were only six or five songs left, you started talking to the audience, once again. 

“This next song is from a cover from a band that we love, it's really special to us. And I want to dedicate it to a really special person; Oscar, this one's for you, my love.”

You and the other band members started playing. You could hear the crowd screaming as you started singing, and Oscar had a smile from ear to ear along with blushing cheeks on his face. 

“Give you my lovin'

Seven days a week

I'll be your honey

If you'll be sweet [...]”

“[...] Man says it's rainin', rainin' outside

I'll be out there in a little while'

Cause you see, rain reminds me of you

And everything has turned to you [...]”

“[...] When I see you

I wanna kiss you

But I know that ain't right

So I ask if I can hold you

Oh, babe, I need you so bad

Oh, babe, I only want to make you

Glad”

The song was 'Give You My Lovin'' by Mazzy Star. A song you mentioned in one of your conversations when you weren't even dating. And he remembered it, he remembers almost everything you say. 

When the show was over, he was waiting for you in the backstage. You ran into his arms and kissed him softly.

“You were amazing. I love you so fucking much.” He said in your ears.

"I love you too, Osc."

[sylviaplatypus]

from what i can tell the reviews about this are mixed but tbh i was personally a huge fan of joe and nicky’s characterizations in this film. spoilery highlights after the cut

nicky basically “back in my day”ing nile for her question about whether the guard ever gets time off like the grandpa he is

the glimpses of how truly unhinged a millennia of being immortal has made them: laughing about booker getting his head blown off by a cannon, their shared amusement at joe’s funny guy bit with his severed thumb, the gleeful competitiveness over who drives which car, nicky teasing joe for not hot wiring his car as fast, playfully racing one another with their stolen vehicles. all while in the middle of a goddamn heist where bullets are flying everywhere lmaooo that’s deranged behavior and i love them for it.

speaking of the cars!! how even their driving is perfectly in sync!!!!!

i’ve seen a few posts saying that it was obvious nicky knew something was up with joe after he deflected nicky’s question about the mysterious text, and i totally agree, but i think he knew way sooner. that look he gives joe after nile asks if they think booker is doing okay is very Telling (citation: i’ve been with my spouse for a decade and can tell right away when something’s off with them, imagine that compounded by a literal thousand years!! i wouldn’t be surprised if nicky’s been suspicious of something since the moment joe made contact with booker)

the fact that joe crashed their goddamn car because he was looking at nicky instead of the road. relatable. 

the old married couple energy being so strong it almost blew me off my couch!!! bickering about snoring and sleep talking before going to bed at the same time, i’m weak

nicky’s loaded “huh, okay” to joe’s announcement that he needs some time alone. kudos to luca marinelli for being able to imbue a couple of filler words with such meaning. that meaning ofc being that nicky knows his man too well to believe he’s telling the truth about wanting to be alone. 

nicky’s little whispered “te amo” when he and joe part ways, sobbb

“we’re following him” / “what?” genuinely made me laugh out loud 

fully believe nicky would have been fine with joe going his separate way for a bit if he truly did need a little time and space. but i love that he follows him (and forces nile into a Situation in the process lol) because at this point he’s probably known for months that something’s been off with joe, and now he’s lying??? about needing something nicky would be willing to give him if joe were only telling the truth?? ofc that’s the tipping point for nicky.

not really a character development choice, but i am genuinely curious about why joe is bringing booker lemons. is there reason to be concerned about booker’s citrus intake?

the conflict is delicious to me!! love to see my favorite fictional ships argue because those moments reveal a lot about who people are, individually and as a unit. and joe and nicky fight like the old marrieds they are, like two people who are unflappable in the certainty that their foundation is too solid to crack under the pressure of a prolonged disagreement like this. it reminds me a lot of one of my favorite quotes from the haunting of hill house: “you fight with love. you're on the same team even in the middle of a fight. during the fight, you're forgiven. there's no fear. there's no danger. you're safe. it's a beautiful way to be.”

speaking of the Argument, my personal old married take is that it wasn’t joe being in contact with booker that upset nicky as much as it was the extended lie of omission joe told by not letting nicky in on this fact sooner. nicky has spent six months believing they were on the same page, that they’d both agreed to the terms of this painful exile - painful not only for booker, but for them as well because it meant losing a brother. nicky sat in that pain alone for months without realizing it, all because, as nicky pointed out, joe assumed he knew how nicky would react instead of talking with him. they’re supposed to be a team, and joe left him in the dark on this one! so it feels like it's not so much about his anger that joe is talking to booker again and more about joe shutting nicky out of his very understandable struggle with their decision to cut ties with him. 

yusuf went to see him! yusuf!!! (cue hilary duff’s this is what dreams are made of)

truly unwell over the cliffs of moher backstory and how beautifully it sums up their characters, their relationship, and the nature of this conflict arc. the game was playful and competitive like they've been shown to be, but when it came down to following through, nicky was too stubborn, steadfast, and consistent to give up first - just like he couldn’t move past what booker did as easily as joe, just like he waited until joe came to him to put a punctuation mark on the argument and finally tell nicky what’s really been bothering him. 

“talk to me,” nicky says and nothing else - and when joe does, he meets him with understanding but also objective facts. it’s a beautiful counterpoint to joe’s romantic monologue in the first film. no flowery prose, because nicky isn’t a poet like joe, but still just as moving in its simple truths (things end, and so will we eventually. but this thing that i feel for you because i know your heart isn’t an arbitrary happenstance. it’s a deliberate choice made countless times over countless years. and everything that’s a product of that love will ripple outward through eternity). 

 every battle couple moment. every single one of them.

joe kicking the guard onto nicky’s sword was definitely a precursor to the make up sex they need to have and i’m so glad that, if nothing else, we can all agree on this.

[ilxlita]

°˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖° 𝙏𝙒𝙊 𝘽𝘼𝘿 𝘽𝙄𝙏𝘾𝙃𝙀𝙎 𝘼𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙎𝘼𝙈𝙀 𝘿𝘼𝙈𝙉 𝙏𝙄𝙈𝙀

SYNOPSIS: your good friends dick grayson and koriand'r invite you over for a dinner party! hopefully everything goes well! PAIRINGS: dick grayson x reader, koriand'r x reader, dick grayson x koriand'r, dick grayson x reader x koriand'r TAGS: pure SMUT, GANG, like i am not kidding i put all my budussy into this fic, threesome, praise kink, soft dom dick grayson, soft dom koriand'r, smut with plot, enthusastic consent, emotional aftercare, idk guys i really just wanted two bad bitches at the same damn time. AUTHORS NOTE: no one asked me to write this, this is what i choose to do with my free will. i hope all my other bisexual bad bitches enjoy this fic as much as i enjoyed writing this idk.

WORD COUNT: 3.2k

Bludhaven at night was quieter than Gotham. 

The streets were mostly empty aside from the occasional emergency service siren or loud drunk college student stumbling their way through the rain slicked sidewalks. It was strange how these few short years at Gotham University can change your perception of what you would consider quiet as even the angry honking of horns didn’t seem to bother your senses.

Or perhaps, it was just the side of the city that Dick and Kori lived on.

Their apartment building was not Bruce Wayne fancy, but it was definitely too far out of your own tax bracket. The elevator was not only working, but it also didn’t stutter as it climbed up to the 20th floor of the building which after years of staying in student housing on campus was all you could really ask for. 

As you stepped out of the elevator the fresh scent of cleaned carpets tickled your nostrils; the sound of a janitor’s vacuum vibrated the floor you walked on ever so slightly, and for a brief moment you paused to wander; how much do police officers make in Bludhaven for Dick to be able to afford this? It must be hazard pay.

You stepped carefully to the apartment number labeled; 2884 in large golden numbers. You glanced down at your phone, the text messages shining bright across the screen just to confirm you weren’t misremembering any numbers. You took one final glance out the window at the end of the hallway; the rain thudded harder on the windows as if guaranteeing you won’t be getting home at a reasonable hour.

Thank god it was a Friday night.

You took a deep breath in, gently knocking on the hard wooden door and carefully listening to see if you should have knocked louder. The door swung open, and all at once a gush of spices overtook the smell of febreeze along with the sound of 90s R&B not trailing too far behind it. A woman stood at the door, her long red curls framed her body highlighting the purple silk tank top, and booty shorts she had on. Your eyes drank in her appearance, and it wasn’t like you had ever saw her in less, but for some reason this felt more intimate.

Her shoulders relaxed, a large smile dug its way onto her face as she drank you in the same way, although you were sure your raincoat was not as appealing to the eye as her cute purple pajama set. Her eyes relaxed, “[name]!” She exclaimed your name and grabbed your wrist pulling you into their spiced apartment. “I am so glad you could make it! I have been waiting for this all day!”

Your eyes took a moment to peer around their apartment; it was colourful which you didn’t expect much less from the couple, but it reminded you of an 80s disco from the couch with multicoloured throw pillows, to the dining table in a fun shape, and the record player playing the not very decade appropriate music.

“Thank you for inviting me,” you said it as your nose almost instinctively raised in the air to catch a better whiff of the spices littering the air, “it was really unnecessary.” You chuckled before turning to face her watching as she locked the door.

“It was not unnecessary, [name], you said you hadn’t been eating!” She said and gently wagged her finger at you. “And we see you only eat ramen all day in the league! You should have told us sooner.”

“I like maruchan for dinner everyday,” you rolled your eyes softly. You gently grabbed your shoes shedding them off at the door along with your rain soaked jacket. “Besides, I’m pretty lucky, you should see what some of the other medical students are eating.” Carefully you stepped over to the kitchen to see Dick.

God, did they both coordinate to wear as little as possible to fluster you?

The male stood in the kitchen, shirt off and a pair of baggy blue BPD sweatpants hanging around his waist. Your jaw tightened, and your eyebrows knitted together as you looked between the two of them before Dick acknowledged your presence, pretending to be surprised by you standing at the doorway. You almost said something to him about his faux shock but he quickly closed the distance between the two of you.

“I am glad you could make it, [name].” His voice sounded sincere, as it always did, and he sealed it with a large hug around your waist. He smelled like fresh soap and thyme. Your arms wrapped comfortably around his neck, the heat from his body warming up your own and you could feel a flush approach your face. The hug lasted a beat longer than usual and when he did pull back his hands rested on your waist, “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”

“Dick was nervous that we made you uncomfortable.” Kori started approaching from behind you, but was careful not to block the entrance to the kitchen. Her hands settled on the back of her butt as she watched you two with a look in your eye that you couldn’t quite place.

“Yeah, sorry for being late, my professor decided to schedule a last minute meeting with me and yeah.” Your voice trailed off your eyes going between hers and Dick’s as you took a deep breath in. “Besides, when your favourite couple in the league asks you for free food you don’t exactly say no… Not that I’m coming over for just food, but…” A hand pinched your temples as if a signal to yourself to stop speaking. “Sorry, it was a hectic day.” 

You could hear Kori chuckle and gesture something to Dick, you watched as he poured three glasses of red wine before hands delicately grabbed your shoulders and led you to the oddly shaped couch at the center of the living room. You sat down, your butt sinking on the cushions softly. Kori sat directly in front of you, placing a soft hand on your knee.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks you sincerity in her eyes. You could feel Dick sit behind you handing you a glass of wine.

“God no.” Was your first statement as you grabbed the wine and took a few long sips, “I would rather not. It wasn’t even bad, it was just… annoying.”  Bits of tension slipped from your shoulders as the gentle sting of wine kissed your throat. Your toes curl and your body relaxes. “This is delicious by the way, Dick.”

“Thanks, Bruce recommended it.” He stated offhandedly, rolling his eyes seemingly at his own statement. 

“Oh yeah, how much was it then? I fear he has no sense of how much things should cost.” As you made the joke the two of them looked up at each other, stealing a glance that you could not quite read. “Oh God, sorry if that was offensive, I know he’s your dad and all.” 

“No, no, it’s fine. You should hear some of the things me and my brother say about him.” A little chuckle echoed through his chest as he sat back upon the couch, observing you closely. The two of them exchanged another glance between each other, this one held a little longer as if they were communicating to one another via telepathy.

You took a sharp breath in, the music from the record player slowly turned to static as Kori’s eyes fell upon yours. She reached out to you, fingers outstretching to be placed gently on your thigh covered by the fabric of your skirt. Her fingers twitched as she looked upon you, her tone earnest when she spoke. “I am so glad you could come over, really, me and Dick have been meaning to speak with you about something.”

You tossed your head back, the expression on Dick’s face unreadable. “Does Bruce want to fire me from the Justice League?” The joke sounded more vulnerable than you intended, even you could feel yourself cringe at the hint of vulnerability. “Did I do something wrong?” 

Kori’s breath hitched like she was going to begin speaking; however, Dick quickly grabbed onto your shoulders. His grip soft, familiar, yet somehow electrifying. “No, no, you have gotta stop thinking the worst is going to happen. Nothing is gonna go wrong as long as we’re here, right, Star?”

You felt like you were going to melt. Her fingers danced across your thighs however, you couldn’t even retreat inwards as you leaned your body back and Dick’s chest greeted you with even more warmth. A long drawn out sigh left your lips, the smell of your mint mouthwash mixing with the natural scent of soap that had now blended into your surroundings.

“God how do we say it?” Kori asked, not necessarily to you or to Dick but more to the unspoken silence threatening to fill the room. “Can I kiss you?” 

“Is this a test?” You blurted out looking back at Dick, your shoulders now tense as you looked between the two of them, eyes slightly wide.

“No, this is not a test.” Dick’s voice was low against your back and you looked up at him again. His gaze was a bit expectant, anticipating. Your breath quickened, a heat pooling to your stomach that you weren’t sure was your own anxiety or something else. “Do whatever you want, whatever you want is your decision.”

“Yes, [name], whatever you want is your decision. If you want to forget this conversation ever happened then just say the word, but I really want to kiss you.” Kori leaned into you; your heart racing and the feeling of her hovering just above your lips was all you could focus on. “I have really wanted to kiss you for a while.”

A second passed in your head. 

Your hands that were once by your side, bracing yourself on the cushions of the couch moved up to lightly grasp her cheeks. You pulled her into you, her lips pressing against yours in a motion that you invited. At first the kiss was soft; her hands moving from your thighs to your waist, careful not to pull you out of the other person's grip, but just enough to deepen the kiss. There was clearly a level of restraint that echoed through each move she made, her fingers tight against the fabric of your shirt as if threatening to tear it off your body, her thigh moving in between your legs separating the two.

She pulled back, taking every last breath in your lungs with her. There was no time however, to catch your breath as Dick’s lips were latched onto yours in an instant. His kiss less needy and far more careful, using the side of his pointer finger to lift your chin up so he could get a better angle attacking your lips.

As Dick kissed you, Kori’s lips found their way to your neck leaving trails of sloppy kisses down the sides, your arms moving from cupping her face to wrapping around her neck and pulling her forehead. A rush of heat rushed from your spine down to your stomach and a small whine left your lips and were muffled by Dick’s lips.

The pair pulled back leaving you suddenly feeling cold. “Are you okay, [name]?” Kori asks, her eyes blinking a few times as she makes eye contact with you. “We can stop if you’d like.”

“No! No! Please don’t stop on my accord.”

They chuckled, perhaps at your eagerness or at the words you said, but their lips were back on yours far too fast for you to consider the thought. Dick slowly pulled you closer to him, his legs opening so you could comfortably relax in his chest as his lips latched onto yours again. His fingers danced up your shirt, teasing the strap of your bra as if asking permission to take off your bra.

Kori sat in front of you, her fingers dancing along your thighs as she greedily kissed down your body and pressed her fingers into your clit. A hum of satisfaction leaving her lips as she felt the wetness that had pulled onto your underwear. “You’re so pretty and wet. This is a dream come true.” She purrs it like she means it; her fingers rubbing little circles into your clothed pussy.

Dick pulled away from you just so a moan could leave your lips more freely. You were finally able to catch your breath as his hands went up your shirt and discarded the bra that he was teasing. The piece of clothing fell to the wayside as his fingers circled your nipples, softly pressing into the breast.

Kori in front of you, yanked off the skirt along with your underwear and let out a low groan as she saw your pussy up close. “You’re as beautiful as I pictured.” She planted a kiss against your lips before trailing back down and diving her head into your core. Her lips starting with sucking on your clit, as if she were desperately awaiting this moment. “It tastes so good.” She gushed diving deeper into you.

A few breathy moans escaped your lips, your hands quickly moving to Kori’s curls as you did your best not to push yourself into her. Your toes curled against the fabric of the couch and your head hitting Dick’s shoulder as you leaned back. His hands grabbed the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head and discarding it on the floor next to your forgotten bra, underwear and skirt. 

His voice lowered as his hands gripped your chin and angled you so he could properly whisper in your ear, “you are doing so well.” His hum into your ear made you nearly choke on your spit. Kori’s mouth is still sucking, and licking at your folds. You could feel her tongue poke through, and a breathless moan left your lips as your eyes snapped shut. Dick’s lips pressed a few kisses to your lips before he finally addressed Kori. “Switch.” 

Kori popped her head up as she lifted her finger to tease your entrance. For a few moments she looked shocked, waiting as if expecting him to change his mind, but when he didn’t waiver she let out a low groan and pouted, but did not complain instead she popped up from her spot on the couch and traded places with Dick. Your back now slid against her chest, and Dick now in front of you.

They give little opportunity for you to process the change. Dick’s fingers teased your entrance and Kori’s fingers danced around your already hard nipples. “Kori is right, you are quite beautiful.” He stated, the two of you making eye contact as he slowly pushed a finger into you. His finger moving in and out in a few slow thrusts. “Are you okay?” He asks, as Kori slowly leans down and grabs something off the table. “If you want us to stop, just say the word.”

A dissatisfied huff left your lips as the cold air grazed against your womanhood. “Keep going, please.” The impatience leaking from each word.

The two glanced at each other, Kori handing Dick a condom as he discarded his own sweatpants and boxers. He ripped the condom package with his teeth, grabbing the rubber and pushing it over the head of his cock that dribbled with precum. “Hold onto me if you need to.” Kori purred onto you, her body reaching forward to rub little circles into your clit from behind.

Dick chuckled as he positioned himself in front of you, Kori holding your pussy open so he could get a better angle. “You can hold onto me too, [name].” He stated with a bit of amusement before slowly pushing his cock deep into your pussy. At first the fit felt tight, your face scrunched as you adjusted to his size, then with each slow thrust you felt your body relax. 

“You can go faster,” you said it more like a command than an invitation. A command that Dick happily indulged in. His pace going faster as he watched your face of scrunched discomfort slowly fall into relaxed airy moaning. Your breath hitching as he began pumping himself faster into you. 

From in front of you, Kori’s fingers rubbed practiced circles in your clit only getting more erratic as your moans grew less contained, little “oh fuck’s” and “yes, please” occasionally breaking past your lips. Your hands buried deep into your hair as the sensation of Dick pumping into you and Kori’s fingers rubbing little circles began to bring you closer.

Your stomach began to twist, a knot beginning to form as you cried a soft; “please go harder, please.” Not necessarily directed at one person in particular. The two of their efforts grew more intense you could feel yourself get dragged closer to your peak.

“Are you going to cum? Please do.” Kori purred into your ear, her own fingers twitching as she continued to rub circles into you. Her other hand latching onto your breast more to stabilize herself than for your pleasure.

Dick’s grunts grew louder, clearly he was holding back as his thrusts were more controlled just a lot harder inside of you. “Yes, cum, baby, you look so hot doing it.”

