#this is psychological warfare and she is winning

[magic-shop-stories]

bts reaction to reader purposefully hiding an injury from them (mafia au)?

💌 Reply:

Ah, diving into the mafia AU angst pool again... I love it! 💜 Your request for BTS reacting to the reader purposefully hiding an injury? IT'S GENIOUS, thanks fot that!

NAMJOON

HOW YOU GOT HURT

You were sent to negotiate a weapons deal with a minor syndicate (Namjoon’s orders: “Observe, don’t engage”). But their leader recognized you as his weakness. Ambushed. A blade to your throat, a hissed threat: “Tell your boss to back off, or I’ll mail you to him in pieces.” You fought back, got a gash across your ribs for it.

You hid the injury for 6 hours, stitching it yourself in a gas station bathroom. But your phone died. By the time you limped back to his penthouse, blood had seeped through your shirt.

HOW NAMJOON FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s in his library

annotating Sun Tzu’s The Art of War

you stumble in

the scent of blood/ iron hits him first

Immediate Reaction

Physical

freezes mid-sentence

fountain pen snapping in his grip

ink bleeds across the page (like a Rorschach test)

Eyes

darken from warm amber to obsidian

jaw clenches so tight his molar almsot cracks

Voice

whispers, glacial

“Who.” 

not a question = a demand

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“I miscalculated. I trusted their fear. I should’ve burned them first. She’s bleeding. My fault. My failure.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

crosses the room in three strides

grips your shoulders too tight

scans the injury like a malfunctioning equation

Dialogue

“Sit. Now.” 

already texting his surgeon

his hands don’t shake (they never shake)

Subtext

clinical touch

but his thumb brushes your pulse point (once)

checking if you’re real

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Anger

not at you

at himself

“I built an empire on predicting chaos. How did I not see this?”

at the syndicate

“They touched what’s mine. They’ll learn the cost of ignorance.”

Fear

flashback to his mother’s death (gang crossfire when he was 15) (at least in my mafiaAU imagination)

“Not again. Never again.”

Guilt

when the surgeon arrives, he stands in the corner

cleaning his glasses obsessively

“I should’ve been there. I am there, in every move. Except hers.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Intel

locks himself in his war room for 4 hours

maps the syndicate’s connections on a hologram grid

discovers their leader’s estranged daughter in Paris

“Ah. Leverage.”

Phase 2: Psychological Warfare

sends the daughter a vintage music box

(her mother’s, stolen from their old home)

note: “Your father misses you. Say goodbye.”

leaks their drug routes to Interpol

lets them flee straight into his men’s custody

Phase 3: Interrogation

Location

his underground vault

soundproofed

lined with first editions of Nietzsche and Kafka

Method

forces the leader to read your medical report aloud

“‘Laceration, 8cm depth.’ tell me, do you measure your failures so precisely?”

Finale

brands their foreheads with a quote from Thus Spoke Zarathustra: 

“Whoever fights monsters…”

Phase 4: Financial Annihilation

donates their assets to a charity in your name

texts you the receipt: 

“For your trouble.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he’s distant for weeks

assigns you a bodyguard (ex-KGB, mute, terrifying)

you find him at 3 AM

re-reading your injury report like a penitent hymn

Your Move

corner him in his library

press his palm to your healed scar

“You didn’t fail. I’m here. We’re here.”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist into the bookshelf

first edition Tolstoy tomes crash to the floor

“You don’t get it. I planned for everything, except losing you.”

Key Dialogue

You: “You’re not a god, Namjoon. Even strategists bleed.” Him: “Then let me bleed. But not you. Never you.” 

(Voice cracks on the last word)

Physical Reconciliation

crushes you to his chest

heartbeat erratic against your ear

“Stay. Let me… recalculate.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!JOON EDITION)

to the syndicate leader: 

“You thought her my weakness? No. She’s the reason your death will be a footnote.”

to you, post-revenge: 

“I’d raze every city in this empire to keep you safe. Tell me to stop.” 

(he hopes you won’t)

whispered in the dark: 

“My mind is a weapon. But you you’re the hand that steadies it.”

BONUS DETAILS

Cigar Ritual

only smokes when planning vengeance

brand? “Monte Cristo”

nod to his literary rage

Glasses Tell

cleans them when overwhelmed

after your injury, he buys 7 spare pairs

Secret Softness

hires a chef to sneak banana milk into your meals

 “For calcium. Don’t argue.”

JIN

HOW YOU GOT HURT

Jin sent you undercover to infiltrate a rival family’s casino grand opening. You were posing as a blackjack dealer, but the Don’s son grew suspicious. To test your loyalty, he offered you a drink, poisoned champagne. You drank it to keep your cover, but the toxin burned through your system. You barely made it back to Jin’s penthouse before collapsing in the marble foyer.

You hid the poisoning for 2 hours, using antidote pills Jin gave you "just in case." But the pills were expired (he forgot to check). By the time you crawled to his doorstep, your lips were blue.

HOW JIN FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s hosting a “peace summit” with rival bosses

serving haute cuisine laced with mild sedatives

you stagger into the dining hall

clutching your stomach

room falls silent

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops his wineglass.

shatters like a punchline

smile stays frozen

knuckles whiten around the steak knife

Eyes

gaze flicks from your trembling hands to the rival Don’s son

“Ah. This is why you RSVP’d late.”

Voice

laughs, sharp and honeyed

“Yah, jagiya, you’re ruining my soufflé’s grand entrance!”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“Expired pills. Expired. I’m a genius, huh? Should’ve poisoned myself instead. She’s cold. Why is she so cold?”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

sweeps you into his arms

cradling you like a bride

murmurs: “Shh, I’ve got you,” 

kicks open the kitchen door

Dialogue

“Who’s the drama queen now, hm? Save the theatrics for my stage.”

his voice cracks

Subtext

blames himself

hands tremble as he presses a cloth soaked in milk thistle extract to your lips

(his homemade antidote)

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Anger

at himself: 

“I’m supposed to be the protector. The funny one. How’s this funny?”

at the rival: 

“They poisoned my masterpiece. Time to return the favor—with garnish.”

Fear

flashback to a younger gang members death (close friend)

(food tampering, age 24)

“Not again. I’ll burn every kitchen in this city first.”

Guilt

forces his chef to taste-test every dish in front of you for a week

“See? Safe. Eat.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Invitation

hosts a “reconciliation dinner” for the rival family

menu: “Apology Bouillabaisse” 

laced with aconite

Phase 2: Culinary Theater

serves the poisoned soup with a wink: 

“Bon appétit! Don’t worry, it’s to die for.”

as they choke, he plays their death rattles through the penthouse speakers

“Ambiance, right?”

Phase 3: Reputation Ruin

leaks their family recipes to Michelin critics

swaps sugar for salt

“Now the world knows your cooking sucks.”

sends their matriarch a sympathy bouquet with a note: 

“Roses for your loss. P.S.: Your son tasted bitter.”

Phase 4: Legacy Erasure

buys their casino and renames it “Jin’s Revenge Buffet.” 

free shrimp cocktails for anyone who spits on their logo

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes suffocatingly overprotective

installs cameras in your bedroom

“For lighting! You look better in 4K.”

catch him staring at your antidote vial like it’s a cursed relic

Your Move

cook him jjajangmyeon

burnt, salty, inedible

force-feed him a bite

“See? I’m fine. Now you trust me.”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist on the table

porcelain shatters

“You think this is a joke? I could’ve lost you!” 

tears mix with black bean sauce

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not just my boss. You’re my home. Let me protect you too.” him: “Home?”  he laughs wetly: “Then… redecorate. But no more poison-themed curtains.”

Physical Reconciliation

pulls you into a hug

face buried in your hair

“If you die, I’ll kill you. And then myself. Then we’ll be a rom-com.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!JIN EDITION)

to the rival Don: 

“You tried to cook in my kitchen? Cute. Now burn in it.”

to you, post-revenge: 

“I’d starve the whole world if it meant keeping you fed. Eat.”

whispered while stitching your wound: 

“I’m Worldwide Handsome, not Worldwide Hero. But for you… I’ll try.”