Their encouragement made you burst, you finished with a loud breathless whine as juices began to leak out of your pussy. You collapsed back onto Kori and Dick let you ride out your orgasm on his cock. When your body stopped convulsing he slowly pulled himself out and planted a gentle kiss to your lips.

A silence was passed between the three of you, not necessarily awkward but tense with the events. You cleared your throat. “So, what did you want to say?” You asked addressing Kori who looked far too satisfied for the events of the evening. “Did you just want to experiment with a third?” It was a joke, but it didn’t sound like it as you were still chasing your breath. 

“Not experiment.” Dick stated, his voice firm as he moved away from the two of you to grab a towel and a blanket. “Kori just got ahead of herself.”

The young woman gasped and rolled her eyes. “He did too.” She mumbled before addressing you directly. “No, we want to do the whole dating thing with you. We want to spend time with you like this, but also take you out and have you be ours. If you’ll have us.” Her voice sounded vulnerable as she wrapped her arms around your body.

You slowly sat up, addressing her with a soft smile. “Sure, we can go on dates.” It was a bit embarrassing to be asking about dates after the sex, but you sucked air into your lips. “Can we start with tonight’s dinner first?” 

[tateypots]

Lead Me Not Into Temptation 6

Part 5

“Afternoon neighbour!”

You smile as you look up from the stack of books you were checking back in.

“Hi Joel.”

“You ready darlin’?”

“Yeah sure, just let me grab my bag.”

You quickly grab your things and meet him by the entrance to the library.

Joel’s latest job was not far from the library and when he’d popped in to return a book and ask you to recommend a new one on his lunch break a few weeks ago he’d asked if you’d like to join him for lunch.

You’d agreed, it was harmless after all. Just two neighbours with similar taste in literature having a nice lunch. It had quickly become routine whenever you were at the library and with each passing occurrence it was feeling less and less harmless. Tellingly, you hadn’t mentioned these lunches to your husband and the guilt was eating you from the inside out. Not enough to stop though.

They had honestly become the highlight of your week. And try as you might to convince yourself that you were just being neighbourly, the pulse in your core whenever Joel smiled at you, or casually touched your arm or your back called you out as a filthy liar.

The truth is that you loved how you always held his attention, how interested he was in you. He always wanted to hear your takes on the books he’d read and always commented on how clever you were, how deeply you made connections in the things you read, how you made him see the books in a different way. His compliments made your whole body heat in the most delicious way. You’d often been told in the past that you were a bore, especially when it came to books. But he never seemed to get bored of you, never tried to talk over you or push his opinion on you.

He didn’t even notice when the pretty waitress of the little diner you were in flirted with him and batted her eyelashes. And that gave you butterflies in your tummy.

And when he started giving you a little goodbye kiss on the cheek you hadn’t protested. You’d just gone back into the library with your heart racing and your palms sweating. You felt like a teenager again. Well, how you thought a teenager would feel. You’d never experienced feelings like this growing up, you’d met your husband at church when you were just 15 years old, pushed together by both your parents. Neither of you had ever resisted it, just accepted that you were for each other and that was that.

And for the first time in your life you were starting to feel that maybe you missed out. So today when you got back to the library and Joel grabbed your hand with a sorrowful look and told you that his job was finished and the next one was all the way over town you wanted to curl into a ball and cry your eyes out.

“I’m really sorry darlin’, can’t tell you how much I’m gona miss these lunches,” he told you with the softest look in his beautiful brown eyes.

You swallowed and nodded gently, fighting to keep yourself together, “I’ve really enjoyed them too Joel. I’m going to miss them.”

You stayed like that for a moment, neither of you saying anything, his hand wrapped around yours, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.

“This is silly, I’ll still see you all the time. The rate things break in my house, I’ll probably see you later tonight, starting to think we have a poltergeist” you told him with a soft smile.

He chuckled, “yeah, it’s the ghost of careless owners past. But I ain’t complainin’ if it means I get to spend a bit more time with you.”

He shook his head at your soft gasp, his comment far too close to an admission you weren’t ready to face, “sorry, I shouldn’ta said that. I better go.”

He gave you hand a quick squeeze and leant in, his breath ghosting over your lips before his head swerved to the side and he placed a lingering kiss on your cheek before turning and walking back down the street, turning back to give you a wave.

You watched him until he turned out of sight before making your way back inside, the phantom clutch of his hand around yours and lingering feel of his lips on your skin doing little to hold off the wave of despair threatening to engulf you.

///

“That’s it you dirty fucking whore, take it!” Joel rasped out as his hips sawed violently back and forth. “Bendin’ over in a dirty back alley for a fuckin’ stranger, stupid slut.”

She couldn’t respond other than garbled moans around two of his thick fingers which he’d shoved deep into her mouth as he used her tight pussy to alleviate himself.

He’d been so bricked up at seeing how upset you were that he was ending your lunches. Exactly as he hoped you’d be. He knew it would work. Give you a little flicker of attention. A little taste of how your life could be, then snatch it away. See how long it took you to come running. It wouldn’t be long.

But right now he needed relief. He’d made his way back to the diner and sat in a little booth at the back. And when that pretty little waitress who’d been giving him heart eyes all through lunch came over with the coffee pot, he’d ran his hand up the back of her thigh and under her little uniform and asked what he had to do to get a little extra sugar with his coffee. She’d just smirked and announced she was taking her break. He’d followed her out into the back alley and wasted no time pushing her against the wall and himself inside her.

“That’s it, that tight little cunt is singin’ for me, you hear her? Hear how fuckin’ wet she is for me?”

He shoved his free hand down the front of her uniform to grab at her tit, pinching and twisting the nipple hard as he battered her insides. His little bitch came hard, pulsing and clenching around him. He had to pull hard to remove his dick from the tight clutch of her pussy, not a minute too soon, shooting his load all over her ass as soon as he was free.

She collapsed in a heap as he let go of her to shove himself back in his pants.

“Pathetic,” he snarled as he walked away, leaving her there on the floor.

///

@mani-pedro @puduvallee @elegantduckturtle @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @a-loneywolf @aurorawritestoescape @mabelmiller @casa-boiardi @milla-frenchy @pedge-page @ficsinthirst @nala2811 @hiddenbabynyc @drunk-and-capable @eddiestans-blog @darknight3904 @guelyury @umadirectioner @getitoutofmymindwrites @smvtwitchmiller @baronessvonglitter @magpiepills @cosmickid-inmotion @almodovarispunk @ashleyfilm

[housemdork]

house md rewatch: 2x16, "safe"

voluntarily vs. involuntary confinement, plus wilson's realization that he does this shit to himself.

that may be my favorite shot in the whole show, btw. somebody who's in film studies should explain why i like it so much because even i'm not sure.

2x16 is no "clueless," but i still enjoy it. it's also another installment in this relentless run of Shock Value Patient Plots. above all else, it's the precursor to "all in." i don't have as much to say about it as i do the surrounding episodes, but i like what it says about wilson's character growth from here on out (nobody is surprised lol).

this leg of wilson's stay with house is devoted to one thing - forcing wilson to confront himself. even before he finds out that house deleted the voicemails about the apartment he applied for, it's clear that he feels that the walls are closing in around him. house is so outlandish about the shit he pulls that viewers share in wilson's shock and horror.

like how could house make him wait outside for hours? skimp on all of his chores? try to make him pee in his sleep? continue to eat all his food because he can't be bothered to prep anything beforehand?...

...until we remember that he could just leave. in reality, house is pushing wilson to the brink to show him how he creates his own misery. he also forces reflection upon wilson by calling out just why he's putting up with all of house's bullshit: "you're not going anywhere. you're gonna sit on my couch and depress us both because you can't admit that it's over with your wife...as long as you're here, it's just a fight."

very poignant, greg. house denies that this is "therapy," but their experience living together isn't Not like therapy. it exposes wilson. he voluntarily does the dishes and picks up after house because it's easier in the moment than picking a fight. but, long term, this breeds the exact resentment that ends wilson's relationships. sam even attests to as much in season 7.

house's accusation of misery is even funnier because wilson relentlessly accuses house of relying on his own misery to maintain the status quo; his dependence on misery/sameness, in wilson's diagnosis, is what drove that final wedge between house and stacy. takes one to know one, i guess. misery has become their great equalizer! surely this won't have larger narrative implications!

this all contrasts well with the patient plot - melinda, having received a heart transplant six months ago, is kept secluded from the "real world" because her mother is afraid of her getting sick because of an compromised immune system.

melinda's seclusion prohibits from seeking out relationships romantic or otherwise. melinda is constantly seeking out new experiences because she may only have 5-10 years left (i will not bring up the series finale...). wilson, meanwhile, willingly keeps himself from reality; the sickness is of his own making*. as stated earlier, house forces him to confront this.

my favorite (and everyone's favorite) moment is, ofc, when house's cane collapses. it cuts a bizarre feeling in the audience at first - house fucking with wilson's materially is different than wilson potentially injuring his disabled friend, yes? it's not funny at first. we don't have permission to laugh, especially based on house's initial expression:

this is the same face he makes when truly horrific things happen lol.

but the following exchange reaffirms 3 things: this is funny, a built-in component of their relationship; wilson's sense of self has returned; house's autonomy over the very narrative of house md - follow me on that last one.

first, wilson reflects his own emotional feelings of immobility by taking away house's physical mobility, something only wilson could ever get away, exemplified by how proud house looks after the fact. this is another great equalizing moment.

it's not just for dramatic effect that wilson leaves house behind, either. his absence highlights wilson's subtle benevolence for house, that which we take for granted sometimes because house takes it for granted. it's been written about before, but wilson always keeps pace with house. whereas the ducklings are usually spread out behind him, even racing to keep up, from day 1, we see house and wilson walking in time. that makes this prank all the more potent, while also confirming that wilson is ready to leave house's apartment ("at some point").

wilson's "at some point" cracks me up because he's like a baby bird being slowly let back out into the world. just say that you kinda like the college dorm of it all with house, why don't you? who else are you gonna have this synchronicity with?

sit closer, house. you can't.

but re: house's autonomy, i like this scene and how house gives us permission to laugh because it allows him to dictate how his disability is treated. in a narrative that always showcases his pain being ignored, downplayed, or repressed, he's able to impart his own feelings about it to the audience. i think there's some agency in that. if they'd just cut to him laughing right away, it wouldn't hit as hard.

now, finally something NOT to do with house and wilson! i wanted to mention foreman's attachment to melinda. he's immediately involved in melinda's case, even getting into it with her mom after we learn just how overprotective she is. i think this narrative choice alludes more to future characterization than it does confirm anything outright. we'll learn more about his family life soon enough. my stomach drops just to think about it.

but! i have to emphasize how his story/experience is repeatedly snuffed out by the parents and house. i think this instance is about more than the racist joke house makes at the whiteboard or, rather, that joke means more than casual, edgy 2000s racism. the whiteboard is their control center, from which foreman is barred in 2x16, and foreman clearly has a personal story that he wants to share to melinda to relate to her, but he can never get the words out. he's interrupted every time.

and while he surrenders to house at the last moment about the tick, if not for this scene between melinda and foreman, they never would have put the pieces together. foreman being allowed to express vulnerability and seeking out space with the patient are both things house cannot/would not do, yet they prove integral to saving melinda's life. that they happen in private shows how unseen foreman's work often goes, how he is taken for granted at most every turn.

lastly, i'm not gonna mention house and foreman in the elevator with melinda. we've all seen it. let's just be glad that he found the tick in time, and let's not be surprised that wilson is the one who gave him the out.

*AND YET. if we borrow from my 2x14 argument that the diseased heart symbolically represented wilson's superimposed heterosexuality, melinda's heart transplant that will eventually kill her is...pretty exciting stuff...

[cainnleacgh]

Joe Burrow - Blue is always the hottest flame

Joe Burrow is the star boy of Athens High School, but, what happens in Junior year when Joe can't win the heart of the girl beside him that he wants so desperately.

Joe wasn’t paying attention when he walked into class—just tugged the sleeves of his hoodie down, adjusted the strap of his backpack, and scoped the room for a seat that didn’t scream try-hard. That was his first mistake.

The second was not noticing who he ended up next to until she shifted in her chair and glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

Not long. Just a flick. Barely even a look. But it was enough.

Gormely McFarland.

Of course.

She had a pretty face, but she had an even prettier heart and that was what made it impossible to dislike her. Her hair was bleached so pale it looked almost silver in the light, Joe, being a typical teenage boy assumed this was in fact, her God-given hair, and wondered how someone could have hair he thought resembled Legolas. That would be an unreal compliment he thought. And those eyes, so bright and cold they were a paradox in themselves. Eyes are so loud. He'd never seen eyes so icy before. Blue as the ocean, but a fire burnt so bright beneath them.

They were the sort of eyes that made you nervous to even look into, and Joe was well aware, plenty had tried.

Football players. Seniors. Even that one guy who came back from college for winter break and thought she’d be impressed.

None of them lasted more than a week.

Gormley didn't do boyfriends.

She knew they wanted her. That was part of it. She carried herself with the elegance of a swan. Delicate, beautiful, otherworldly. But beneath that beauty, something magic, deadly, dangerous lay in her. She was the most beautiful girl Joe Burrow had ever laid eyes on, and trust, Joe Burrow had laid eyes on quite a few girls.

And now she was sitting next to Joe.

He blinked once, half out of habit, like he had to reset his brain. Then he said, casually, “Didn’t think you were real.”

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t smile. Just turned the page in her spiral-bound notebook and said, “You talk like you’re used to getting away with dumb shit.”

She had the messiest handwriting he'd ever seen, and his was pretty messy. He didn't know why, but the fact she was so externally perfect contrasted the messiness of her handwriting was... cute to him.

He grinned, unfazed. “I do.”

That got her to glance over again. Not in shock—more like she was analysing him. Yep, those eyes were so dangerous. Her eyes walked a very fine line between beautifully poetic and uncharacteristically insane.

“Joe Burrow,” she said flatly, opening a new page up and holding her pen in a way he could only describe as insanity. She gripped it, like, gripped it as if the pen were going to run away from her. Another thing he found cute.

“You know my name,” he said, leaning back, with his hands above his head. He didn't miss her eyes scanning his arms. So, she does like me. I’m flattered.”

“You write it all over the desks in Chemistry. You talk about yourself in third person at parties. I’d have to be concussed not to know it.” She hadn't looked back at him after she'd drank the image of his flexed arms, which, of course, he'd flexed purposefully. She was scribbling down what had been wrote on the board. Hieroglyphics would've been easier to read.

Joe let out a low, amused breath, tapping his pen once against the edge of the desk. “You always like this, or is it just with me?”

“Just you,” she said, and continued back to her notes. So she was studious. Noted. That, he also found cute.

No hesitation. No smirk. Just brutal honesty delivered like it wasn’t personal, like he could disappear in the morning and she wouldn't lose a wink of sleep.

Joe watched her for another second. She underlined dates like they actually mattered, if Joe remembered what date it was in the present, he thought his day was going swimmingly. There was highlighter on the margins, bold green, precise. Everything about her was like that—controlled. Specific. Not a single wasted move.

“Look,” Joe said after a beat, slouching down in his chair. “I didn’t pick this seat to piss with you. It was either this or next to the guy who doesn't shower.”

“Tragic,” she muttered, flipping another page, damn, Joe thought. He thought she might've even turned her lips in amusement at that small attempt of a joke. Next class he would need to bring an olive branch, perhaps a dove, a white handkerchief to get her to even look at him.

“You always this fun at parties?”

She didn’t answer. He noticed she drummed her fingers on the table, moving them about, like she was marking a dance. He realised, she probably was.

Joe tapped his pen again. “You do go to parties, right? Or are you too busy winning the national spelling bee or whatever it is you do after school?”

This time she set the pen down and turned toward him, slow and deliberate. Her eyes narrowed slightly. His stomach dropped as she looked at him and he got a proper look at her.

She was ethereal, there was no other word to describe her. Galaxies of freckles burst across the bridge of her nose, and they created a constellation even the sky would have trouble recreating.

Her eyelashes were long, dark and curled, and the darkness that befell them contrasted the coolness of her eyes. She had dark brows that, despite being furrowed at his dumb question, had a kindness about them, like it went against her very makeup to be rude.

“Is that your angle? You annoy girls until they get tired enough to flirt back?” She eventually replied, though, Joe was, despite the cliche, lost in her eyes. They resembled the ice that sits in a whiskey glass, and Joe was getting beyond drunk off of her.

“No,” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “Usually they flirt first.”

She stared at him. Not flirty. Not curious, not really anything. More like staring at a problem she was halfway through solving.

“You know what the thing is about you?” she said, voice soft, he knew it wasn't her nature to be so abrasive. This sounded natural, and it sounded like something he wanted to get used to. “You think everyone likes you. Even when they don’t.”

Ouch.

Despite the abruptness at which she declared that not everyone liked him, which is obviously a lie, duh? There was no malice in it. Just fact. Like she was reading a fact from the history text book opened in front of her.

Joe didn’t flinch, didn’t bristle. He just smiled again, this time slower. “You’re not wrong.” She was but, for the sake of securing the girl of his dreams, he decided to agree with her.

As he searched his brain on how to keep the conversation ticking, Mr. Caldwell walked in, more like sulked in. He hated his students as much as they hated him.

He began droning about the founding fathers, and some geezer named Hamilton who made centralised national credit, he thinks? He's still not sure. It was probably irrelevant anyway. Gormley eagerly took notices, and even more eagerly contributed to the class. She seemed to know everything.

And for once—just once—Joe didn’t know what to say.

-

The bell rang like a mercy kill, and never had he been so grateful for time to actually move. Joe hated time, he wanted it to stop, he wanted to stay in high school forever, but just this once, he was glad time moved.

Papers shuffled. Backpacks unzipped. Mr. Caldwell didn’t even try to finish his sentence; just waved them off with a grunt and muttered something about a quiz.

Joe stretched out, spine cracking once. He didn’t move right away. Didn’t reach for his bag. His eyes stayed on her—Gormely, already sliding her pen into a velvet case, closing her notebook with two sharp flicks of her fingers. Efficient, exact. Every motion a decision, calculated.

He leaned toward her just a little, she even smelt good. It was heavy and slightly masculine, but it suited her, and God did he like it. “Hey.”

She stood. “Yeah?”

Not cold. Not warm. Just… blank.

“I was gonna say—” he paused, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like it might help decide something clever. “—you should let me cheat off your notes sometime.”

It wasn't clever, it wasn't romantic, it sounded even more arrogant than she already thought he was. Joe didn't have problems with girls, Joe caused the problems, so why was she so difficult.

Her head tilted slightly, blonde hair flicking over one shoulder. “You couldn’t read my handwriting.”

“I’ll learn.” That wasn't the truth, he couldn't read it, it was absolutely shit.

Gormely blinked once. Then—without waiting—she turned, swinging her bag over one shoulder like it was the end of a conversation, like her bag was a metaphorical full stop. Talk about rejection.

“You’re exhausting,” she muttered, but not loud. Not cruel, but he couldn't help but feel a pang in his chest.

And then she was gone. Rejoining two girls near the door—one fixing her bag over her shoulder, the other still reapplying lip gloss—and they left in a tide of perfume and whispered laughter. She didn’t look back, he really wanted her to have looked back.

Joe sat there for another second. One breath. Two.

Then he muttered, “Damn,” under his breath and finally stood. She was going to be hard work, but Joe loved a challenge.

-

The field always felt different at dusk. Joe loved the field, Athens field, his field. There was a certain familiarity about it, he knew every lump, bump and drop. He'd played his first game here, first win here, first loss here. He found comfort in knowing some things always stayed the same.