BONUS DETAILS

Apron Code

wears a pink “Kiss the Chef” apron during hits

the back has a hidden dagger pocket

Dad Joke Defense

cracks jokes mid-interrogation

“Why did the gangster cross the road? To die!” 

(then shoots their kneecaps)

Secret Softness

learns your grandma’s recipes to cook for you

“What? It’s research. For… poison. Yeah.”

YOONGI

HOW THE YOU HURT

Yoongi tasked you with hacking a rival’s financial network. You succeeded, but stayed behind to erase traces, ignoring his order to “exit after the first firewall.” Their enforcers cornered you in the server room. A bullet grazed your thigh. You limped to a safehouse, sutured the wound with a USB cable and vodka, and hid it for days… until infection set in.

You passed out mid-debriefing in his underground studio. Your blood seeped onto his sheet music.

HOW YOONGI FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s composing a piece titled “Silent Retribution” when you collapse

scent of iron mixes with his sandalwood incense

Immediate Reaction

Physical

freezes mid-keystroke

hands hover over the piano like he’s been electrocuted

Eyes

darken from sleepy amber to black-hole void

“Fuck. Fuck.”

Voice

a rasp, deceptively calm

“Who.”

already pulling a scalpel from his desk

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“I told her to leave. She never listens. Should’ve chained her to the piano. My fault. My fault.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

drags you onto his leather couch

cuts away your jeans with the scalpel

clinical, no hesitation

Dialogue

“Idiot. You’re lucky I hate wasted effort.” 

hands shake as he injects antibiotics

Subtext

hums Clair de Lune under his breath

the song he played at his mother’s funeral

steadying himself

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself: 

“I’m supposed to be the fucking brain. How did I miss this?”

at the rivals: 

“They shot her. My code. My music. They’ll beg for silence.”

Fear

flashback to his mentor’s death (a botched hit when he was 19)

“I won’t lose her. Not like him. Never.”

Guilt

replays your last argument: 

“You’re not my keeper, Yoongi.”  “No. Just your curse.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Digital Carnage

hacks the rival’s accounts

donating $10M to an animal shelter in their name

“Let the IRS sniff that.”

Phase 2: Symphony of Pain

kidnaps the shooter and his boss

chains them in his soundproof studio

Interrogation Method

forces them to listen to a 12-hour loop of Baby Shark at 200dB (yeah hate me for that)

“You like noise? Drown in it.”

Finale

brands their palms with sheet music for Dies Irae (Day of Wrath)

Phase 3: Poetic Justice

replaces their bullets with piano wire coils

sends their corpses back in grand piano crates

texts you a photo of their leader’s melted eardrums: 

“Track 7. Your lullaby.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

avoids you for weeks

burns the bloodstained sheet music daily

find him asleep at his piano

head on the keys

gun in his lap

Your Move

play Clair de Lune on his piano (badly)

he wakes, scowling

“You’re murdering Debussy.”

His Breaking Point

slams the piano lid

“You don’t get it. I plan everything. But you... you’re a goddamn variable.”

Key Dialogue

you: “Variables keep you human, genius.” him: “Human?” 

he laughs bitterly

“I’m a weapon. Weapons don’t..."

kiss him

he melts 

“…Fuck.”

Physical Reconciliation

presses his forehead to yours

breath shaky

“Stay. Or I’ll… compose something worse.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!YOONGI EDITION)

to the rivals: 

“You think pain is loud? I’ll show you silence.”

to you, stitching your wound: 

“You’re my magnum opus. Ruin yourself again, and I’ll erase the world.”

whispered against your hair: 

“I’d burn every piano on earth… but not the one you play.”

BONUS DETAILS

Piano Key Necklace

a gift from his mother

he wears it under his shirt

never takes it off

Coffee Ritual

brews you honey-vanilla lattes after nightmares

denies it

“It’s caffeine. Don’t cry.”

Secret Softness

writes your name in Braille on his bullets

“So they know who ended them.”

EXTRA SUPER SOFT ACT (CRUELTY’S CONTRADICTION) After burning the rival’s headquarters, he takes you to an abandoned music store. Plays Clair de Lune on a broken piano, lit by moonlight. “This is yours. The only thing I’ll never destroy.”

J-HOPE

HOW THE YOU GOT HURT

Hobi sent you to broker a deal with a "friendly" syndicate. Unbeknownst to him, they’d discovered his weakness for you. During negotiations, they offered a toast, spiked champagne disguised as peace. You drank it, only to collapse as their goons ambushed your convoy. A bullet grazed your temple. You escaped, but the neurotoxin left you temporarily blind.

You hid the blindness for hours, relying on muscle memory to drive back to his neon-lit nightclub. You stumbled into his VIP lounge, blood streaking your cheek like war paint.

HOW HOSEOK FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s hosting a “business meeting”

a traitor strapped to a chair

you stagger in

pupils dilated and unfocused

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops his taser

his grin doesn’t falter = it sharpens

Eyes

glint like polished obsidian

“Oh? Did we crash the party early?”

Voice

singsong, icy

“Sweetheart, you’re dripping on my new rug.”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“They poisoned her. Poisoned. I’ll melt their teeth. I’ll... Focus. She’s shaking. Why is she shaking?”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

catches you mid-collapse

fingers digging into your waist

forces eye drops laced with antidote into your eyes

“Blink. Now.”

Dialogue

“You’re lucky I like messy.”

his voice cracks on lucky

Subtext

hums “Chicken Noodle Soup” under his breath

his comfort song

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself:

“I’m the planner. The smile. How did I miss this?”

at the syndicate: 

“They think poison is fun? Let’s play.”

Fear

flashback to his sister’s abduction (age 17)

“Not again. Never again.”

Guilt

replays your last conversation: 

“Trust me, Hobi.”  “I do. That’s the problem.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Neon Nightmare

floods the syndicate’s warehouses with neon-green acid (his mafia signature color)

texts you a video: 

"All for you baby..."

Phase 2: Invitation

hosts a “charity gala” for their families

laces the champagne with drugs

livestreams their confessions to the dark web

Phase 3: Artful Annihilation

kidnaps the traitor’s leader

forces him to paint a mural of your face with blood and gold leaf

Finale

seals him inside the mural’s frame

“Art is eternal, right?”

Phase 4: Legacy Erasure

buys their nightclub

renames it “J-Hope’s Lullaby.” 

neon sign flickers: 

“CLOSED FOR ETERNITY.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes hypervigilant

replaces your perfume with neroli oil  (he swears he can track by its smell)

find him staring at security feeds, muttering coordinates

Your Move

blindfold yourself

find him in his office by touch alone

“See? I trust you. Even in the dark.”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist on the desk

“Stop. Stop being brave. I’m not... I’m not worth it.”

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not just my shield, Hobi. You’re my light.” him: “Light?” 

he laughs hollowly

“I’m a blacklight. I only show the stains.”

Physical Reconciliation

crushes you to his chest

heartbeat erratic

“If you die… I’ll forget how to breathe.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!HOSEOK EDITION)

to the traitors: 

“You wanted a sparkle? Let me show you fire.”

to you, applying ointment: 

“You’re my equilibrium. Break again, and I’ll shatter the world.”

whispered in your ear: 

“I’d drown this city in neon… just to see you smile.”

BONUS DETAILS

Fashion Warfare

wears blood-red gloves during hits

the lining is silk

“For smooth exits.”

Coffee Code

leaves hazelnut lattes on your desk

denies it

“The barista’s obsessed with you.”

Secret Softness

built a panic room with plush blankets and your favorite manga

“For… tactical naps.”