The bleachers faded into shadows, the lights just beginning to buzz overhead—soft orange before they snapped to sterile white. Cleats against turf. Whistles. The steady, military rhythm of drills.

Joe ran sprints until his legs ached. Hit passes until his shoulder screamed. But his head wasn’t in it. Not really. Not since third period.

He didn’t know what she was, she was such a mystery. Joe didn't like mystery. Joe liked to settle for things he knew, but she wasn't one of those things. She hadn’t rolled her eyes. She hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t even given him one of those looks girls usually did when he knew he was close to cracking them.

Nothing.

But she hadn’t ignored him either.

She’d seen right through him, peeled him open like a fruit and then walked away before the juice hit her fingers.

It pissed him off.

It fascinated him.

It made it worse.

He noticed her before he heard her.

Across the field. Behind the uprights. Leading the cheer squad through a drill that looked more like military formation than anything to do with pompoms.

Her voice was sharp and clipped, cutting clean through the noise. She counted off moves with precision, no room for mistake, though, he thought, she wouldn't tolerate mistakes. And they followed—every girl on that squad falling into formation like they didn’t dare do anything else, like even their very breath was choreographed.

She moved like a storm but with the softness of a spring flower, and he wanted nothing more than to step into the eye of that storm, to be consumed by it, to drown it. God, he wanted her so bad.

Ponytail tight, trainers spotless, that same exactness in every part of her body—how she walked, pointed, corrected. She was a general at work, her soft smiled quickly stabbed by her sharp tongue as she whistled steps and lifts.

And Joe—half-winded and soaked in sweat—just stood there watching her, he couldn't looks away.

He’d worn the full uniform today, even though it wasn’t a scrimmage. White jersey, navy lettering. Burrow stitched across the back. He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did.

Maybe it was stupid.

Maybe he hoped she’d look.

She didn’t.

Not once.

Even when he caught a 40-yard pass on the sideline, palms stinging from the snap of it—nothing. Even when he jogged back slowly, knowing exactly how his arms looked in this lighting—nothing.

It was like he didn’t exist. Which, for Joe Burrow, was not a familiar feeling, and he really hated mystery.

Practice ended. The sky turned purple, like something a witch would brew, he didn't like that ominous feeling. Sweat dried cold on his neck.

The cheerleaders started clearing cones and mats, voices softer now, limbs tired. But she moved like she could’ve gone another hour. Same pace. Same precision.

He noticed the girls adored her, and she clearly adored them. They laughed, and gosh her laugh was as beautiful as the mouth it came from. He wanted to trap it, somehow scratch it to a record and play it endlessly. He knew she wasn't kind, she just wasn't to him, for some reason.

Joe unbuckled his helmet, shook the curls out of his eyes, and jogged toward her before he could talk himself out of it.

She was crouched, strapping a rolled mat into a storage cart, fingers working fast, that same calculated motion aray in everything she done. She moved like clockwork, like a clock that ticks and ticks, it's what it's made to do, until it breaks.

He slowed as he reached her. “You always run them like that, or were you just showing off for us?” He knew she wouldn't like that, but he wanted her to respond, and if he had to fight with her, so bloody be it.

She didn’t look up. “Trust me, you weren’t on my mind.” He noticed she smiled, like actually smiled, and she didn't stop herself. So he was kinda in?

Joe let the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “You should’ve seen the throw I made. Thought maybe you’d clap or something.”

Finally, she straightened, turning to face him. Her eyes scanned him once—up, down, slowly. The stadium lights caught her cheekbones, her throat, the faint smear of black under one eye where her makeup had lasted through sweat and sun. Those eyes looked at him. They were the colour of water, strong enough to drown him, but a depth that he thought could save him.

“You wore the uniform just to be looked at,” she said. Not a question, she didn't ask questions. She seemed to have all the answers.

He shrugged. “Not just.” He had worse it for her to notice, and she seemed to have. To Joe, a win is a win.

“And yet here you are,” she said, brushing dirt from her knees, “still looking for my attention.”

Silence.

She held his gaze. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Joe swallowed, throat dry. He was so captivated by her, and he doesn't know why. She was dangerously intelligent but god, she was so beautiful, and he knew, he knew, that she was as beautiful on the inside, she just wouldn't let him in. He needed her to let him in.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “You’re hard not to look at.” He decided to give in, let her know he wanted her without all the suggestions. Her eyes seemed to soften, though, that iciness always seemed so unforgiving. The hottest fires always burn blue.

A beat. Two. A breath, another one.

She exhaled—barely audible—and turned back to the cart, pushing it toward the edge of the field.

“You’re not used to girls telling you no,” she said, over her shoulder. She had a roundish jaw, and had a straight nose. It was small, but slightly upturned at the end. How could someone with an upturned nose be so mean, Joe silently cursed himself.

“I’m not used to caring if they do.” He admitted honestly, because he never did.

That got her. She paused. Just a fraction of a second, but Joe saw it. The tiniest hesitation in her step, like something inside her turned, she had stopped ticking.

But she kept walking.Didn’t look back. Didn’t say anything.

And Joe Burrow—who’d had a thousand conversations like this, who’d never once wondered what someone was thinking when they walked away—stood on the edge of that field and watched her disappear.

And he thought, Shit. I’m in trouble.

-

Note the Hamilton reference cuz obviously x

[the-actual-literal-worst]

Actually, the fun thing is that I can choose to never shut up, so here's some fun (read, actually horrible) things that happened in my old dance program (both the private studio, and in high school arts class). - Me and another trans dancer approached our choreographer with some costume issues and she jumped the gate with "they're unisex costumes, what's the problem?" and when we specified that wouldn't be able to bind underneath them (the straps would've shown), she unblinkingly said "Oh, just use ace bandages- they're strapless and nude!" ya know... the thing that literally every intro to binding safety guide tells you not to fucking do because of rib and tissue damage?...(this was also advice she had given to the girls who complained about not being comfortable not being able to wear a bra on stage) - We took a girl (no older than 10) into our studio after she was kicked out of a more classically focused one across town. Apparently, the other studio had refused to let her take their classes because she was "too fat to make a good dancer". That poor girl was CRUSHED and she and her mother were so hesitant reaching out to us because the chance we would be just as cruel (the one thing we really had going as a studio was that we didn't tolerate body shaming). - A friend of mine, who worked part time teaching at our studio, got caught vaping AT SCHOOL (a separate entity entirely), and LOST HIS JOB because "the kids he taught were getting old enough to be in school with him, and he proved he couldn't be a good role model for them." There wasn't a criminal charge, he simply got suspended and couldn't make it to class, so our choreographer found out- and he lost his job over his "delinquent lifestyle". - Another one of the student teachers (who was 13 at the time), was teaching the younger classes (3-7 year olds) UNSUPERVISED when she broke BOTH her feet at the same time in a botched leap during class. She was screaming and crying in pain, the kids were screaming and crying in fear, and the closest teacher was supposed to be half a mile down the road in a DIFFERENT building. They got very lucky that one of the adult teachers was at the main studio in between classes, or else the only option would've been for unaccompanied primary schoolers to run through town and get help from someone who knew what to do. This was a "quirky" story we all told/got told. Something we laughed at, and used to scare kids into learning the proper way to land their leaps. They even kept her recital picture from that year on the wall- of her posing in her wheelchair, smiling like nothing was wrong. And this was just the dance program. We had a joint musical theatre class that features highlights such as: - One of our directors telling me that if I didn't put effort into creating an accent that was less "regional" that I'd never find work (absolutely crazy thing to say to a high schooler taking an elective course.) - That same director, upon seeing one girls self harm scars, simply commenting "you better have that covered before the show". - Sexual harassment that ended in MULTIPLE long term teachers being fired And this is frankly the tip of the iceberg. This is just some of the stuff about TEACHERS, I've got a million more stories about students- and I promise: anyone else in a performing arts program could meet or beat these in a heartbeat. And I cannot stress enough how much you just think it's all normal while it's happening. Now that I'm out the other side I can look at it all and go... hmm... maybe this wasn't the nurturing environment we thought it was...

the ballerina to tradwife pipeline must be studied

[arminthada]

[HIGHLIGHT] 8 minutes of Pond Ponlawit defending Armin's reaction in EP 5

Notable points/quotes from this live

How do I feel about Armin? He's like a roller coaster and maybe you can add a little haunted house to him because he's so unpredictable. Like you've seen in episode 5. So it was all going good. Great, great, great, great. And then boom, he just exploded. But it doesn't mean that he- It's not unreasonable like reaction from him. It is reasonable. I'm protecting him. So, yeah. I got to stand up for my man.

What did you learn from your character? I think like what I understand more is to be loved. Armin is so loved by Thada. Yeah, I think the feeling of being loved is amazing and I kind of understand how you guys feel and how I don't know to say this but it's just kind of like this emotional roller coaster that kind of make me so emotional, every time being loved.

Is it hard doing the emotional scenes? I think once I'm in it, I wouldn't say it's difficult. Well, let me rephrase that. It isn't hard for me to get emotional as myself, but it is a challenge to to be inside Armin's shoe and be emotional from his personal story because Armin is like this artistic 40+ years old who's back in his 20+ body with those hormones and those like instinctive feelings, emotions. So that's one of the reasons why he kind of burst out at Thada in episode 5. But it is his thinking, his thoughts as this mature- Is he mature? I'm not even sure. I think like he's been through a lot of relationships. He's been through a lot of failures, a lot of fightings. And it kind of shaped him to be this protective self because he's done everything on his own. That's what he thought. Well, Thada has always been helping. But yeah. So, back to the question. I think it is difficult.

I think he has his reasons to be like this. Right! I think so. I'm trying to justify him. Well, he's not this vulgar, this 'couldn't control himself' kind of guy. I mean, sometime he is. And well, he definitely is. But no. Well, I mean when when I played him like for this especially in this scene because a lot of people talked about it like why did Armin do that? Like when I played him in this scene, Armin actually feels bad for bursting out at him like that. Even when Thada was walking away from Armin. I feel so wrong. This kind of grief inside of Armin because what he said wasn't what he really wanted. It's just this instantaneous reaction from him [which is] this protective barrier, this wall that he built up for himself to protect himself from other people who can hurt him. But like after that outburst you've seen in episode 5, he realized that Thada is this long companion on his journey in his previous life and it all makes sense to him so there's this passion inside of him. So sometimes his reason has to catch up with his passion because his passion is so intense, so strong. I don't know how to describe his passion but sometimes his reason has to catch up with his passion. So that's what happened.

Do we go off script most of the time? I think the original script is just the a very broad um structure to the series because the director and us the actors we kind of improvised as as the series goes on. Yeah, we didn't we didn't actually change it beforehand but we acted it. We think there is some improvement to be made, some adjustment and the next take we just adjust it accordingly. So yeah. So mostly it's all I would say improvise but it was but we didn't do it in one take.

What do I think about episode 6? I think it's going to be the most- I shouldn't say much. I'm going to spoil for you guys. I don't think I should. So yeah, I think you guys should wait for it. It's better. I think the scenes in episode 6 is, well for me personally when we shoot it, I think it's our best- I wanna say best scene but- the most romantic episode ever. I hope so. I hope so. I'm not sure. I don't even know because I haven't watched 7, 8, 9, 10.

Reset is a masterpiece. Thank you. I'm so delighted and honored. Wait until you see episode 6 because I think it's like- I think it's the best- No, I'm not going to say it. I promise myself to not say but I kind of liked it the most of all the episodes.

Pond also answered a bunch of questions about 180 Degree Longitude Passes Through Us which I also compiled here. Out of all the characters he's played, Wang is the character that impacted his life spiritually and taught him a lot about the world and relationships in general.

I hope you don't get too stressed. Noooooo. I'm stressful because I love doing what I do right? Isn't that right? If I don't love what I do, if I don't pay attention to it, if I don't give it time and love, why would I be stressful? It's because we have to care about our work. That's why it's stressful. But it's fun because we love it. <- (peak nadao-ism right there y'all ಥ_ಥ)

[Full 250702 Pond Ponlawit from Reset The Series TikTok Live]

[cocoa-dile]

Sebek x Fae! Reader Writing Attempt

Warnings / Notes: This is my first time ever writing anything related to fan fiction (and it's terrible), reader is not Yuu/MC and is loosely based on a Twisted Wonderland OC of mine, gn! reader, OOC Sebek (?), reader's parents are more "traditional" in the sense that they dislike humans, story probably has a few holes in relation to canon and I'm not a very talented writer but it's all just for fun and not meant to be taken too seriously :) Also not proofread! So I apologize in advance for any mistakes

What type of fae, how reader looks, etc. is not described outside of one instance of the word "beautiful" being used (intended as a gender neutral compliment). You're pretty much free to let your imagination fill out whatever you want with this

Story is completely fluff (no smut or otherwise 18+ scenarios, no gore, etc.) with some implied and in some parts heavy romantic feelings / tension but is mostly platonic(?)

If anything here is wrong and you think it needs to be fixed please let me know! I have no idea what I'm doing and would really appreciate any constructive criticism. I think I'll probably end up redoing this at some point because I think I can do much better with a bit of practice

Story / bullet points located under the cut

You, Sebek, and Silver grew up together in Briar Valley, but your parents didn't really approve of you spending time with a human and a half fae

Despite your parents disapproval, you continued to pursue a friendship with the two of them (though in secret)

You probably proposed to Sebek as a child and bring it up as a joke to embarrass him, it still makes his face get a bit red (especially if it's in front of other people)

You loved hearing stories from both Lilia and Baur about their adventures or past experiences, and they ultimately fueled your desire to learn more about cultures outside of Briar Valley

After Sebek left for Night Raven College, you two would send letters to keep in touch (as neither of you were particularly skilled with technology as a result of your upbringing, and hand written letters "are more fitting of a knight" after all)

However, as the school year went on, Sebek noticed that you were writing him less and less

This upset him a bit, but unbeknownst to him you just didn't want to distract him from school and his responsibilities relating to Malleus

Sebek has always admired your strength and affinity for magic, and even asked his grandfather and Lilia if you could train with him and Silver when they first started

The two of you swap books with annotations and notes in them, and if he notices that you've highlighted or underlined something that might be interpreted as flirtatious or romantic, even if just to mess with him, it makes him short circuit

Before the Ramshackle Dorm was completely fixed up (between Book 2 and Book 3), Crowley invited you to the campus to help out the Prefect

With what exactly? He wasn't very clear. However, you were starting to make a name for yourself in Briar Valley and word was starting to spread across Twisted Wonderland, and Crowley believed you might be able to find a way for the Prefect to get home

When you arrive on campus, Crowley goes with you to pull the Prefect out of class so you could learn more about the world that they're from - and when Sebek sees you, he almost screams

What were you doing here? How long would you be here? Should he approach you? You hadn't been writing letters like normal, perhaps you were trying to avoid him. But despite all of his questions running around in his head, making him dizzy, he couldn't help but notice how beautiful you looked as you waited for the Prefect to gather their things, and he feels heat crawling up his neck as you glance over at him and give him a small wink

You stay with the Prefect and Grim in Ramshackle Dorm, and almost immediately get to work with cleaning everything up. As was drilled into you as a child by your parents, the state the dorm was in was simply unacceptable

Cleaning and fixing up the furniture didn't take too long with a bit of elbow grease and magic, but you decided to leave the major renovations for tomorrow, when the Prefect and their friends, Ace and Deuce, were done studying

By the time tomorrow had rolled around, you decided to see the Equestrian Club and watch Silver and Sebek

"Wow Sebek, you're such a talented horse rider" "Sebek, you're so handsome!" "Oh Sebby, you're such a valiant knight" <- All said to get a rise out of him and see him blush (which you succeeded in)

When you compliment Riddle for how good he is at riding horses or when you comment on how Silver is so gentle with the horses, Sebek can't ignore the pinpricks that he starts to feel spreading across his body

Riddle is good at horse back riding, that's why Sebek chose to join the club, and Silver is good with animals, he always has been, but Sebek couldn't help but worry that you noticed the way that the horses flinched away from him or that he couldn't hold perfect form because of the nerves from your eyes on him

Sebek truly admired you and wanted you to have a high opinion of him as well, so surely all of those weird feelings he got around you or thinking of you or rereading the sweet letters you sent him were just a product of that

Right?

As you bid him goodbye, you lightly squeezed his hand and watched as his slit pupils dilated even further

He insisted on "escorting" you back to Ramshackle Dorm, and after you gently opened the door and stepped inside, you pulled his face towards yours and pressed a kiss to his cheek

"Thank you, Sebek," you giggled. "I'll see you soon, okay?" You closed the door to the dorm, and he could hear you calling out to the Prefect. "Prefect, Grim, I'm back! Perhaps you should show me about those "movies" you were discussing with Ace the other night?"

As Sebek stood outside the door to Ramshackle Dorm, he tried to gather himself so he could head back to Silver, and eventually the dorm. He prayed that Lilia wouldn't comment on how flustered he seemed, unable to get the feeling of your lips against his skin out of his head

★ I still have quite a bit that could go with Sebek and a Fae! Reader and this didn't really end up going in the direction I had intended (I was possessed as I was writing this I guess lmao), so I think I might do a part 2 or redo this entirely. Please leave any recommendations or feedback in the comments ★

[coquelicoq]

[Text transcription: [begin highlight] At the counter at the end of the three-by-four-meter room, Seivarden stood, making tea. With the old enamel set, only two bowls, one of them chipped, a casualty of Seivarden's early, inept attempts to be useful, more than a year ago. [end highlight] It had been more than a month since she'd last acted as my servant, but her presence was so familiar that I had, on waking, accepted it without thinking much about it. "Seivarden," I said. "[begin highlight] Ship, actually [end highlight]." She tilted her head toward me just slightly, her attention still on the tea. Mercy of Kalr mostly communicated with The image cuts off here. /end]

seivarden "weird coping mechanisms" vendaai is like "i'm having trouble processing my emotions right now so i'm going to engage in service roleplay for the person (ship?) i'm in love with, while the ship (person?) that i'm a lieutenant on board steers me around and speaks through me like a puppet. i find this soothing and reassuring for normal reasons don't worry about it."