JIMIN

HOW THE YOU GOT HURT

Jimin sent you to retrieve a stolen ledger from a rival’s yacht. You succeeded, but the heir recognized you as his “weakness.” As you fled, he slashed your arm with a jeweled dagger.“A gift for your prince.” You hid the injury, stitching it yourself as best as possible. By the time you returned to Jimin’s penthouse, sepsis had set in.

You collapsed in his rose garden, staining white petals crimson.

HOW JIMIN FINDS OUT

Setting

he’s hosting a masquerade ball for the city’s elite

you stumble into the ballroom

clutching your arm

orchestra screeches to a halt

Immediate Reaction

Physical

freezes mid-sip of champagne

smile stays perfect

his grip cracks the flute

shards glitter like tears

Eyes

darken from honey-sweet to void-black

“Darling, you’re dripping on my marble.”

Voice

airy, lethal

“Who let the rats in?”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“I’ll peel their skin. No, too quick. Slower. She’s pale. Too pale. Should’ve locked her here. Mine.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

Sweeps you into his arms

silk gloves soaked in your blood

carries you to his private suite

Dialogue

“Silly dove. Jewels are for wearing, not surgery.” 

voice wavers on dove

Subtext

hums Serendipity under his breath

the song he played on his piano the night he met you

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself: 

“I’m the puppeteer. How did I lose control?”

at the rival: 

“They marked her. Marked her. I’ll erase their bloodline.”

Fear

flashback to his best friends assassination

(poisoned roses, ten years ago)

“Not her. Never her.”

Guilt

bans white roses from his estate

“Red suits you better.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Invitation

sends the rival heir a golden dagger 

(the one that hurt you)

engraved: “For your last dance.”

Phase 2: Elegant Execution

Method

orders his men to drag the heir to a mirrored ballroom

forces him to waltz with a poisoned partner 

(slow-acting toxin)

livestreams it to the dark web

Finale

texts you a screenshot of the heir’s corpse mid-twirl: 

“Artistry, no?”

Phase 3: Legacy Erasure

burns the rival family’s vineyards

plants white roses in the ashes

“Blooms for my dove.”

Phase 4: Public Humiliation

leaks their financial crimes to their grandmother

“Granny dearest sends her regards.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes icily distant

gifts you a diamond choker with a tracking device 

“For safety.” 

find him in his greenhouse

shredding roses with bare hands

Your Move

wear the choker to his next ball

whisper: “Chain me yourself next time.”

His Breaking Point

slams you against the wall

grip bruising

“You think this is a game? I could’ve lost you!” 

tears streak his cheeks

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not a monster. You’re my haven.” him: “Haven?” 

he laughs bitterly

“Havens burn, darling.”

Physical Reconciliation

crushes his lips to yours

desperate

“Stay. Or I’ll… build a cage gilded enough to tempt you.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!JIMIN EDITION)

to the rival heir: 

“You thought her my weakness? No. She’s the reason your death will be art.”

to you, cleaning your wound: 

“I’d drown the world in glitter… just to see it shine in your eyes.”

whispered at dawn: 

“You’re my first sin. And my last.”

BONUS DETAILS

Perfume Warfare

spritzes vanilla-musk on letters to rivals

“So they’ll smell me in their nightmares.”

Mirror Ritual

checks his reflection before hits

“Monsters should look the part.”

Secret Softness

learns sign language after noticing your hands tremble post-trauma

“So you’ll always… speak to me.”

EXTRA SUPER SOFT ACT (CRUELTY’S CONTRADICTION) After burning the rival’s estate, he rebuilds it as a glass conservatory filled with doves. Gives you the key: “No blood here. Just… us.”

TAEHYUNG

HOW YOU GOT HURT

Taehyung tasked you with retrieving a stolen Monet painting. During the heist, a rival’s trap backfired, a chandelier crashed down. You shoved Taehyung’s lieutenant out of the way, but a shard of crystal impaled your shoulder. You hid the injury, snapping the shard off and wrapping it with a silk scarf from the loot. By the time you returned to his gallery, you collapsed into a display of Venetian glass roses.

The scarf was Taehyung’s first gift to you. Blood soaked its embroidered initials: KTH.