[ruebossanova]

her watch: the series - part 15: smoke and mirrors

bodyguard!abby x female!reader

word count: 2.7k

warnings: SLOWBURN, eventual smut, olderlabby x younger!reader, reader is spoiled & bratty but sweet, nyc rich socialite vibe (think gossip girl)

her watch masterlist

----------------------------------------------------------------

the morning after abby's call, you didn't cry.

you didn't pace, or scream, or curl up in her t-shirt like the sad girl you probably were. instead, you sat at your vanity and stared at your reflection until the sun shifted. and then you got to work.

her voice echoed in your head—"you can't be near me right now"—but your heartbeat had already disagreed. no part of you could rest. not when she was out there alone. not when someone had warned you that the danger wasn't over.

so you texted theo.

he owed you a favor — something about a dui that vanished last year after your father made a call. he replied in under ten minutes: "name?"

you hesitated, then typed: "abigail anderson. military records. anything off-the-books. any mention of leah. last name unknown."

he sent a thumbs-up emoji.

you shut your phone off and pulled the old safe box from your closet. inside: a flash drive, some paper files, and a few old photos abby had let you keep — mostly innocuous. one of her in training gear, squinting against desert sun. one of her holding a helmet, her arm slung casually around another woman's shoulder.

you looked at that one longer than the others.

she'd never said who the woman was.

you spent the next three hours digging into anything public: old articles, references in military newsletters, social media accounts scrubbed too clean. you found a single article from a small publication in 2017 — something about a joint operation in panama. unnamed female soldier. unnamed fallout.

your stomach twisted.

just past 4 p.m., theo sent you a file.

you downloaded it in silence.

it wasn't clean. most of it was redacted — names blacked out, ops blurred. but in the margins, under abbreviations and codenames, two things stood out: "A. ANDERSON" and beneath it, barely visible: "LEAH K. – STATUS: MIA."

your breath caught.

you printed the file. highlighted the names. circled the mention of panama. scrawled a question mark next to "MIA."

abby had never mentioned panama.

never mentioned a leah.

the silence in your room suddenly felt heavier.

you stacked the papers, slid them into a folder, and tucked it into your bag.

outside, the streetlights flicked on.

you weren't sure where this trail would go. but you knew one thing:

you weren't going to stop walking it.

the file burned a hole in your bag the whole way to the library.

you didn't want to open it at home—not with the way the air had felt charged lately, not with your mother hovering. the house was starting to feel too watched, too still. so you went where no one would think to look: a corner cubicle in the private reading room at your father's law club downtown.

no one under thirty-five even used it anymore.

the printouts were crisp, black ink bleeding over pale gray paper. theo had even included a physical thumb drive—"in case your laptop gets wiped," his text read, followed by a skull emoji.

you slipped on your reading glasses and got to work.

the header was vague: "OP 74-B: PACIFIC CORRIDOR—PANAMA SECTOR, 2017."

then came line after line of jargon. dates. code names. ranks. blacked-out entire paragraphs that made the context almost impossible to follow.

but then you saw it. "ANDERSON, A. — TEAM LEAD" "K., L. — FIELD OPS. SUPPORT. MIA AS OF 06.12.17"

you leaned back in the chair, eyes wide. the initials matched. the timing did too.

"leah k.," you whispered aloud.

abby had never said a word about this. not in the months she'd slept next to you, not in the dozens of stories she shared in fragments, between kisses and bruises.

you flipped to the last page.

it was a list of debrief codes. nearly all of it unreadable—until one small line near the bottom. a scribbled note, barely legible.

"see: 'ghostwalker' protocol. filed under high sensitivity."

you stared at the word ghostwalker. your stomach churned.

you fumbled your phone out and called theo.

he picked up on the second ring. "that was fast."

"i need more," you said.

he groaned. "you barely thanked me for what i already—"

"please, theo. just… see if there's anything tied to 'ghostwalker protocol.' anything. even a dead link."

"jesus," he muttered. "you know this is probably some black-bag level shit, right?"

"i don't care."

a pause. he sighed. "give me a few hours."

you hung up.

the shadows outside had lengthened by the time you walked home. sunset painted the windows gold, and the streets glowed with that strange pre-night stillness. your shoes clicked sharply against the pavement.

when you reached your block, you hesitated.

a man stood across the street.

he wasn't doing anything. just… standing. facing the townhouse. a dark coat, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable from the distance.

you slowed.

your phone was in your hand before you realized it, thumb hovering over abby's number.

then the man turned—and walked away.

slow. deliberate.

you stared after him, heart hammering.

back inside, you double-locked the door.

you turned on every hallway light.

you shut your bedroom windows.

later, as you sat on your bed, the file open in your lap and the name leah k. echoing in your head, you whispered aloud:

"what the hell happened to you, abby?"

you didn't sleep.

you just waited for the sun to rise.

rain drizzled against the windshield like static.

abby's knuckles were pale around the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on the man two cars ahead. grey coat, stocky frame, thinning hair. he hadn't looked behind him once in the twenty blocks she'd followed.

"come on," she muttered under her breath.

her phone buzzed in the center console. she ignored it.

they reached a light, and he turned left. abby eased her car forward, slow, smooth. she knew how to do this — how to follow without being seen, how to blend into the noise of a city.

it used to be second nature.

now everything felt off-kilter. everything had weight.

a flicker of memory cut through her vision:

—leah laughing in the barracks, wet curls sticking to her cheeks, the hum of a fan and the taste of heat in the air— "you don't smile enough, anderson." "and you talk too much." leah grinned. "yeah, but you like it."

abby blinked. the light turned green. she moved forward.

she caught sight of the man again—now crossing the street, stepping into a bar called saint's rest.

abby parked two blocks away and waited.

ten minutes. twenty.

then she got out. pulled up her hood. checked her waistband for the small piece tucked inside.

she entered the bar like she'd been there before—eyes scanning, posture low. the air smelled like cheap bourbon and rain.

he sat at the far end, back to the wall, nursing something neat. his hand shook when he lifted the glass.

abby took the seat three stools down. didn't look at him. didn't speak.

not at first.

but he did.

"thought you were dead," he said after a long pause.

her jaw tightened. "you were supposed to be in panama, markus."

he took a slow sip. "we all were. until it went to shit."

another flicker: —gunfire in the trees, the scream of a comrade dragged into brush, leah's voice over comms— "i can't see her—fuck, abby, she's gone." then static. silence.

abby swallowed hard.

"you're not here for a drink," markus said. "so what do you want?"

"answers."

"you'll get a bullet before that."

"i'll risk it."

he looked at her, eyes bloodshot. "still the same."

"not even close."

he stood slowly, nodding toward the back door. "come on."

abby hesitated, then followed.

outside, in the narrow alley behind the bar, markus lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.

"they told us not to ask questions," he said.

"and you listened?"

"i wanted to live."

abby's voice was low, sharp. "leah didn't."

he winced.

"i need a name," she said. "who gave the order to pull out before extraction?"

markus dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his boot.

then, softly: "you won't like it."

"i don't care."

he scribbled something on the back of a receipt, handed it to her.

she looked down.

a name she hadn't seen in years. capt. daniel reyes.

"you find him," markus said, "you'll find your answers."

she didn't thank him.

just turned and disappeared back into the rain.

the dive bar looked like it hadn't changed in thirty years.

low ceiling, sticky floor, a jukebox that only played johnny cash and leonard cohen. it smelled like old wood, smoke, and spilled whiskey.

you stepped inside slowly, your coat clinging to the dampness in the air. the place was almost empty — two men hunched over a pool table, a bartender drying glasses behind the counter.

and then him.

he was exactly where abby said he'd be.

a mountain of a man in a sun-bleached marine jacket, hunched over a paper and a glass of something amber. silver hair cut close to the skull. a faded tattoo on his forearm: a serpent coiled around a sword.

"you're late," he grunted without looking up.

"i wasn't aware we had an appointment," you replied, stepping closer.

he glanced at you then. blue eyes, sharp despite the years. "you're the girl."

"depends which one."

"the one anderson doesn't shut up about."

your heart jumped.

he nodded to the stool beside him. "sit."

you slid in, the cracked leather squeaking under your weight. "abby said you'd talk."

"i said i might."

you reached into your bag and pulled out the folder — the one with redacted lines and scarred corners. you slid it across the bar.

he didn't touch it at first.

but when he did, his fingers trembled.

"haven't seen this shit in years," he muttered, flipping through it. "panama op. extraction. bravo team. fucking mess."

"what happened to leah?"

he paused.

"she died."

"how?"

"badly."

you swallowed hard. "tell me."

he looked at you, and something flickered behind his eyes — pity, maybe. or fear.

"she got separated. wasn't supposed to be there alone. anderson tried to get her back. disobeyed orders. got punished for it."

"punished how?"

"they buried it. blacklisted her. told her to keep quiet or they'd do worse. she disappeared after that. took private work. bodyguard gigs. real low profile."

you breathed slowly, steadying yourself. "and the guy who gave the order?"

"capt. daniel reyes," he said. "prick. made a deal. pulled strings to keep his hands clean."

"where is he now?"

"off-grid. probably south. but he's got friends. dangerous ones."

he reached behind the bar and pulled out a weathered envelope. inside: a hand-drawn map, annotated with strange symbols and half-legible notes. he slid it toward you.

"this is everything i know," he said. "places. people. it's not much. but it's a start."

you held it carefully, the weight of it sudden and sharp.

"why are you helping me?"

"because abby saved my life. and because if you're serious about this, you deserve the truth."

he leaned closer.

"but be ready to find something ugly, girl."

you nodded once.

and left without looking back.

it started with the car.

black sedan. too clean, too still. parked at the edge of your block when you left that morning. same one at the opposite corner when you returned that night. maybe a coincidence.

but then it was the man on the train.

you were riding the N line uptown — headphones in, scarf pulled high over your chin. and you caught him in the reflection of the glass. standing two rows down. tall, close-cropped hair, leather jacket zipped high. eyes locked on your reflection. not your face. your reflection.

when the train stopped at 42nd, you stood. so did he.

you switched cars.

he didn't.

he followed you again the next morning — this time walking behind you in the market. pretending to text. sunglasses indoors. bad tell.

you didn't say anything. not yet.

but you changed your route.

slipped into coffee shops you never visited. took the longer path through the park. left your phone at home once. just to see if it made a difference.

it did.

by the fourth day, you saw him again — but this time, you were ready.

you stepped into a boutique near the corner of 6th and bond, nodded at the cashier, and slipped out the side door. circled back through the alley. and there he was — standing where you'd been ten minutes earlier, scanning the street like he'd lost something.

your heart beat too fast, too loud.

this wasn't just paranoia.

you were being watched.

you called abby once, then hung up. she was still away. still chasing her own ghosts. you didn't want to pull her back. not yet.

instead, you took the long way home.

you moved with purpose now. changed your coat. carried a burner phone. you texted the hacker a second time — if someone's tracing me, i need eyes. backtrace everything you can. name. number. gps.

he sent you a thumbs up and a gif of a cat in sunglasses.

comforting.

later that night, you sat on the floor of your bedroom, back against the wall, lights off.

outside, the same black sedan crept past your house again.

you didn't move.

you just waited.

it was a game now.

a dangerous one.

and you didn't even know who the fuck was playing.

night had settled over the rooftop like a warning.

new york from above was beautiful — glittering, endless. but abby wasn't looking at the skyline. she was crouched in shadow, breath even, heart a steady drum. her target was late. she didn't care. she could wait.

she'd waited years before. she could wait another twenty minutes.

but then he arrived.

grey coat. buzzed head. same gait. same damn slouch she remembered from panama. he hadn't aged well. not many of them did.

he moved toward the rooftop HVAC unit, flicked a cigarette from his coat. lit it. exhaled.

abby moved.

she was silent. a ghost between the vents. her shadow didn't even touch his until her arm locked around his neck, dragging him back into darkness.

he struggled. elbowed. clawed. but abby didn't flinch. didn't hesitate. she shifted her weight, slammed him into the rooftop gravel, and pressed her knee into his chest.

he gasped. wheezed. "you—fuck, anderson—"

"hi," she said coldly. "long time."

"you—you got no idea what you're messing with—"

she drove her elbow into his ribs. not hard. just enough to shut him up. "i have a pretty fucking good idea, actually."

he writhed beneath her, but he wasn't getting up. not unless she let him.

she reached into his coat. found a wallet. flipped it open with one hand.

the name inside stopped her.

leon mckinnon.

below it — an old military ID. blurred with age. and behind that, a folded note.

she tugged it out.

a name: leah. underlined twice. next to it — a symbol she recognized. and a phone number.

her heart dropped.

it was your number.

abby's jaw clenched. her body didn't move, but her mind spun sharp, fast, lethal.

this wasn't random.

they were getting close. not just to her. to you.

she pressed her hand against leon's mouth. "you talk," she said flatly, "or you stop breathing."

his eyes widened.

abby's grip tightened.

and just like that — the shadows around her stopped feeling so empty.

they were moving now.

and they were moving toward you.

you showed up early on purpose.

same cafe. same corner seat. this time you brought nothing — no book, no phone, no pretense. just a clean slate and the kind of tight, neutral expression you'd learned from watching abby handle government types.

your fingers tapped lightly against the cup of tea in front of you. untouched. steeped too long. bitter now.

a shadow fell over your table.

she was here.

but she wasn't alone.

you looked up slowly. the woman — sharp black bob, skin like steel, suit pressed to hell — took the seat across from you. calm, composed. you barely noticed the man standing behind her until your eyes flicked upward.

tall. broad. clean cut. scars you couldn't place.

but his eyes—

his eyes were too familiar.

he looked like abby.

no — not exactly. but something in the jaw. the way he stood. the weight of him.

"you're her sister," the woman said. it wasn't a question.

"girlfriend," you corrected softly.

the man behind her flinched. just slightly.

"ah," the woman said. "that makes this harder."

"you could try starting with your name," you offered.

she smiled, tight and humorless. "you can call me nadia."

"and him?"

nadia didn't answer.

you looked up again. "what's your name?"

the man looked you over. slowly. then said, "noah."

his voice didn't match his face. it was too soft. too tired.

"you're here to talk about abby," you said. "so talk."

nadia leaned back. "do you know what she was doing in panama?"

you didn't flinch. "some kind of mission. black ops."

"more than that," noah said quietly. "it was a purge."

your throat tightened.

"abby," he continued, "was given a list. names. some of them dangerous. some just… in the way. she carried out every order. without blinking."

"you think i don't know she's killed people?" you asked, voice sharp.

"not like this," nadia said. "this wasn't sanctioned. not all of it."

noah nodded once. "she went off-book. followed a private directive. tied to someone named leah."

your breath caught.

"you really don't know what she did, do you?" nadia asked, voice quiet now. almost kind.

but it didn't feel kind.

it felt like the beginning of a reckoning.

----------------------------------------------------------------

tags; @zombiecatsass @mxmsuki

[lilith0fthevalley]

Burden of Proof {S.T.A.R.S. Wesker x RPD Detective! Reader} 1/2

Content Warning: This piece contains themes of manipulation, deception and gaslighting. Readers sensitive to manipulative dynamics or morally ambiguous behavior may wish to proceed with caution.

As always, Reader discretion is advised.

Coupled with the pelting rain on the precinct windows, the ticking clock on Wesker’s office wall served as the perfect ambiance for the man behind the desk to work. 

He’s held a number of titles through the years–Captain of Stars Alpha Team, Senior Researcher of the t-virus project at Umbrella, Engineering Officer in the United States Army, An officer of Raccoon City’s Police Department… The list of masks and assumed titles could go on, but ultimately he was still Albert Wesker… And right now, he wore the mask of Captain.

He was the picture of perfection–Sitting in his office with his spine straight, gloved hands steady, and his sharp focus drawn to the file that lay scattered with an organized chaos around the mahogany desk. The file on the Arklay disappearances was cracked open like the torso of a cadaver, telling a story of its own as the blond picked through the reports, sightings, and submitted evidence. 

It was comical to him–the fact that officers of the Raccoon City Police Department believed they could solve a mystery as intricate as this one… One he had a hand in organizing with meticulous scrutiny. 

“Laughable.” He murmured under a breath, voice smooth and cool–Truly, the picture of perfection…

…Until one of the department’s more seasoned detectives threw the door to his office open. Senior Detective Y/N stalked into his office, face stone cold and a large manila folder tucked under her arm. “Senior Detective, to what do I owe this-” “Drop the fucking nicities, Wesker.” She spat venomously and tossed the folder down onto his desk, disregarding his neatly arranged spread of his dirty little secret. 

His ice blue gaze flits down to the spilled pages. A muscle in his jaw clenches.

“What the fuck is this all about??” The leering Detective sneers low and dangerously. She gestures to a copy of a ballistics report, a printed screenshot of footage from an ‘interrogation’ with a corporate looking man, activity logs with times of access granted after hours highlighted, and scanned duplicates of witness statements with bold red ink leaving dissecting comments on parts of the testimonies, and that’s just a handful of what spilled from the folder. 

All of the documents have a similarity–In addition to Wesker recognising them, they’ve all been signed off by him… Wesker glances back up at the Detective, eyebrows barely pinched with concern. “Y/N… And here I thought we were getting along so well…” He muses smoothly. The Detective just shakes her head and pulls the cover open to display the remainder of the folder. “Do not even start that with me, Wesker!” She snaps, in response to his utterance of her first name. 

“This is a crime! This is how corruption starts!” The woman barks and paces before his desk. He had to bite back a cruel laugh. ‘Play it cool, we can work with this…’ He muses mentally and steeples his hands, elbows resting atop the printed evidence against him. 

“I know how this looks, Detective… But I assure you, there is a logical explanation for everything.” He purrs. She knows that tone. It’s the one she had heard a number of times; On nights it’s just them, when he’s exhausted from a debrief and talking to her privately, when they’re wrapping up late nights in the diner on 67 and South. That’s the tone he uses right before bedroom doors close and the masks of Detective L/N and Captain Wesker disappear for a couple of hours, leaving only Y/N and Albert. It’s low, smooth, and downright sinful. 

The senior Detective just huffs and rubs her eyes, a tactic to distract from the shiver that runs up her spine. “Albert,” She begins, but he’s quick to cut her off. “You’ve been working too hard.” His words are accompanied by the twitch of his thin lips. A sight that isn’t a smile, but isn’t a scowl either. “I knew something was wrong last time we… Spoke.” He says simply, eyes cutting to meet hers over his dark frames. A thinly veiled allusion to the shared late night trysts.

He gestures lazily toward the spilled papers, as if they’re a child’s crayon drawings. “Ballistic inconsistencies happen all the time. You know that. Jenkins in Forensics is practically held together with coffee and duct tape. And the chain-of-custody mess?” He tilts his head slightly. “That started long before I took over Alpha Team. If anything, I’ve reduced the chaos.”

His tone remains even, just the slightest lilt of poor you in it. “And those witness statements?” He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Y/N… those were old cases. Cold cases. You think I fabricated people out of thin air? You think I have time to invent whole identities while leading a unit full of egos with guns?”

He leans forward just slightly now, eyes narrowing in something close to concern. Almost tender. “I think what’s really happening here is you’re still sore about the last change in command. You respected Sergeant Holloway—hell, we both did. But he cut corners too. You know that. Maybe… maybe you’re projecting some of that betrayal onto me. Misplacing your scrutiny.”

He folds his hands again. Patient. Gentle. But firm. “You’re smart. Sharp. That’s what I’ve always liked about you. But even the best detectives—especially the best ones—can fall victim to tunnel vision. You start wanting something to be wrong, and suddenly everything is suspicious.”

His voice drops lower—familiar, warm, velvet wrapped around a vice grip. “We’ve had our moments, haven’t we? Late nights. Long talks. You trusted me enough to see you off duty. Trusted me enough to let the badge drop, if only for a few hours. And now you’re standing here… looking at me like I’m the villain in your case file.” He stands slowly, eyes never leaving hers. Not challenging. Not yet. But close.

“Don’t let paranoia make you reckless. You’re better than that. And you know me. Don't you?” He circles the desk, steps slow but deliberate, stopping just within her space. The air hums between them.

“Y/N, you’re tired. And… alone in this, I’d wager. No one else has come forward, have they? No whistleblower. No smoking gun. Just… You and your gut. Which, yes, is usually right. But… not this time.”

He touches the edge of the folder, gently, like it might crumble beneath his fingers.

“You bring this to Internal Affairs, and they’ll eat you alive. Especially Irons… You know how he loves a mess—especially when it's someone else bleeding for it.” And then, so softly it almost doesn’t register: “I’d hate to see your career—your reputation—burn over a misunderstanding… Over me.”