HOW TAEHYUNG FINDS OUT

he’s hosting an “art auction” for laundering profits

you stumble into the gallery

clutching the bloody scarf

the room gasps

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops his wineglass

it shatters

his grin widens unnaturally

“Darling, you’re upstaging the Monet.”

Eyes

pupils dilate

black swallowing amber

“Who… broke my masterpiece?”

Voice

soft, singsong

“Oops. Time to repaint.”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“My fault. Mine. Should’ve burned that gallery first. She’s pale. Too pale. I’ll paint the walls with their veins.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

lifts you onto the auction podium

ignoring the crowd

presses a jade dagger (his favorite) to your collarbone

“Hold still. This’ll sing.”

Dialogue

“You ruined my scarf. Now I’ll ruin them.” 

his hands tremble as he extracts the crystal

Subtext

hums Winter Bear under his breath

(AU!) the song he wrote after his father’s murder

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself: 

“I’m the curator. I protect beauty. How did I fail?”

at the rivals: 

“They scarred her. I’ll turn their bones into art.”

Fear

flashback to his grandfather's death ((AU) stray bullet at an art show, he was 14)

“No..."

Guilt

shatters every mirror in his estate

“Reflections lie. She’s the only truth.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Exhibition

kidnaps the rival’s family

forces them to recreate the Mone

with their blood as paint

Phase 2: Artistic Annihilation

Method

carves the rival’s logo into their leader’s chest

fills the wounds with molten gold

“Now it’s priceless.”

Finale

mails the sculpture to their matriarch

texts you: “New centerpiece?”

Phase 3: Legacy Erasure

burns their galleries

plants black dahlias in the ashes

“Beauty from rot, jagiya.”

Phase 4: Public Humiliation

leaks their forgeries to Interpol

“Picasso would weep.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he becomes a ghost

haunting his studio

find him smashing clay sculptures

muttering: “Ugly. All ugly.”

Your Move

recreate the Venetian glass roses he loves

leave one on his desk: 

“Still your muse?”

His Breaking Point

crushes the rose

cuts his palm

“Don’t. Don’t make me care. I’ll... I’ll break.”

Key Dialogue

you: “Break, then. I’ll mend you.” him: “Mend?” 

he laughs brokenly

“I’m shattered glass. You’ll bleed.”

Physical Reconciliation

traces your scar with his bloodied hand

“Next time… let the world burn. Just… stay.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!TAE EDITION)

to the rivals: 

“You thought her fragile? No. She’s the fire that melts your gold.”

to you, stitching your wound: 

“I’d raze every museum… to build you a shrine.”

whispered at midnight: 

“You’re my magnum opus. Crack, and I’ll shatter the sky.”

BONUS DETAILS

Cologne Code

wears oud wood during hits

“Smells like… legacy.”

Artistic Outlet

sketches your face on enemy blueprints

“For focus.”

Secret Softness

collects vintage teddy bears for your panic room

“They’re… bulletproof. Obviously.”

JUNGKOOK

HOW YOU GOT HURT

Jungkook assigned you to guard a shipment of vintage motorcycles (his prized collection). A rival gang staged a “distraction”, a stray kitten mewling near the warehouse. You, ever the softie, went to rescue it. A rigged trap exploded, sending shrapnel into your leg. You hid the injury, using your belt as a tourniquet, and delivered the bikes… with blood pooling in the sidecar.

The kitten survived. You named it Tannie and tucked it into your jacket. Jungkook notices the blood after he coos over the cat.

HOW JUNGKOOK FINDS OUT

Setting

in his garage

polishing his Ducati

you limp in

Tannie pokes its head out, unharmed

Jungkook’s smile dies when he sees the crimson streak on your boot

Immediate Reaction

Physical

drops the rag

hands twitch like he wants to strangle the air

Eyes

dilate

flickering between feral black and wounded doe

“You… you’re bleeding.”

Voice

agrowl, low and guttural

“Who. Touched. You.”

Thoughts Flooding His Mind

“My fault. Mine. Should’ve been there. Should’ve smelled them. Stupid. Stupid.”