Masterlist Part 2 Thank you to @shymoob and @writingwisterias for Proofreading this!! Love my moots <3

[zepskies]

Ahhhh finally I'm back to dive into the rich, twisty, time-bending amazingness that is this masterpiece! 🤩

They needed a body, and he needed a reason to exist, so Ben had said yes before the man even finished the entire pitch. Because he knew his father would’ve never approved. Not because he feared for Ben’s life – but because he would’ve seen it for what it was. Desperation. Weakness. Cowardice. But Ben saw it as his salvation: Power. Invincibility. Legacy. A chance to be something his father never was – something greater. The perfect American soldier. The symbol of a new era.

It hurts me so much for him, but because it's exactly the essence of when we got this reveal from SB in the show. This whole scene with Klara and Hardwick made my skin crawl, made me wish I could take Ben by the shoulders and push him out of that cave while he still could - even though he realized then and there that escaping was no longer an option the moment he stepped inside. Truly one of those terrible "point of no return" moments.

His transformation was also so traumatic and raw. Again though, I loved that moment when he sees the reader in vision form -- that she's probably the main reason he gets through it -- just arrow through my heart all over again. 🥲💔💔

It had been twenty-five years of this fucking shit.

I love the parallel of this line throughout this chapter. You really get that sense that Ben's just rolling bored, kind of aimless, hating life, still just desperate for her while he tries to keep himself occupied with fame, drugs, women, etc. There was definitely so much foreshadowing in what he said to the reader of, if he had to go back to living the life his father wanted for him, he'd have to bury himself in it because there was no other way he'd be able to stomach it all without her. 💔 [paraphrasing of course]

Word around headquarters was that the eggheads in R&D even finally went through with it and started injecting infants with this shit, not just young adults and late teens. Whispered projects. Off-the-books trials. A new generation of supes bred in labs, not born from battlefield legacy. It made his skin crawl. He didn’t trust any of it. Especially since nobody told him a damn thing anymore – not that he cared enough to ask about it anyway.

Ughhh you're so real for highlighting this. He had to have known something of this was going on. He just pretended it wasn't his problem. 😓

No one after him and Liberty had ever gotten the original formula of Compound V.

Yep, same HC over here! They can't have everyone living forever, after all. They needed to find a more clandestine way to push that story that these supes were "born this way," not made in a lab, injecting infants.

All he’d gotten was incredible strength, durability, and enhanced senses – and thank fucking God for that. Because the other shit he’d seen walking out of those labs? Fucking abominations.

lmfaooo he's not wrong in some cases. Nadia's daughter became a monster, for real.

“You know I only ever see you when I’m high,” he muttered as an excuse. “Only time you fuckin’ show up.” “Because it’s the only time you actually still let yourself feel anything,” you shot back. “Look at you! The same old shit. Snorting up your life, pretending it doesn’t fucking matter. You don’t care about the people you’re supposed to protect, do you? You don’t care about anything anymore.”

Gahhhh! I love how you did this, but also how dare you? 😭 lol She's the Gemini Cricket in his head at this point - the last part of his conscience.

You didn’t stop. You didn’t turn. You weren’t hurrying. You weren’t hiding. You were fucking skipping – hair swinging, laughing like the world hadn’t broken you yet. The hallway was dim, echoing with the muffled rumble of the encore behind him. You were just ahead, walking with that signature bounce in your step, still high from the concert and giggling to yourself.

Okay, my heart breaks for Benjamin, but I love that she had this moment of freeness loll 💛💛

And then Stan Edgar fucking showed up. Colder. Smarter. American-made. Less obsessed with genetics, more obsessed with markets. He didn’t give speeches about legacy or fucking manifestos about the Master Race. Stan just wanted numbers. Ratings. Brand loyalty. He made the Vought machine quieter, cleaner, meaner. He didn’t care about heroes – he cared about fucking products.

Honestly I think that's what makes Stan scarier, more of a threat. In the back of our minds, Nazis like Klara and the rest of Vought have already been (mostly) defeated. But Stan's weaponized capitalism is modern sharpness, even more insidious.

Her skin reeked of glitter body spray, cheap perfume, and desperation. There was nothing underneath the red suit – no substance, no soul. Just marketing.

Again, same HC 😅

“Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you…” Everything fucking stopped. His hips. His thoughts. His fucking breath.

He’d asked you once where the song came from. You’d smiled and said you’d heard it from some no-name bar singer in your hometown. Fucking liar.

Lmfao there are moments where I don't feel bad for him in the slightest, but this isn't one of those times 😂

“Months?!” She jumped in her seat when his voice accidentally got louder. Ben cleared his throat, softened a bit. Then he asked her if she’d ever known someone by your name. She hadn’t.

Poor Cyndi 😅 of course he's coming in hot and she's gotta be so bewildered

However, I LOVE the moment where he finally realizes that she's a time traveler. I felt relieved for him, honestly. 😂 At least he has one piece of the puzzle....even though of COURSE he fucked it up - not just for himself with Stan with his arrogance and tactlessness, but also for the reader, putting her on Stan's radar. You've done such an amazing job with this time loop, for real 😩👌🏽

And now I'm finally going to dive into the chapters I haven't had the chance to read yet!! 💖💛💖💛

Time After Time – Chapter 12

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, violence & a tiny bit of hate smut (Soldier Boy x Crimson Countess), flashbacks to 1944, 1969 & 1983, SB being his charming self and everything that comes with it, drug use, graphic Compound V injection, the Nazi Voughts, nihilistic themes, angst/hurt/heartbreak

Word Count: 13.7k

Posted on Patreon May 16, 2025

A/N: Welcome to the Eras Tour (Soldier Boy's Version) 🦅💚😂 Wanna see how the man, the myth, the monster was made? Welp, this is the rise and fall of Soldier Boy aka an introspection how Ben became such an insufferable ass. First part, I went full Captain America: First Avenger – just the evil Nazi edition. We also have the first appearance of The Legend (who's slightly aged up for this lol – couldn't resist putting him in, sue me 😝) and Stan Edgar. Plus, special appearances by: Led Zeppelin and Cyndi fucking Lauper! GAAAAH!!!)

PS: Getting to everyone's comments soon! Currently sitting here with a fever and wondering when life will stop coming at me lol. Miss you guys!!! 🩵

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 12: You're Not Just a Man, You're a Monument!

1944

Ben hadn’t done a lot of things in his life that amounted to much.

He flunked out of one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the country, had two fistfights (one outside a bar and one inside a country club), and once got thrown out of a brothel. He’d watched a war from too far away, standing in his father’s study while the steel contracts rolled in and the workers bled for the war effort – not him.

And there was also a string of women he couldn’t remember and one he couldn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried.

But this was supposed to be different. It was supposed to mean something.

Ben was dressed like a soldier – clean-pressed uniform, boots shined, buttons in place – but he’d never felt less like one. No scars. No dirt. No blood on his hands. Just a rich kid from Pennsylvania, the son of a steel mill asshole who thought service was a respectable PR move.

“Be a goddamn man for once.”

But Ben wanted to be more than just a son who his father was hoping would die in the trenches. He had always claimed Ben wouldn’t last a week on the frontlines and embarrass the family name on top of it. So, Ben had gone out of his way to do this without his father’s damn blessing.

With backdoor handshakes and the right kind of men in uniform. With whispers passed between scotch glasses and cigar smoke. His father had always said power was built on deals like that – so Ben had finally made one himself.

“You want to carve out your own way, son?” General Hardwick had asked him at his father’s Fourth of July party two years ago. “I might have something for you. Pays well. It’s a special project for men who don’t mind gettin’ their hands a little dirty.”

They needed a body, and he needed a reason to exist, so Ben had said yes before the man even finished the entire pitch.

Because he knew his father would’ve never approved. Not because he feared for Ben’s life – but because he would’ve seen it for what it was.

Desperation. Weakness. Cowardice.

But Ben saw it as his salvation: Power. Invincibility. Legacy. A chance to be something his father never was – something greater. The perfect American soldier. The symbol of a new era.

At least, that’s how a room full of army generals had sold it to him.

They’d told him it would be like going to sleep. Like closing his eyes, and waking up different. Better. Stronger. That was the goddamn promise.

Ben hadn’t entirely believed them. It sounded too good to be true. And still, he’d nodded anyway, jaw squared, heart slamming so hard in his chest it might’ve cracked ribs. Because in the end, it didn’t matter – he had already lost everything he ever held dear.

This was his last goddamn chance, the only door left open for him to be someone worth remembering.

The walls of the facility got colder the deeper he went, a chill settling in his bones. Concrete echoed under his boots as two soldiers, silent and purposeful, flanked him like they were escorting a prisoner – not a volunteer.

Ben had stopped asking them questions two hallways ago. It didn’t matter. They weren’t listening anyway.

He flexed his hands as he walked, trying to keep the blood flowing. He could still feel the slight tremble in his fingers, even if he kept them balled into loose fists. He doubted anyone noticed. He tried to convince himself he wasn’t nervous, but that was a damn lie, wasn’t it?

You wanted this, he reminded himself. You begged for it. You said you were ready.

But that was before he was swallowed by barbed wire and reinforced walls.

Before he saw the guards.

Before he caught the smell of something burnt into the concrete that never quite left.

This place didn’t feel like a lab. It felt like a bunker that had forgotten what daylight looked like – a prison. No windows. No clocks. Every door they passed was bolted shut. The smell of formaldehyde and bleach made his skin crawl – too clean and empty to feel safe.

From farther down the hall, he could hear two men whispering:

“–last one didn’t make it past the third minute. Seizure, cranial pressure–”

“Shh, not now. He’s here.”

Ben’s spine straightened, jaw locking tight.

They thought he was too dumb to hear them. Too dumb to understand. Just some steel mill owner’s son with a chip on his shoulder and nothing to lose – a disposable rich boy with something to prove.

The two soldiers finally stopped at a sealed door with a warningly blinking red light above. They buzzed him in with a clattering of mechanical locks and waved him through.

Inside, Ben was met with brass, scientists, a few men in white coats holding clipboards and murmuring numbers, and the Voughts – two scientists that had recently defected from Germany. None of them looked up as he stepped forward.

They didn’t expect much of him. He could see it in their eyes, in the way Klara Vought crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, smirking like she could smell the fear on him.

She was tall, elegant, sharp around the edges. There was too much control in her gaze, too much certainty in the way she took stock of him. Like she was already filing him away as either a success or a loss.

Her husband, Frederick, barely looked up from the clipboard he was scribbling on, either. “Welcome, Mr. Brooks. Take a seat,” he offered. “We’ll begin the briefing.”

Much like his wife, Frederick Vought looked like a man carved from marble – too clean, too controlled. His German accent was faint but unmistakable, hiding behind certain vowels. He didn’t offer a hand. Didn’t smile. Just gestured toward a steel chair bolted to the floor like it might run off if they didn’t anchor it.

Ben sat, trying not to show how fast his heart was beating, keeping his posture straight as the whole room studied him like an animal in a cage.

“Do you understand what we’re doing here, Mr. Brooks?” Frederick asked, opening a folder with his name on it.

Subject 13 – Benjamin Brooks.

Ben licked his chapped lips, his mouth dry. “Making soldiers. That’s what you said.”

“Something like that,” Frederick hummed. “We’ve been reviewing your file. You scored well on resilience, tolerance to pain, skeletal integrity. Not particularly impressive academically, but that’s irrelevant. You’re here for your body, not your mind.”

Klara made a sound like she was suppressing a laugh.

Ben’s jaw clenched, but he held his chin high. He knew they thought he was stupid – and maybe he was for agreeing to this.

“We’re not looking for damn philosophers,” General Hardwick added gruffly. “We need results. Boots on the ground that don’t die.”

“Well, I did expect someone taller,” Klara chimed in with a smirk – like a cat watching a mouse pretend it wasn’t afraid.

But Ben kept his muscles still and smirked. “Guess we’ll see if height matters, doll.”

“Oh, it doesn’t,” she replied easily. “What matters is whether your bones hold together.”

He didn’t flinch – not visibly. But the words stuck in his gut.

Frederick was already speaking again, turning pages in a thick folder of charts and diagrams that looked more like the anatomy of animals than men. Scientific terms poured out like machine oil – dense, acrid, impossible to pin down.

Ben understood maybe ten percent of it.

“We’ve had… partial success,” Frederick said smoothly. “Compound V is unstable in most adult systems. But you show exceptional tolerance markers. Similar to Subject Zero.”

Ben cleared the lump in his throat. “Subject Zero?”

Klara answered with a smile and a mock wave of her hand, crossing her legs. “Me. Surprise.”

That threw him for a beat.

He’d heard rumors about someone called Liberty – a woman who tore through battlefields like a storm. But he’d assumed she was a story. A pinup fantasy for soldiers with too many hours between firefights.

Ben’s gaze snapped back to Klara. She looked ordinary. Pretty, in that 1940s lipstick-and-waist-cinch kind of way. But he hadn’t missed the way the whole room looked at her – not with awe but pride. She wasn’t just part of the program. She was the goddamn program.

“The serum was… refined. Stabilized,” Frederick added.

“Refined,” Ben repeated, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “So, what, she’s the prototype?”

“She’s the future,” Frederick said simply. “And so might you be.”

Might. That word curled like smoke in Ben’s stomach.

“You’ve been screened. Physically, genetically, you are an ideal candidate. If this works, you'll be our first success outside controlled German trials,” Frederick continued.

“First success?” Ben asked, keeping his voice neutral. “What happened to the others?”

“Statistically irrelevant,” Frederick answered swiftly. “You’re not them. And unlike the others, you were selected. Hand-picked.”

“Most subjects barely made it past organ failure,” Klara added with a dismissive giggle like she was aiming to mess with him. “All previous ones died within minutes. Hemorrhaging. Cardiac arrest. Some even more violently than that.”

Ben didn’t react. He wasn’t sure he could afford it, but a shiver still ran down his spine nonetheless.

“We’ll begin with the injection after this briefing. You’ll be closely monitored, of course,” Frederick said, not elaborating on his wife’s taunts. “It will be intravenous. Rapid bloodstream integration. Your tissues will undergo an aggressive regenerative cascade – break down, rebuild. Organs will momentarily stress, then adjust. You may feel... discomfort.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Discomfort?”

“You may lose consciousness,” Klara clarified. “Or scream. That’s normal.”

He forced a casual shrug and a cocky smile, even though his stomach churned. “That’s fine. I’ve had hangovers worse than that.”

Frederick barely looked at him. “The serum is designed to alter your biology. It’s not just strength. It’s adaptive cellular optimization. Density manipulation. Accelerated healing. Auditory and visual acuity. Potential cognitive enhancement.”

He sounded like a goddamn textbook– one with a lot of big words.

“Right,” Ben said, smacking his lips. “So no more catching colds.”

“Your immune system will kill a virus before it finishes replicating,” Klara said, amused. “Your bones could stop a bullet. Your muscles will triple in strength without increasing in size. Your heart will be... tested.”

“Tested?”

Klara’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ll see.”

Ben caught a look between the two of them – barely a glance but enough. It was the kind of exchange scientists made when they’d seen what had come before – when they were still pretending the next experiment might not end the same way.

“The serum rewrites you,” Frederick explained proudly. “Not just your body. It makes you what you should have been. The best version.”

Ben looked down at his hands again, trying to control the tremble. “Sounds like a lot of poison for something that’s supposed to help.”

“Poison can be medicine,” Klara stated. “If you survive it.”

Frederick continued flipping pages like he hadn’t just described a dozen men dying on his table. “You’ll undergo rapid metabolic overhaul. Tissue degeneration followed by cellular regeneration. And yes, there will be pain. But afterward, you will have capabilities beyond conventional human limits.”

“How much pain?” Ben asked.

“Enough,” Klara replied. “But you’ll be stronger after. Think of it like being melted down and poured into a new mold. Like steel.”

Ben swallowed hard. “And if the mold doesn’t hold?”

Frederick smiled as if he’d made a joke. “Then you’ll have done your country a great service, young man.”

Ben was quiet for a moment. “You believe this can win the war?”

Frederick nodded surely. “Oh, it will end the war.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Klara said, voice almost gentle. “To become the kind of man who can’t be ignored anymore. You’ll never feel weakness again.”

Ben didn’t reply, but the words sank deep.

He could already feel it again – that same old, familiar pull in his gut he’d known since his childhood. That need to be something – someone. Not just a steel heir, not just a disappointment. Not the kid who never lived up to the family name. Not the one who flunked out of every damn thing he tried to take seriously. Not the guy who was left by someone he loved.

His father always said he was made soft by too much luxury. “All shine, no steel.”

Maybe this would finally prove otherwise.

This was his chance to be more than a shadow. To show them – his father, the world, himself – that he could matter. That he wasn’t just drifting.

No more being second-best.

No more being a failure.

No more almost.

Still, there was something strange in the way the staff avoided eye contact. The way two orderlies whispered just out of earshot and glanced at him like they were already mourning something. There were names crossed out in the folders on the table. Smudges of ink. Whole pages removed.

“And if I change my mind?” Ben asked and swallowed subtly, trying to keep it light. “I can still walk, right?”

There was a beat of silence before Frederick smiled thinly. “This facility is classified. No one walks out unaltered.”

Klara tilted her head, looking amused. “Besides, you don’t strike me as the quitting type, Benjamin.”

His heart pounded in his ribcage like it was trying to escape, but there was nowhere else to go. No way out now. Not unless he wanted to crawl out on hands and knees and let them all laugh behind his back – or get shot.

He couldn’t go back to Pennsylvania. Not to his father’s steel empire, to a house too big and quiet and full of disappointment. Not to a name that carried more weight than he did.

This was the only path left to prove he was something – a man forged like steel, not just born into it.

He’d signed the papers. He’d shaken the hands. And he’d sworn he was going to become the weapon they wanted – even if the man who woke up wasn’t him anymore.

Even if it killed him – especially then.

Ben stood when they told him to, the Voughts leading him to the injection chamber. It gleamed with chrome and was lined with medical instruments that looked more like torture devices than anything else.

It seemed like a goddamn morgue – metal table, thick straps, bright surgical lights overhead. A glass window lined one wall where he could just make out shadowy frames – doctors, generals, observers.

Ben adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as he sat down on the edge of the table, the fabric clinging faintly to his palms. Sweat – he hated that. It felt like weakness. Nervousness. But his pulse was undeniably high, and his jaw ached from how long he’d been grinding it.

They laid him flat on the table and strapped him down. The metal was cold and unkind beneath his back. He tried not to show how his hands flexed against the restraints.

“This will hurt,” Frederick said blandly. “But pain means it’s working.”

“You do want it to work, don’t you?” Klara smirked as she approached with the syringe – a gleaming metal cylinder far too large, filled with a glowing, poisonous blue-green liquid that seemed to pulse faintly in the light. She held it up like a trophy.

Ben gave a nod, but on the inside, he wasn’t sure if he just wanted to die quickly.

“You’re lucky,” she said, her voice seductive enough to brush the air like a secret. “I was the first. The only one to survive. And I was told I was too delicate, too emotional. But now? Now I could tear this building in half if I wanted to.”

Ben stared at her. She still looked human – beautiful, poised. But her eyes were sharp glass. There was nothing soft left in them.

“Begin the procedure,” her husband ordered her.

And then, she slid the needle into his arm without ceremony.

The first thing Ben felt was fucking fire.

Not like a normal injection. It wasn’t heat. It wasn’t a slow burn, not a warm spread of power – it was burning from the inside out. It was violence. Lightning under the skin. A thousand electric knives cutting their way through muscle, sinew, bone.