IMMEDIATE REACTION (to you)

Action

lifts you onto his bike seat

rips your pant leg open

presses a switchblade-heated rag to the wound

no flinch

Dialogue

“Don’t. Move.”

already revving his Ducati,

Tannie tucked in his hoodie pocket

Subtext

murmurs “good girl” to the kitten

won’t meet your eyes

HIS EMOTIONS / INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

Rage

at himself: 

“I’m the weapon. Weapons don’t fail. I failed.”

at the rivals: 

“They used a kitten. A fucking kitten. I’ll skin them alive.”

Fear

flashback to losing his childhood dog in a gang raid. 

“I'll fucking kill them all...”

Guilt

buys Tannie a diamond collar

“She’s… practice. For keeping things safe.”

WHAT HE DOES (REVENGE ACT)

Phase 1: Feral Hunt

tracks the rivals to a chop shop

lets Tannie loose to trip their alarms

“Distraction for a distraction.”

Phase 2: Brutal Efficiency

Method

uses a motorcycle chain to dismantle their leader

breaks bones in reverse order

toes to skull

Finale

leaves the body zip-tied to a “For Sale”

sign: “Free scrap.”

Phase 3: Psychological Warfare

steals their tires

replaces them with marbles

texts them: “Drive safe.”

floods their HQ with stray cats

“Meet your new bosses.”

Phase 4: Legacy Erasure

torches their garage

builds a cat sanctuary on the ashes

Tannie gets a gold plaque: “Head of Security.”

HOW TO WIN HIM BACK

Tension

he avoids you for days

bench-pressing obsessively

find him asleep in the garage

Tannie on his chest

knuckles raw and bleeding

Your Move

challenge him to a sparring match

let him pin you

“Still think I’m breakable?”

His Breaking Point

slams his fist into the mat (right next to your head)

“You are! You’re everything! And I... I’m just… this.” 

gestures to his bloodied hands

Key Dialogue

you: “You’re not just this. You’re my always.” him: “Always?” 

he scoffs

tears mixing with sweat

“Always is a lie. But for you… I’ll pretend.”

Physical Reconciliation

presses his forehead to yours

breath ragged

“Stay. Or I’ll… tie you to the Ducati.”

KEY DIALOGUE (MAFIA!KOOK EDITION)

to the rivals: 

“You hurt her? I’ll make you beg for hell.”

to you, cleaning your wound: 

“You’re my only soft spot. Don’t… blunt me.”

whispered to Tannie: 

“Protect her. Or I’ll… cry.”

BONUS DETAILS

Tattoo Tell

his ”ARMY” tattoo throbs when he’s angry

rubs it like a worry stone

Garage Ritual

builds a mini ARMY bomb replica to hang from his bike (but it's literally a bomb)

“For luck. Duh.”

Secret Softness

learns to knit

to make Tannie sweaters

denies it

“The cat did it.”

[hallagold]

short and not exhaustive list of enrichment activities that teia likes to do at talon meetings to keep things exciting:

• show up in the latest fashions (this has nothing to do with her being one of the only ones out of armor to flex that she isn’t scared of these bitches nor is it about having the girls out to distract people on purpose, why would you say that?)

• refuse to speak in any language but common antivan (why are you talking so much in the 1%’s language?)

• ask other talons “what do you mean by that” and follow up with “i still don’t get it” when they say objectively stupid or offensive things (no, but what do you mean that working women are acceptable collateral damage, bolivar? explain, she wants to know)

• talk to the men (who aren’t viago or lucanis) like this is their first day on the job and that their presence is a burden to the rest of the room (you couldn’t kill a newborn calf hogtied in broad daylight, house arainai, but tell us again about your plan to get the crows back into ferelden because of your gluttony for failure and punishment)

• start intentionally inflammatory rumors she knows aren’t true to hopefully incite some house wars for the houses she hates the most (they don’t deserve any of her energy to dismantle them personally)