Every vein lit up like it was being filled with acid. His spine snapped straight, and his vision flashed white as his muscles seized and his eyes rolled back. He was aware of every inch of himself. The pressure building inside his skull. The joints in his fingers cracking and popping like they were being pulled apart. His blood felt like it was boiling.

He could feel himself tearing – changing, as if the serum was clawing through his body, unmaking and rebuilding all at once.

Bones throbbed. Skin screamed. Nerves flared. Something white-hot tore loose in his mind.

And then, through all the noise and the blur and the agony and the ringing in his ears, suddenly there was you.

At first only your silhouette, black and jagged at the edges against the blinding lights. But then you approached, your face becoming so clear and soft it felt like you were real – like you came back to him just so he wouldn’t be alone and scared anymore.

You crouched down next to him, hand reaching out to caress his cheek, fingers carding through his sweat-drenched hair. Your eyes were gentle, your voice even gentler. “Shh, baby, it’s okay. You’re gonna be alright. Trust me. It’ll be fine. Just relax for me, okay? You’re stronger than you know, Ben.”

“What are you doing here?” he murmured deliriously, gritting the words out between bursts of excruciating pain. He wasn’t even sure if he said them out loud or if he was imagining the whole thing.

He heard his own voice, somewhere far away, screaming – maybe begging for mercy. Maybe both.

Stranger’s hands then gripped his shoulders. “He’s seizing–”

“No,” Klara Vought’s voice snapped from somewhere in the room, colder than ice. “He’s adapting.”

You stroked his face and gripped his hand tightly, kissing his knuckles like he was a sick child in bed with a terrible fever. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m with you. Always.”

And the world faded to black then.

Ben could still feel the needle when his eyes fluttered open again.

But maybe he was imagining it – the phantom sting buried somewhere beneath his skin, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat or whatever had replaced it. His body didn’t feel like his anymore.

One of the nurses noticed with wide eyes when the restraints creaked, and Ben pulled against the strap on his right wrist.

It snapped.

The others followed in seconds, metal bands twisting like tinfoil. He sat up slowly, breathing hard. His shirt stuck to him with sweat. His mouth tasted like blood and metal. His hearing was sharp – too sharp. He could hear a light flickering three rooms away. Someone chewing gum down the hallway. A fly buzzing behind the window panel.

But the room was swimming, eyes unable to focus. It was too much and all at once.

His heart hammered in his chest, pulsing too fast. His muscles clenched and shifted, as if they were too tight for his body to contain anymore. Every cell of his felt louder. Everything was spinning, his skull pounding like something inside was trying to crawl out.

Bones too big for his frame. Skin too tight for his muscles. Blood too hot.

“Easy,” someone barked.

Ben couldn’t see them. Could barely see anything at all.

He rolled onto his side, retching dryly. His stomach had already emptied itself sometime before the blackout.

Voices then blurred above him, needles being jabbed into his arm again and drawing blood. They were testing him like he was a lab rat.

The pain was still there, humming in the background like white noise. He could feel the pressure building inside him, his body fighting against itself, as if trying to break free of whatever this was.

“Take deep breaths,” Frederick Vought’s voice cut through the fog. “It will pass. The initial shock is the most difficult. Just focus on stabilizing your breathing.”

But all Ben could feel was the power coursing through his veins – raw and uncontrollable. His fists clenched at his sides, every nerve alive, every muscle twitching with newfound energy.

There was nothing like this. Nothing he’d ever experienced before. It was as if his body had become an engine, a machine that wasn’t used to running this fast.

The sensation of power was intoxicating – and terrifying. His pulse roared like a flood breaking through a dam. His fingers tingled with electricity, his body humming with energy he didn’t think he could control.

Heat and force without focus.

He gritted his teeth and stumbled to his feet, trying to steady himself on the table, but everything around him seemed to tilt. He didn’t even notice the metal warping in his grip. His vision blurred, and he staggered forward, fighting the overwhelming urge to collapse. His legs felt like they might buckle under him at any given moment.

Ben then rolled his shoulders and something popped. The pressure eased just enough for him to speak.

“Where’s the head? I need a minute,” he rasped, but his voice sounded… wrong. Deeper. Rougher. Like he’d smoked two packs, drank a whole bottle of his father’s best bourbon, and swallowed the glass after.

“Second hallway,” Klara said, perfectly calm and still like a statue waiting to judge him. She observed him like a specimen in a jar. “Door with the red handle.”

No one followed him, but he felt their eyes on him long after he left the room.

Ben barely made it inside without knocking the door clean off its hinges. The rusted lock groaned under the twist of his wrist. His boots hit the ground too hard. His fingers twitched like they wanted to pull something apart just for the release. He slammed the door shut behind him, the noise echoing too loud in the empty space.

The bathroom reeked of ammonia, damp concrete, and mildew – the kind of place no one had cleaned properly since the Depression. A single lightbulb flickered above him like it might die, casting shadows on the stained walls.

The mirror above the sink was clouded with age – spotted, warped, smudged with fingerprints and the ghosts of men who’d probably stood where he was now. Before they failed the serum. Before they were zipped into bags and hauled out the back door under the cover of night.

His boots dragged as he stumbled forward, bracing himself with shaking hands against the sink. The old porcelain creaked beneath his grip and cracked. Sharp edges then crumbled in his palms, falling to the ground. He hadn’t even goddamn tried to break it.

“Shit,” he muttered as he quickly stepped back in shock – or horror. He wasn’t sure which yet.

This wasn’t what he had expected. This wasn’t what he had imagined when he’d volunteered for this. He thought he was doing it to prove something, but now, with this indescribable, untamable power coursing through him, he was realizing how little he knew what exactly he’d gotten into.

His mind was spinning, flooded with a torrent of confusion, fear, and an unexpected sense of disappointment. The poison in his veins was changing him, but he wasn’t sure he still wanted this change. Ben didn’t know if he could handle it, still feeling it move under his skin like a parasite.

The heat. The hum. The static buzz of something not quite human rushing through his veins.

They said it would be a miracle. A new frontier for mankind. The dawn of the American super soldier. But he didn’t feel like a goddamn miracle. He felt like something had crawled inside him and started screaming.

This power was like a wildfire, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it from burning everything to ashes and smoke around him.

He gritted his teeth and ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the ringing in his skull. He steadied himself on the sink with more care this time and took in his reflection.

The man staring back at him looked like a myth. It showed a face he knew but didn’t recognize anymore. His pupils were dilated, blown wide, rimmed by a startling clarity in the whites of his eyes.

His jaw looked sharper, his shoulders broader, like he’d been carved out of stone. Even his scars were fading – the ones he’d earned the hard and tough way. His skin looked tighter over his muscles, like it had been pulled a little too far, blood vessels glowing faintly blue beneath it. His veins bulged with something not quite natural.

He could feel his body calculating. As if every step, every breath, every twitch of his fingers was being optimized by something foreign now living in his bloodstream.

Everything inside of him had been replaced with something smoother. Artificial. Altered. Angry.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and didn’t move for a long moment. His thoughts were too scattered, too clouded. But through the haze, something broke through.

You.

God, he hadn’t thought about you in years. Had trained himself not to. Had built walls inside his mind where your name couldn’t echo. You were a ghost. A heartbreak. A closed chapter.

He’d buried you like everything else. Like his mother. Like his dreams. Like his humanity. Like the idea that he might actually deserve love. But now, in this moment, with his blood still singing from whatever the hell they’d done to him, you were suddenly everywhere.

The pieces were clicking now.

Every excuse. Every little dodge. He’d been too blinded by love to see it for what it was.

“I don’t… bruise easily, you know? Kinda neat…”

“Good genes.”

“Oh, uh, adrenaline… I guess. Didn’t really think about it.”

“Who knows? Maybe I’m a witch.”

You’d laughed when you said that last one, like it was a joke only you understood.

But you were like this, weren’t you? Like him.

His head was pounding, memories firing off like bullets.

He remembered how you carried a whole crate of firebricks like it was nothing. When Ben had tried lifting it, he could barely do it without his knees giving in.

He remembered how you once sliced your palm on a broken bottle in the shed and it didn’t bleed more than a mere paper cut – if at all. You giggled and told him not to worry about it. It hadn’t been that deep. You’d been lucky.

He remembered how you’d never bruised, no matter how rough things got in bed. He had always chalked it up to your spirit, your fire, your grit.

But it had been more than that, hadn’t it?

And God help him, he had believed you. Had needed to.

Because he was in love.

Because he was a goddamn idiot.

For almost two years, he had told himself you didn’t love him. That you changed your mind. Had convinced himself you ran because you were scared or selfish or worse – that he wasn’t enough. That he was weak.

And then, the night you disappeared came rushing back to him.

How his father, the old bastard, had grabbed you like you were something to claim. How you then almost shattered his wrist and fought him off – a guy twice your size.

And Ben hadn’t stopped you. Hell, he’d wanted you to do worse. He’d never questioned it – not until now.

He remembered how he’d confessed everything then that night in the barn. That he loved you. That he wanted to marry you and build something new – run as far and fast as you could from the ghosts of both your pasts.

But maybe you couldn’t. Was that the real reason you left? That thing he felt inside of himself now?

“Ben, I can’t.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into here.”

You were different, weren’t you? But you were also different from that cold woman in the lab out there. Your eyes had always been soft, your voice had always been kind, and your touch had always been gentle.

He squeezed his eyes shut and fought back the tears as more memories flooded his mind.

The feeling of you. The warmth in his chest. The scent of your hair. That breathy laugh you used to hide behind your hand like he hadn’t already branded the sound of it into his mind.

You, running barefoot in that yellow sundress through the orchard by the lake.

You, stealing his cigarettes when he’d looked away for two seconds.

You, singing by the piano.

You, crying in the barn.

You, gone.

Why did you leave him? Why couldn’t you stay?

Ben always knew you’d been running from something. Someone. He’d never pried too much, sensing your fear, but after you were gone, he’d tried to find you. Looked for you for months. Hired a private investigator, but no one ever found someone by your first name, your birthday – no one in New York or anywhere else in the world.

You were a ghost. Someone who shouldn’t have existed.

And maybe, whoever you’d been running from, were the same people that waited for him outside this bathroom now. Had you been running from them?

All he’d wanted for the past two years was to find a way to get you back. And a small part of him thought this might be the way – if he had been like this back then, stronger, unbreakable, then maybe you would’ve stayed. Maybe he would’ve been finally good enough.

But now he wasn’t so sure this had been the reason why you’d been running in the first place. Why had you never told him?

How was it even possible? According to the scientists out there, someone like you shouldn’t have existed – not yet.

No survivors.

But why the hell did it feel like he was only just now starting to see you clearly for the very first time?

Ben grabbed a shard of broken porcelain from the floor. His hand trembled as he brought it to his palm and hesitated for a moment, but then he pressed – hard. It barely did anything. Another piece chipped off before he managed the smallest nick. A single drop of blood appeared before the skin knitted itself back together before his eyes – fast, precise, flawless.

His breath caught in his throat as he staggered back from the sink, heart hammering in his chest with a force that could shatter concrete. He barely noticed how his breathing came faster now, how the walls around him seemed to close in.

And then, there you were – in the mirror behind him, sharper and realer than you had any right to be.

Your palm touched his shoulder, and he felt it – that familiar warmth that always gave him comfort. That always made him feel like he was home and less alone. But as he glanced behind him, there was no one there.

He missed you. God, he fucking missed you.

He wished you were here. You’d know what to do and what to say. You’d hold his hand and tell him it was okay to be scared. That he was strong. That he didn’t need to do this. That he was enough – that he would’ve been enough exactly the way he’d been.

But you weren’t here. You hadn’t been here for a long time.

Ben returned to the testing chamber on steadier legs, though every inch of him still felt coiled – like a gun that hadn’t gone off yet. There was an unknown hunger inside him now urging him to do something – to fight, to tear, to break. The thought scraped against his brain like claws against steeled walls.

A violent force with no outlet.

Klara raised an eyebrow when he entered. “You’re adjusting faster than expected.”

Ben leaned against the wall, arms crossed – carefully, deliberately, making sure not to press hard enough to shatter the tiles or anything else.

“You said I’d feel stronger. You didn’t say it’d feel like someone else’s bones inside of me,” Ben noted and tried to hide the bitterness in his voice.

Frederick didn’t look up from his notes. “Your cells are adapting. The Compound V is aggressive, but selective. It rewrites everything – efficiently.”

“Yeah,” Ben muttered. “Efficient’s one word for it.”

“You’ll feel imbalance for a few days,” Klara said smoothly. “Then your body will stabilize. You’ll understand your strength better.”

“Have you tested that strength yet?” he asked. “Or am I the guinea pig for that part too?”

Klara didn’t flinch. “You’re not a guinea pig. You’re the evolution.”

“Lucky me,” Ben scoffed under his breath.

Frederick looked up now. “Your vitals are good. Recovery is above expectations. How are your hands? Any numbness? Residual tremors?”

“No.”

“Any double vision?”

“No.”

“You appear slightly flushed. Any nausea?”

Ben exhaled an exhaustive sigh. “Only from the stench of your fucking cologne.”

Frederick blinked at first and then chuckled. “Sharper tongue. A side effect we didn’t anticipate. Emotional intensification could be worth tracking. Your brain chemistry is still in flux. Memory distortion is normal. Dreams, even hallucinations. We’ll monitor that.”

“Great,” Ben said flatly and subtly rolled his eyes back. “And how many more of me are you planning to make, huh?”

“None,” Klara said before Frederick could answer.

Ben stiffened unnoticeably, spine straightening.

“You were the goal,” she said. “A living, breathing prototype. One we could unleash without setting the world on fire – at least, not before we want to.”

Frederick added, “It isn’t a formula. It’s a trial by fire. Everyone else who’s tried has died.”

Everyone else. That stuck in Ben’s brain like a splinter.

“We want the public to get used to the idea of someone like you first before we begin with Phase Two,” Klara continued.

Ben cocked an eyebrow. “Phase Two?”

Klara nodded and smiled. “Children.”

“You wanna put this shit in little kids?”

Frederick answered in that typical scientist-without-feelings tone, “The adult body is not an ideal and viable host for the serum. Too many expected failures. We suspect better results with children. Their bodies are still more flexible. They adjust better to the changes.”

“It’s the future,” Klara said, smiling in that eerie way again that made his balls retreat into his body.

It’s sick, Ben thought. But he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to argue further. All he cared about was finding some answers.

Finding you.

Klara stepped closer to him, smirking and watching him like he was a caged tiger in a circus. “You okay? You seem… agitated.”

“‘M fine.” He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to look unconcerned. “So no one ever survived outside your labs? No accidents? No freak cases out in the wild? No one ever escaped from the camps? I don’t know… back in Germany? France, maybe?”

“No,” Klara said firmly. “If there were, we would know.”

Fortunately, they thought he was just curious – just trying to understand the scope of what he’d volunteered for.

Good.

He didn’t want them asking why his questions had a shape. Why his thoughts had a face. He didn’t trust them enough to tell them anything more.

But Ben knew that there was still you – out there, somewhere.

1969

It had been twenty-five years of this fucking shit.

The big war was long over, the headlines yellowed, and the world had moved on to sex, drugs, and rock music. But Ben was still here – crowned a hero as Soldier Boy and still suiting up, still smiling for the cameras, still pretending any of it fucking mattered.

Vought established itself as a company and looked different now. Shinier. Less fucking German.

The original two Voughts had gone underground some time ago like the cowards they were – and good fucking riddance. Ben never could stand their bullshit. Their Nazi roots had been harder to bleach out of public record than blood from a white uniform, and no one at corporate liked being reminded of the company’s roots in war crimes and eugenics. So they paved over it with a star-spangled rebrand.

Welcome to Vought-American. Land of the free, home of the sanitized PR rollout.

But the rot was still there – just deeper now. Smarter. Slicker.

Supes were no longer about war efforts or national morale – they were about fucking market share: Movie deals, cereal endorsements, and action figures.

The kicker? They told the public people were fucking born this way. Made him do a whole fake fucking biopic about how he realized as a young boy that he was fucking special – God-given superpowers.

Ben still snorted whenever he reminded himself of that one.

Word around headquarters was that the eggheads in R&D even finally went through with it and started injecting infants with this shit, not just young adults and late teens. Whispered projects. Off-the-books trials. A new generation of supes bred in labs, not born from battlefield legacy.

It made his skin crawl. He didn’t trust any of it. Especially since nobody told him a damn thing anymore – not that he cared enough to ask about it anyway.

Ben kept his head down. Showed up. Played their games. Did the commercials. Starred in the propaganda films. Let them dress him up and wheel him out like a circus act. Soldier Boy had been the face of it all, pretending like it was still worth something. At least the fucking money was good.

Because what the hell else was he supposed to do? America had moved on – but Ben fucking hadn’t.

Now he had a new manager, too. Some fast-talking, cigar-chomping asshole in bell bottoms and rhinestone-studded suede jackets who went by The Legend. The kind of guy who knew every casting couch in L.A. and kept a Rolodex of starlets like baseball cards. Barely twenty-one but already thought he was the biggest shot in all of Hollywood. Vought loved him and figured he’d bring more youthful ideas to the table.

More movies, more fame, more everything.

Ben didn’t care about any of that shit, though, as long as the checks kept coming, but if he had to sit through one more meeting about toothpaste endorsements with a fucking cartoon eagle, he was going to put someone through a goddamn window.

Ben finished a smoke outside Legend’s office in Los Angeles, the ember glowing in the night as he mindlessly flicked the Zippo in his hand with a bitterness that hadn’t dulled since fucking ‘44. He tossed the cigarette butt onto the pavement and ground it out with his boot before making his way inside.

He shoved open the door and found his manager behind a desk stacked with glossy promotional photos and scripts for movies Ben didn’t give two shits about.

“You’re late, asshole,” Legend barked, not looking up.

Ben rolled his eyes and dragged his leather jacket off, tossing it onto the couch beside him before flopping down like he couldn’t give a damn. The couch smelled like stale cologne and a decade’s worth of bad decisions.

Legend finally looked up, his eyes gleaming with that smug excitement. “Alright, Soldier Boy, listen up. We need to freshen up that image of yours. We’ve been riding on the same old shtick for too fucking long. You know how it is – the world’s changing. The kids are into new things. You gotta give ‘em something fresh.”

Ben was unimpressed. He just looked at the ceiling, letting the rambling words pass through him. The “kids” these days were a fucking joke. All they needed was a hero to cheer for. They wanted a goddamn fantasy – not real soldiers like him.

Ben was too old for this shit. Too fucking jaded. His fiftieth birthday was coming up and Vought still sold him to the public as a fucking thirty-year-old.

At least he still looked like one – barely aged a day since 1944.

His eyes glazed over as Legend rambled on, talking about movies, about starlets he could be “seen with” – like that would fucking help. Ben was only here to do his job, punch a few faces, make a few appearances, and roll in dollar bills with a bunch of women and coke. The rest was just fucking white noise.

“Alright, here’s the big one,” Legend said, leaning forward. His voice was lower now like he was sharing some big secret. “We’re putting together a team. A super team, if you will. It’s called Payback. We’re talking a group of supes, all under one banner. You’ll work with others, but you’re gonna be the face of it. New angle. Gotta get ahead of the game.”

“You want me to work with those fucking freaks?” Ben snorted and grabbed the bag of cocaine he knew Legend was hiding under his coffee table for guests.

Jesus fucking Christ, he needed something stronger than booze and nicotine for this kind of meeting.

The last thing he wanted was a bunch of second-rate heroes messing up his reputation. No one after him and Liberty had ever gotten the original formula of Compound V. All he’d gotten was incredible strength, durability, and enhanced senses – and thank fucking God for that. Because the other shit he’d seen walking out of those labs?

Fucking abominations.

Legend didn’t skip a beat, however. “Look, man, the Vietnam War is in full swing, and Uncle Sam wants to use you. Big PR move. Propaganda, morale boosting, all that good shit. You’re gonna help sell the war. After all those rumors about you and your government activities at protests, you’ll need this. Trust me.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ben mumbled with an exhaustive sigh, already halfway tuning him out.

Instead, he snorted a line of coke off the back of his hand and leaned his head against the couch, the high burning its way through his sinuses and straight into his bloodstream. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again–

You.

There you were – like always. Sitting next to him, elbow resting on the back of the couch, legs bare and crossed like you had all the time in the world to sit here and fucking judge him.

“What the hell are you doing?” you asked, your voice sharp like a whip, and when he finally glanced at you, there it was – that same old look of disappointment in your eyes.

Ben’s throat went dry, averting his gaze. “Gettin’ fucking high, sweetheart,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the bottle of whiskey next to him and taking a swig. “Just leave me alone.”

But you never did. His hallucination of you was more persistent and annoying than the real version of you ever had been.

“Cocaine? Again?” You clicked your tongue, that disapproving sound hitting him deeper than a punch ever could. “Is that really all you are now? Some washed-up poster boy with a coke problem and a pension for not giving a shit?”

When Ben dared to look at you again, his lips curled into a lazy grin. “Took you long enough, sweetheart. Missed you.”

Truthfully, this was the only part of his day he actually still looked forward to – talking to you.

But you didn’t smile. You never did anymore. “Don’t get fucking cute with me, Ben.”

“You know I only ever see you when I’m high,” he muttered as an excuse. “Only time you fuckin’ show up.”

“Because it’s the only time you actually still let yourself feel anything,” you shot back. “Look at you! The same old shit. Snorting up your life, pretending it doesn’t fucking matter. You don’t care about the people you’re supposed to protect, do you? You don’t care about anything anymore.”

Ben lit another cigarette, taking a long drag before exhaling slowly, green eyes focused on the smoke. “Yeah? And what good has giving a shit ever done me, huh?” he said, rubbing his jaw. “You still fucking left.”

You leaned forward, eyes sharp. “So you’re just giving up? What about the kids, Ben? The ones they’re injecting with V now. Babies. Children. You didn’t even fucking flinch when you heard it.”

“What the fuck you want me to do, huh?” His jaw tightened. “They don’t want a hero. They want a fuckin’ puppet. A good little soldier with a shiny shield and a fake smile.”

“They’re not waiting for the next war,” you went on. “They’re building the next generation of monsters. You think that serum didn’t screw you up? What the hell do you think it’ll do to kids?”

He blew out a stream of smoke. “Not my fuckin’ problem.”

You laughed, bitter and cold. “Of course not. Nothing’s your goddamn problem anymore, is it? Vietnam’s not your problem. The kids pumped full of V? Not your problem. The wreckage you leave behind every time you lose your fucking temper?”

He rolled his eyes and leaned his head back again. “You’re really laying it on thick today, sweetheart.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t so goddamn hollow,” you snapped.

He didn’t reply at first. Just stared at the ceiling, letting your voice echo in the back of his mind like a song he couldn’t turn off. There was no heat in his expression now. No anger. Just the kind of quiet that came from missing someone too long.

“You judging me,” he said after a moment, “is the only thing that still feels goddamn real.”

You softened slightly, enough for him to notice. “You were never this cruel,” you said. “Not really. Not before.”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah, well, I never was this lonely either.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

“This isn’t what I fought for. It’s not what we fought for,” you said quietly but insistently.

“I know, sweetheart. I know…” he said softly and meant it.

Your image flickered slightly at the edges, the way it always did when the drugs started to wear off. He hated that. Hated watching you fade. It was like losing you all over again.

Then, just as he reached for another line, Legend’s voice sliced clean through the moment.

“Ben, I’m talkin’ about Led Zeppelin. You listening or just zoning the fuck out again?” Legend’s voice was loud and unrelenting. “Big gig in New York next week. A real scene. We’ll put your mug in the papers, get the hippies swooning.”

Ben blinked. The name hit like a hammer.

Led Zeppelin.

His hand froze mid-reach for the coke bag and whiskey. The memory rushed in without permission – you, stumbling into his arms in January of ‘42 with an odd t-shirt and a name on it that bore no meaning at the time. Just two words strung together that didn’t make any sense.

He still had it – in a box with a bunch of your other shit he never had the heart to incinerate. One photo of you, an old movie projector, a weird rectangular flashlight that never worked, a notebook with scribbles that looked like hieroglyphs and diagrams, that t-shirt, and those black basketball shoes you’d loved so much and worn like armor.

Granted, you’d been onto something there. He’d seen more people running around with them on the street in recent years, especially fucking hippies.

God, you would’ve loved the sixties. If you’d been here, he probably wouldn’t have dared to break up a single protest because you would’ve been in the middle of them all – most likely throwing shit at his head while spouting profanities.

“Led Zeppelin,” Ben repeated quietly, almost to himself.

“Right,” Legend said, tilting his head with an eye roll he held back. “We’re pushing their album next week. Big concert in New York, first tour, they’re opening for Vanilla Fudge and Iron Butterfly, but they’re blowing up fast. And we need you there, Ben. It’s great for Soldier Boy’s image.”

The words had been stuck in his mind for years, a constant reminder of that January day in 1942 when you’d run into him on the street, looking scared and frantic like you were running from something – or someone.

He remembered it like it was yesterday.

He had been walking down Market Street, barely paying attention, when he felt something collide with his chest. A jolt. A bump. He’d glanced down just in time to see you, disoriented and shaken, like you’d just appeared out of thin air.

You’d never told him where you were from. Not exactly. You’d said things that didn’t make sense, little pieces of conversation that he could never fully fit together. And he’d let it slide, because he was too busy fucking falling for you.

How could you have already known about them more than twenty-five years ago? About the band, the music, the name? It didn’t make fucking sense.

You’d always talked about wanting to go to New York. You’d mentioned it at the very start, almost like you were trying to find your way back to it. He’d assumed you were from there.

“You said New York? Led Zeppelin?” Ben checked, looking at Legend now.

The man exhaled a deep sigh. “Yes, that’s what I said. Jesus fuck, lay off the coke at least every once in a while. I need you focused for this. Are you in or not? It’s all set up.”

“I’ll do it,” Ben found himself saying, his thoughts still reeling.

He didn’t even fully know why he agreed to it. Maybe it was fucking instinct, maybe it was curiosity. Maybe, just maybe, it was a goddamn chance to get closer to the answers he’d been searching for.

Legend moved on to the next thing on his agenda, but Ben didn’t. He chased the cocaine and waited for you to show up again.

The walls shook.

Not from artillery or air raids this time, but from the screech of Jimmy Page’s guitar splitting the air like lightning. The crowd at the Fillmore East was a fucking storm – writhing, screaming, soaked in sound and sweat and weed under psychedelic light shows. A perfect American chaos.

Ben leaned against the wall backstage, arms crossed, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, dead behind the green eyes. He wasn’t really listening. Not to the music or the screaming or even Legend rambling to a couple of press leeches about “soldier-turned-superstar synergy” behind him.

His mind was fucking somewhere else – always.

Until he saw you.

Not a hallucination – the real you. And he locked onto you like a sniper on a fucking target.

Close to the front row, chatting and laughing with another couple of college-aged kids, sharing a blunt of all things. You wore bell-bottom jeans, a tie-dye shirt, and a military jacket. Your hair was longer and wavier, a flower crown gracing your head like a halo. And you were barefoot – of course you fucking were.

To be fair, so were most of the counterculture idiots here.

You looked different. Younger. But still fucking beautiful. Still you.

Were you fucking aging in reverse?

But in your hand? That fucking shirt. The same one the crew backstage was wearing. He’d asked about it earlier when he saw it – limited supply, roadies and band only. They wouldn’t even give him one, and it took some goddamn guts to say no to him.

How the hell had you–

More importantly, it couldn’t be the fucking same one he held hostage in a box. He’d just looked at it today. Still fucking there.

And then, Ben stopped fucking thinking and moved.

Down the narrow stairs. Pushing past people. Ignoring some wide-eyed girl asking for an autograph and ignoring his manager’s shouting. Ben ducked into the crowd, green eyes fixed on you as you disappeared through a side corridor near the green room exit as the band finished their last song.

“Hey!” he called out, voice swallowed by the music and people. He called your name, shouted it, but nothing.

You didn’t stop. You didn’t turn. You weren’t hurrying. You weren’t hiding. You were fucking skipping – hair swinging, laughing like the world hadn’t broken you yet.

The hallway was dim, echoing with the muffled rumble of the encore behind him. You were just ahead, walking with that signature bounce in your step, still high from the concert and giggling to yourself.

He had almost caught up with you when he heard your voice, clear as a bell:

“Best fucking twenty-fifth birthday ever!”

You threw your arms up like you meant it, spun once, and then–

Gone.

No door. No exit. No trapdoor, no trick. One blink, and you were smoke. Vapor. Air. Poof.

Ben stopped dead in his tracks.

He stepped forward slowly, staring at the empty space where you’d just been. Where your voice had rung out like a bullet. His fingers grazed the air like he could feel the static of you still hanging there. He could even still smell the faint hint of perfume and something that was just you.

For the first time since 1944, he wasn’t hallucinating.

You’d been fucking real.

Real enough to chase. Real enough to call out to. Real enough to leave him with goosebumps crawling up his arms.

And you’d vanished like you’d never been there at all.

1983

Fourteen years of this fucking bullshit.

That’s how long he’d been dragging Payback’s corpse around – smiling beside freaks and burnouts, posing for cameras and fronting public service campaigns with assholes who’d never seen a day of combat but still called themselves fucking heroes.

Fourteen goddamn years of being Vought’s poster boy with a pack of boot-licking weirdos trailing behind him like a fucking fart.

They called it “America’s second line of defense.” Ben called it what it was: a corporate fucking leash.

Payback was never his idea. That was The Legend’s fucking brainchild – sold to him in ‘69 as a PR stunt, a temporary gig, just until the war cooled off and the headlines moved on. But the war never cooled off, and the headlines only got hungrier.

So the team stuck.

And then Stan Edgar fucking showed up.

Colder. Smarter. American-made. Less obsessed with genetics, more obsessed with markets. He didn’t give speeches about legacy or fucking manifestos about the Master Race. Stan just wanted numbers. Ratings. Brand loyalty.

He made the Vought machine quieter, cleaner, meaner. He didn’t care about heroes – he cared about fucking products.

And he was the one who made Payback fucking permanent – more merch to sell.

Ben was never asked what he thought. Not really. He just kept showing up when they told him to, kept signing autographs and taping PSAs and standing shoulder-to-shoulder with people who made his goddamn skin crawl.

Gunpowder was a paranoid, psychotic little shit who kept muttering about the Constitution while sniffing glue.

Swatto had the IQ of a fucking fruit fly.

Mindstorm twitched when anyone got too close, like a goddamn Chihuahua in a hurricane.

The TNT Twins only spoke in matching rhymes now, some fucking weird twin-bond thing Vought was pushing for interviews.

Black Noir, though?

That one was different. That prick thought he was fucking funny.

Always cracking one-liners on live TV, writing his own bits into interviews, trying to fucking outshine him during group appearances. He never fucking shut up – he actually reminded Ben a lot of you in that way, which only made him hate the guy even more.

But Vought loved him – “mysterious, edgy, marketable.”

But Ben didn’t do fucking comedy. He did wars. Scandals. Legacy.

And then, there was still Crimson Countess.

Every red carpet they walked, she clung to his arm like a damn leech, blowing kisses and whispering in that fake breathy voice about their “perfect chemistry.” America fucking ate it up.

Behind the curtains, she was insufferable. A diva with a superiority complex and a perfume that could kill a fucking rhino. She flirted when she was bored, picked fights when she was high, and only let him fuck her when she wanted him to do something.

Like now.

Tonight’s “team initiative” was a glitzy, pastel-colored Vought Foundation charity gala for the Children of Tomorrow, where kids ran around in neon pink, Vought-branded sashes, pop singers on stage tried to make capitalism look cute, and the whole ballroom stank of corporate virtue.

It was his goddamn nightmare, and somewhere between the branded cupcakes and the flashing cameras, Ben was thinking about how easy it’d be to light the fucking place on fire.

All he’d been looking for was a distraction to slip away from the circus for a minute.

And Countess was there, winked over her shoulder with a smirk, and gestured for him to follow her into an executive bathroom to let him rail her over the sink because she wanted him to do a couple-branded Christmas special with matching pajamas and talk about Payback-themed wedding merch.

Fucking kill him now.

Christ, the thought of marrying that bitch made him want to peel his own skin off and pour acid over it. But Vought had been putting more pressure on him recently to put a ring on it, because apparently, you can’t date someone for a decade without making it a prison life sentence.

All the suits, Edgar, and Legend thought pushing the whole goddamn nuclear family thing would make him look “cleaner” – like the fucking Reagans. But Ben had no fucking plans of doing that.

Because he had already said those words to someone else and was still waiting for a goddamn answer forty-one fucking years later.

He still didn’t know who or what you were, but he knew you were out there, and that was enough to make him cling to that little flicker of hope that he’d find you again and finally leave this hellhole behind – probably in flames that reached high into the sky and burned fucking God himself.

Truthfully, he’d tried. He’d fucking tried with so many goddamn women that they all just blurred into a vague number in his head. He’d tried to replace you with their bodies, their fake smiles, and their hands running through his hair.

But it never goddamn worked. You were the only one who ever mattered. The only one who’d been real. You had been the one to see him, stand by him, and love him for who he was – or who he had been.

Fuck, he hated this life. He’d built this whole fucking empire on lies, on pretending, on doing the same fucking PR stunts over and over until it all blended together into one big blur of emptiness.

And now? Now he was lost in this broken shell of a man who was just trying to numb the pain with meaningless sex, drugs, and alcohol.

“Jesus, Ben, did you fucking lube up with sandpaper today?” Countess bitched and moaned under him, bent over the fucking sink as he slammed his hips into her with barely any enthusiasm.

“Yeah, well, if you’d shut up for a fucking minute and let me do coke off your ass, maybe I could’ve pretended you’re someone else and gotten in the fucking mood,” he huffed and drove into her harder, making her grunt as her body jolted harshly against the sink.

It was just like always. He didn’t care about her. He didn’t care about anyone anymore.

“Please, you haven’t made a woman come since the Nixon administration,” she hissed, bracing herself against the counter.

“Oh, I have. Just not you.” He sneered and met her glare in the mirror.

“God, you’re in a mood today,” she groaned and rolled her eyes. “Really making a girl feel special.”

Ben snorted cruelly. “You think I really give a shit?”

“Could at least pretend I matter instead of being an asshole about it,” she huffed.

He shoved her against the sink again, harder than before, making her gasp. The sound of his skin meeting hers echoed off the bathroom walls. She let out a small moan, one of those fake ones, but it didn’t fucking matter.

Nothing ever did.

“Don’t flatter yourself, doll. You’re not that good of a fucking actress,” he retorted. His thrusts didn’t slow, just got rougher. She winced, but didn’t tell him to stop. She never did. “You moan like it’s a fucking PSA.”

Her skin reeked of glitter body spray, cheap perfume, and desperation. There was nothing underneath the red suit – no substance, no soul. Just marketing.

He leaned in, mouth by her ear. “You wish I gave a shit about you. You wish I fucking felt something when I’m inside you.”

Her shoulders flinched. Bingo.

He used to pretend it was all part of the gig. The PR, the violence, the meaningless sex. But after all these years, he couldn’t even fake the illusion anymore. He was rotten clear through, and she was just another cheap lay helping him forget.

He didn’t care about the gala. He didn’t care about Payback. He didn’t care about her. All he cared about was the high that would come after this and the voice he might hear once he was there.

“You’re such a dick, you know that?” she gritted through her teeth.

He smirked coolly. “That’s the part you’re on, doll.”

Ben bit down on his lip, pushing into her with all the anger, the bitterness, the soul-crushing loneliness that had been suffocating him for decades. He didn’t love her. He never would. She was just the next in line of a long string of women who thought they could fucking replace you.

But they never could, could they?

He could feel Countess trembling a little, not from pleasure but from the reminder of what he was. Who he was. Soldier Boy. Living legend. America’s goddamn shield. And a fucking monster that should be feared behind closed doors.

Applause roared outside through the ballroom and drowned into the bathroom. Ben heard the emcee’s voice, amplified through the speakers:

“–please welcome the incredible Cyndi Lauper!”

He barely registered it at first. But then the synthesized music kicked in – soft, haunting, indisputable.

“Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you…”

Everything fucking stopped.

His hips. His thoughts. His fucking breath.

Countess huffed beneath him, annoyed. “Oh what now?”

He didn’t reply. His pulse jumped. His body stiffened as his mind reeled.

No fucking way…

But it was the unmistakable melody of a song he hadn’t thought about in years. Your voice echoed in the back of his skull, singing that same song at a piano for him in that empty, lonely mansion back in ‘42 with a smile he couldn’t get out of his goddamn head. You always played it like the world could just fade away and it was just the two of you in that moment.

He shoved Countess off him like she was a fucking mosquito. Her heel skidded against the floor as she yelped, indignant.

She caught herself on the edge of the sink with a startled grunt. “You serious?” she snapped, breathless and pissed. “You’re just gonna stop mid-fuck?”

But he was already zipping up, dick still half-hard, mind racing. He didn’t even look at her as he slammed the bathroom door open so hard it cracked against the wall.

“What the hell is wrong with you lately?” Countess barked after him. “You’re worse than usual.”

Ben, however, was already out the door and stormed down the hallway, scanning the crowd like a man possessed. The name burned like a neon sign inside his mind. Cyndi Lauper. Those lyrics. That melody.

He’d asked you once where the song came from. You’d smiled and said you’d heard it from some no-name bar singer in your hometown.

Fucking liar.

And then there she was – the girl that went by Cyndi Lauper. Blonde. Young. Soft voice. Drenched in sequins and pop energy, bouncing onstage with a grin and a mic.

But not you. It was a fucking paradox.

His chest squeezed like a fist had wrapped around his heart and pulled. For a long while, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. He didn’t blink the whole time she performed – hypnotized. The lights, the noise, the crowd – it all faded into fucking static.

After the set, Ben pushed past crew members and camera guys, ignoring them all, and stormed into her dressing room. Didn’t even fucking knock.

The girl startled and spun around on her chair in front of the vanity when the door burst open. “Whoa! Shit, man! You can’t just barge in here!”

Ben stopped in the doorway and stared at her. Really stared. Head titled, eyes squinted – searching.

Cyndi mirrored his expression. “Wait… Aren’t you–”

“Yeah, yeah,” he huffed dismissively and stepped forward, gently shutting the door behind him as not to spook her more. “Where did you hear that song? The time one.”

“Excuse me?” She blinked and looked slightly scared.

“Just answer the fucking question,” he demanded, towering over her.

Cyndi swallowed. “I-… I wrote it. Co-wrote it with Rob Hyman.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, it’s true,” she insisted and wasn’t lying. He could see it in her eyes – blank confusion. “I wrote it a couple months ago.”

“Months?!”

She jumped in her seat when his voice accidentally got louder.

Ben cleared his throat, softened a bit. Then he asked her if she’d ever known someone by your name. She hadn’t.

“You sure?” he still checked. “Pretty. Smart mouth. Pain in the ass but played piano like a goddamn angel. Could light up a whole room when she wasn’t pissing you off.”

The girl shook her head warily. “I don’t–… I really don’t think so?”

His green eyes narrowed. “You ever met anyone who said they were you?”

“I am me.”

“Yeah, no shit.” He scoffed exhaustively and rolled his eyes back, running a hand through his hair.

“Are you like… okay? Are you high, dude?”

Fucking Christ, why did people keep asking him that? He wasn’t fucking crazy, but every muscle in his body buzzed with confusion. Frustration. And sure, it could easily be mistaken for the kind that edged toward madness.

Ben then turned and left the dressing room without another word, slamming the door behind him. He stomped down the backstage hallway past partygoers and handlers toward a backdoor alley, shaking his head the whole way there till his face was hit with the sting of the cool night air and the smell of weed and exhaust.

He lit a joint with shaking fingers, sucked in smoke like it might fill the hole that just cracked wider in his chest. He leaned against the side of the building, staring up at the night sky.

Ben had seen hundreds of supes over the years. He’d watched their little powers manifest and burn out, sometimes in fire, sometimes in tears. He’d seen enough weird shit to know the signs.

Your strength, the healing, the goddamn attitude… But it was more than that, wasn’t it?

The shirt. The shoes. The song.

As he glanced up, you were there right in front of him again – that same damn hallucination of you but never the fucking real thing.

“Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, exhaling smoke through his nose, eyes fixed on your ghost. “You’re a goddamn time traveler, aren’t you?”

Your lips rose to a smirk like he’d just won a damn prize. “Getting hotter.”

It all made fucking sense now. The way you looked at him like you already knew him. The way you touched him like it mattered. Finite – like it would fucking end.

You fucking lied to him. Played him. Abandoned him.

And God, he wanted to fucking kill you for it.

He laughed, bitter and broken. The joint trembled between his fingers. Had he just been a goddamn fluke for you? Someone you’d visited for fun and ticked off a fucking checklist like Zeppelin and Lauper?

“You ever actually fucking loved me?” he asked out loud and watched your features soften, stepping closer.

“You know I did.”

He bit down on his lips to stop them from quivering. “Then why the fuck did you never come back, huh?”

Your lips tentatively brushed his cheek and left a kiss there, and he swore to God and the fucking devil that it felt goddamn real.

“It’s not that simple,” was all you said before fading away again.

Ben rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled a shaky breath. All this time, he thought he’d lost you. Now he wasn’t so sure you were ever his to keep.

But maybe it really wasn’t as simple as you lying and leaving without a care in the world. Maybe you didn’t have a fucking choice.

Either way, it didn’t really matter anymore because Ben was going to look for you and fucking find you – time after time.

Ben hadn’t slept in fucking weeks.

Not really, at least. He’d managed a couple hours here and there, passed out in the back of a limousine with glitter on his chest or face-down in the suede-lined bench of his private booth at Studio 54 with some wannabe starlet half-crushed under him. He was running on fumes and rage and whatever white lines they kept putting in front of him.

And it still wasn’t fucking enough because you were goddamn nowhere.

No paper trail. No aliases. No birth certificates. No marriage or driver’s licenses. No public records. Not even a whisper. And no one at Vought seemed to know or even remember you either when he’d quietly asked around.

Not PR. Not security. Not operations. When he’d barked your name at one of the suits during a marketing shoot, they’d just blinked at him like he’d said fucking Bigfoot. Ben had shoved the guy into a wall so hard after, his goddamn head bounced.

Payback was fucking tiptoeing around him too, even Gunpowder. Countess flinched every time she passed him in a hallway.

Good. Let ‘em be fucking scared. Let ‘em all burn if it brought him closer to you.

Which was why Ben ended up here – in this oversized glass coffin of an office, with the man he hated more than anyone in the goddamn world.

Stan Edgar sat behind his sleek, fingerprintless desk, cool and composed in his gray suit, hands folded, like he was interviewing a politician – not entertaining the half-coked-out national icon that had just kicked in his door.

“You wanted to see me?” Edgar’s voice was too smooth, too casual. He never took anyone’s anger seriously. Not Soldier Boy’s, anyway.

Ben plopped down in the chair in front of him, cool and smug as ever. He knew he couldn’t trust Edgar, but he had a fucking plan. He was going to be goddamn smart about this.

“I need a new recruit,” Ben began, his voice hard and cutting through the silence like a blade. “Countess is a fuckin’ liability. I’m done with her. Get me someone who actually knows how to fight.”

Stan’s eyes lifted slowly, meeting Soldier Boy’s gaze, calm and calculating. He folded the file in front of him with a soft click. “A replacement? I thought she was... satisfactory for your team. She’s a founding member of Payback.”

“Satisfactory is a nice word for fucking ‘useless,’” Ben spat with all the bravado he could muster. Good thing he was an excellent actor. Edgar would never be the fucking wiser. “She’s fuckin’ slow. Unreliable. Can’t follow orders, goes off-script, too busy fuckin’ singing to blow anything up. I need someone with real fuckin’ power. Someone who can stand up when it goddamn matters.”

Edgar nodded slowly, as though he was considering the request, fingers drumming on the desk. “I see. Well, I’ll be blunt – those kinds of supes are… difficult to come by. What kind of powers are you looking for, exactly? Something specific?”

Ben shifted in his seat, green eyes narrowing slightly. He chose his next words carefully, deliberately casual, as if the request were no different from any other mission. “I’ve heard of a supe with... unique abilities. Something like time manipulation. Time travel, maybe. Can you fucking get me someone like that?”

Edgar’s brow quirked, but his voice remained as cool as ever. “Time travel? You mean chronokinesis?”

Ben rolled his eyes with a huff. “Sure, whatever.”

Edgar hummed, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Well, that’s quite the claim, Soldier Boy. A supe with those abilities would be, well, hard to find, even for someone like me.”

“Well, I’ve got certain information someone like that exists. A woman. Off the grid,” Ben revealed, still carefully casual, leaning back in his chair.

Edgar’s expression didn’t change, but the subtle twitch in his eyebrow betrayed his interest. “And how exactly do you know about someone like her?”

Ben pursed his lips, meeting his gaze. “I’ve heard things. Not important how. What’s important is that you find her for me. Imagine the possibilities. Pretty powerful, right? Could be useful. You could get some real fuckin’ work done with someone like that.”

Edgar leaned back slightly in his chair, eyeing Soldier Boy closely with an amused smile. “Useful, yes. But also incredibly dangerous, wouldn’t you say? A supe who can manipulate time could potentially cause serious damage. Chronokinetics can be unpredictable. Unstable. A wildcard, if you will.”

Ben scoffed, not backing down. “I’ve handled worse. Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep her in fucking line.”

Edgar gave a placating smile. “I’m sure you will.”

Ben sighed in annoyance, running a hand through his hair. “Can you fucking find her or not? You’re fucking Vought, right? You’ve got all the records, all the data. If there’s someone like that out there, you should know about it.”

Edgar nodded slowly, tapping his fingers lightly on the paperwork in front of him. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of a supe with powers like that. And I do hear about everyone. Trust me. She wouldn’t have just slipped through the cracks. It’s a rare, valuable ability. Vought would’ve already had their eyes on her.”

Ben’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, you might have missed her. Doesn’t mean she’s not out there. You’ve got your hands full with a lot of supes, right?”

Edgar’s gaze remained unwavering. “Yes, but I can assure you we don’t exactly have a file on someone like that.”

“Then fuckin’ make one,” Ben snapped impatiently. He wasn’t going to give Edgar too much, but there was something in his voice that betrayed just how badly he needed this. Needed you. “Just find her. I don’t care what it fuckin’ takes or how much it’ll cost.”

Edgar’s eyes flickered for a moment before he carefully pressed on, his voice deceptively light. “I don’t think you understand the broader implications here, Soldier Boy. Chronokinetics are… tricky. They don’t exactly leave easy-to-follow trails. They don’t follow normal rules. You’re assuming she’s current.”

Ben’s jaw twitched. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” Edgar began, his tone mild, “if we’re speaking about time manipulation, someone like that wouldn’t need to exist now. She could be born thirty years from now and still show up tomorrow.”

Shit.

Ben swallowed subtly. He hadn’t even thought of that. Were you not even fucking alive right now? Had you not even been born yet?

Jesus fucking Christ, he couldn’t wait that long – however long that might even be. What if you were still in fucking diapers right now? What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?

“Still,” the executive added smoothly, “I can look into it. Quietly. But I’ll need more than just a vague power set. Where was she spotted? Do you have a name?”

Soldier Boy smirked coolly. “You think I’m gonna hand that fucking over just like that?”

Edgar gave a soft chuckle. “Of course not. But a trail helps the hunt.”

Ben’s patience was wearing thin, but he couldn’t afford to snap. Not now. Not when he was this close to finding you.

He let out a frustrated sigh, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small photograph – the only one he had of you. He slid it across the desk without saying a word.

Edgar’s eyes flicked to the photo, then back up to Soldier Boy. The quiet intensity in the room shifted, but Stan kept his expression neutral as he picked up the photograph. It showed a young woman. Smiling, eyes bright and warm – an image of someone you’d hold dear.

He set the photo down, but his fingers lingered on the edge for just a moment too long. He was already filing the details away, cataloging the pieces of Soldier Boy’s unraveling obsession.

“This is her?” Edgar asked, his voice still smooth but now laced with subtle curiosity.

Ben’s face was hard, but he ignored the churning warning in his gut. “Yeah, that’s her. She’s the one I’m looking for. You think you can find her?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Edgar replied, Soldier Boy’s obvious desperation not fazing him at all. “You have a name as well?”

Ben ground his jaw, teeth gritting. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly he almost broke it into pieces. The warning in his stomach only grew louder, screaming, but he was fucking desperate.

And so, Ben revealed the biggest secret you’d ever entrusted him with – your fucking name.

As soon as it left his mouth, he fucking knew it was a mistake – one he couldn’t possibly take back. You’d whispered it to him like a secret back then, one he’d sworn to protect and keep.

But feeding you to the fucking sharks wasn’t protecting you now, was it?

However, if Edgar was successful in his search and finally brought you back to Ben, he swore he’d keep you fucking safe from the vultures. No one would fucking dare to touch you as long as he was around.

“I’ll get started on this. Have our people look into it,” Edgar promised, leaning back in his chair again, folding his hands in front of him. “But let me remind you – power like that comes at a price. And even you can’t control everything. The consequences of such a supe could potentially be catastrophic. Reality-altering. Our enemies would weaponize it. Our allies would betray us for it.”

The edge in Ben’s voice sharpened. “I don’t care. I’m not asking for your goddamn advice. I want her. I’ll fucking deal with the rest.”

Ben didn’t show that the thought worried him. But deep down, he finally understood why you fucking lied – why you probably ran and had been running for a long time.

“As you wish, Soldier Boy,” Edgar said in that placating tone of his again. “But in the meantime, I think it’s best if you concentrate on your… image.”

Ben snorted in amusement. “Image? You think I give a shit about that right now?”

“You should,” Stan insisted. “You’ve been spiraling. The collateral damage. The outcry from the public about your actions. Your team can barely work with you. The number of complaints I’ve received from Crimson Countess alone could fill a filing cabinet.”

“She’s a bitch,” Ben scoffed with a shrug. “Hence the replacement.”

“She’s afraid,” Stan corrected. “And she’s not alone.”

“Good,” Ben said, sneering. “Fear keeps people in line.”

Edgar didn’t respond immediately. He was letting the silence stretch out, as if weighing Soldier Boy’s words carefully. “I’ll get you what you want. But for now, you need to keep it together. If this goes too far, if you push too hard, I’ll have no choice but to consider more... permanent measures.”

Ben huffed a laugh, amused. Cocky. “You’re fucking underestimating me, Edgar,” he said through gritted teeth, fed up with the bullshit. “I’m not playing by your fucking rules anymore. You think you’re the one in control? Well, you’re not. I’m in fucking control now. And I’ll burn it all down if I have to.”

He rose from his seat with a grunt and strolled to the door, sending one last threatening glare over his shoulder. “I’m not fucking around, Stan. Find her. Or I swear to God it won’t be just Crimson Countess who’s fuckin’ replaced.”

Edgar didn’t flinch. “I’ll take care of it.”

When the door finally slammed shut behind Soldier Boy, with a force so hard one of the wall sconces tilted, Stand Edgar simply sat at his desk, hands neatly folded, and stared at the photograph still in front of him.

No last name. No date of birth. No dossier. That already told Stan everything. If this woman really existed in this world, she’d be on record. Vought’s files were vast, its archives deeper than the Pentagon’s, and he’d never once seen a file go missing without cause.

Which meant she hadn’t been born yet. Not in this time. Not in any time Stan Edgar had mapped.

His eyes lingered on the image, committing your face to memory. There was nothing extraordinary about you at first glance – no glowing eyes, no suit, no telltale sign of power.

But Stan had learned long ago: the most dangerous ones didn’t always look the part.

He sighed faintly. Complaints. Injuries. Public backlash. Payback was a PR nightmare already. Soldier Boy was even worse.

The supe was unraveling. The signs were subtle, but they were there: paranoia, fixation, long silences followed by irrational violence. The man had always been volatile. But this? This was personal. That made him unpredictable.

And an unpredictable asset was a dangerous one.

Edgar picked up the phone and dialed. No notes. No names. He didn’t need them.

“Begin prepping the contingency plan. We need to accelerate our timeline,” he said evenly. “Yes. Nicaragua. Make sure our Russian contacts are ready.” He paused for a moment, eyes landing back on the photo. “And I have a name and a face for you to put on our watch list. Might be years before she shows up, but I think it’s worth our attention.”

Stan hung up. He threw one last glance at the photograph, and then it disappeared into a locked drawer. Out of sight but never out of mind.

He then leaned back in his chair, satisfied. Soldier Boy could chase ghosts all he wanted – but Vought would make sure it was the last time he ran off-leash.

▶️ Chapter 13: It's Alive! It's Alive!

Oh, you guys, please let me know what you thought of this one! I tried to weave so many time loop puzzle pieces together here and I hope I pulled it all off somewhat believably 🤓 This was so much fun to figure out, though! You probably guessed that reader was a bit responsible for Soldier Boy's descend into madness (and yes, I did imply that HL's little mirror hallucinations might be a genetic thing from the OG Compound V strain passed down from his father 😝), but did you guys see the plot twist with Edgar coming? 👀

Next part we're not fully going back to the present, but at least 2022 and the events of season 3 – the full reader insert version. I tried to keep the overlap at a minimum, though, and wanted to give you guys more "bonus scenes" if you will – aka Ben reacting to reader, figuring out the loop, and what really was going on in that big mellon of his. See ya next week 😉

Coming Up:

“What about her?” Ben gestured with his chin toward you once the asshole had finished his pitch. “Who’s she?”

“She’s one of you. Supe. Chronokinetic,” the guy told him and smirked. “Bit of a wildcard, but bloody handy in a pinch.”

So Ben had been right. He was almost proud of himself for solving that one.

But what the fuck were you doing here? Why were you so fucking calm around men with guns? This shouldn’t be your fucking life.

“Oi, sunshine. C’mere. Introduce yourself,” the Brit called you over.

You stood slowly and dusted off your jean shorts, muscles tense as Ben’s eyes pinned you in place like a knife through a photograph. You weren’t wearing a band shirt, a ‘40s dress, or even an overall this time. Just a plain black hoodie with white lettering that read: ‘Without geometry, life is pointless.’

Yeah, definitely you.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Ben asked, a charming but feigned smirk tugging at his lips, eyes squinting and grazing over you. Observing. Studying.

Still not a trace of recognition in your eyes.

Did you really not know him? Were you lying again? Might as well give it a shot and see what poured out.

And then you just gave him your name. No muss, no fuss, no lies. Like it wasn’t a big deal to begin with. You weren’t guarding it like a state secret or nuclear codes. Just your name, plain and simple.

“You know who I am?” Ben asked next and watched your face contort – brow knitted, nose scrunched, lips pursed. You thought he was fucking crazy – but definitely not someone you once shared a goddamn bed with.

“I mean, yeah,” you said and snorted an amused laugh. “You’re Soldier Boy. You were in my high school history books. My grandpa liked to talk about you when I was a kid.“

Ben bit his lips, hummed. Nodded. And he wasn’t sure yet what, but something had died inside of him.

The fuck–

What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

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[16archive]

"london knights thrilled to see mitch marner return to no. 93 in vegas"

"'he'll be great,' [mark hunter,] the former toronto maple leafs assistant gm and current gm of the memorial cup champion london knights said thursday. 'he's a very good player. he's ready to go.' ... mark hunter always has been in marner's corner. he selected the talented forward to london with the no. 19 pick in the 2013 ohl draft, then announced him as the no. 4 overall pick in the nhl draft two years later while hunter was with toronto."

"'I think it's something special mitch is going back to no. 93,' [long-time knights equipment manager chris] maton said. 'I love it. I told him it's pretty cool. I don't know about honouring the knights, but it's a remembering-his-roots kind of thing. he was good in junior and wore 93.'"

"marner is the odds-on favourite to become the next knight to have his banner raised to the canada life place rafters."

full transcript under the cut

mark hunter has a prediction for mitch marner's new vegas journey.

"he'll be great," the former toronto maple leafs assistant gm and current gm of the memorial cup champion london knights said thursday. "he's a very good player. he's ready to go."

and how will he do with the golden knights the next time they reach the stanley cup playoffs?

"he'll play fine," hunter said.

mark hunter always has been in marner's corner. he selected the talented forward to london with the no. 19 pick in the 2013 ohl draft, then announced him as the no. 4 overall pick in the nhl draft two years later while hunter was with toronto.

marner led london to a memorial cup title in 2016 and no one in the city will be surprised he switched back to his famous no. 93 now that he is in sin city.

"it's a jersey that I wore with the london knights there for three years and had great success with it," the 28-year-old said at his introductory news conference this week, "and really enjoyed the number."

marner spoke with long-time knights equipment manager chris maton this week and told him he would be making the jersey switch from his no. 16 with the leafs.

"I think it's something special mitch is going back to no. 93," maton said. "I love it. I told him it's pretty cool. I don't know about honouring the knights, but it's a remembering-his-roots kind of thing. he was good in junior and wore 93. he obviously couldn't wear it in toronto (because the leafs retired it for doug gilmour in 2009) or he would have."

marner is the odds-on favourite to become the next knight to have his banner raised to the canada life place rafters. maton revealed the knights have a process where they hold a number out of rotation for a few seasons right after a legendary player has worn it.

"we like to give it a break for a couple of years," he said. "then, we'll reactivate it, but we do give it a break for a bit. you always like to give kids their first go at a preferred number and try to accommodate them (if it's not already retired)."

marner wanted no. 93 in london because of gilmour. he has long said that he was his father paul marner's favourite leaf and he came to appreciate the same through watching old highlights.

"he was bound and bent he was going to wear no. 93 here," maton said. "it was pretty funny. there wasn't much changing his mind, that's for sure."

there is a lot of superstition and comfort that goes along with wearing a preferred number. very few knights expressed no preference, although their hall of fame-worthy coach settled on an assigned number at the start of his long nhl career.

"dale (hunter) wore no. 32 because that's what the nordiques gave him at training camp," maton recalled. "when they decided to keep him, they asked what number he wanted and he told them, 'well, you gave me this one, so I'll stay with it.'"

he did for 1,407 games with stops in quebec, washington and colorado.