• mumble “boring” just a little too loud any time someone she doesn’t like talks for too long (nobody cares that one of your grandmasters is marrying into a merchant prince’s house)

• walk aimlessly around the room (so the paranoid talons get the same rush of adrenaline as if they were being hunted for sport)

• greet a talon she doesn’t like with “i had a dream that you died. the psychic i spoke to about it seemed very concerned. so glad to see i was mistaken” (this talon is very superstitious)

• laugh inappropriately during conversations with other talons and when they ask what is funny, say “nothing. (talon of their enemy house) just said that you would say something like that.” (she walks away after)

• ask the scribe to repeat what bolivar said because the first time she couldn’t hear him over the gag of the crown’s left boot in his mouth (the reason changes to something sillier every time)

[kingofanemptyworld]

mizi I need you to lock the fuck in that man needs to go another round with you now that you don’t have a collar

[zephyrfuse]

hopefully the new points system will help team frye out when they do get no votes (often) cause before least popular was always doomed to lose which was frye 90% of the time

for now for the one time frye gets most popular though it gave least popular team a chance (shiver) which i think is as ironic as all fucking hell but i think we will have a better chance in future fests overall

[a-b-riddle]

You're not her...

I've been seeing a good bit of fics where the reader is left for another woman and people around them are encouraging it. While I do love a good angst, I would simply pass away. Your girl, Riddle, is weak.

Especially if it's my baby boy Simon.... I can't. I love the idea, but as someone who is an absolute crybaby, I wouldn't survive being reader...

So what if that happened to nurse reader's partner left them for a fellow recruit and when everyone starts being like "good for him", the 141 isn't having any of it?

The others on base seemed honestly happy that your heart had absolutely been broken. I mean, you weren't exactly around him as much as she was. You couldn't see the undeniable chemistry there was. You had tried to put on a brave face. But when John had come in for some ointment for a burn and you were falling apart, he gathered up his boys.

Something needed to be done. A point to prove not just to you or your ex or that woman who had chosen to pursue a very much taken man, but to the hold damn unit. Your ex didn't leave you because there was someone else. He left you because he didn't deserve you in the first place.

In hand to hand, Johnny doesn't hold back. Not only does your ex absolutely get his ass handed to him on the mat over and over again, but does it in front of his new girl and everyone else. How embarrassing. Doesn't exactly help that Kyle is on the sidelines talking so much shit that she begins to get the ick. I mean, could he not honestly win one match? Wonder what that says about a man who can't even hold his own? It even gets cringier when your ex tries to place the blame on the drills from yesterday with a certain Ghost.

Simon is already hard as a lieutenant. But add in the factor that the recruit he currently has running drills is the same recruit who hurt his favorite little nurse? The boy would be lucky to crawl out of there. The second an exercise or drill is not made to absolute perfection, Simon has him running it all over again. It almost

John is already starting the transfer papers the first time he catches your eyes the least bit misty. You don't have to see that rubbish and since the prick and slag couldn't have the decency to wait until he had broken up with you properly instead of telling you that even though he was with you, he had fallen for another woman, then they'll be sent to completely different units. John lists the reason for transfer as a liability. If they were so proud of their "love" before, let them keep that same energy.

And Kyle.... Sweet shit talkin' Kyle. Who plants seeds around the entire base. Nowhere are these two lovebird safe from judgment. All of the female recruits have ostracized their fellow female soldier while receiving lewd looks and calls from the males. I mean if she was easy enough to fuck a taken man, then she must be an easy lay. And here comes Kyle, telling your ex 'man-to-man' about seeing his girl with other officers. Kyle is the most gentle when it comes to the 141. But the motherfucker knows a thing or two about psychological warfare.

After your ex and the girl are suddenly, very mysteriously sent elsewhere, everyone starts flocking to you. Offering reassurances on what a bullet you dodged. How, from what they heard, they had broken up shortly after being relocated to separate bases. The boys see your confidence creep back in. Your smile is a little brighter. A little more pep in your step.

You wouldn't tell anyone how your ex had e-mailed you. Complaining about the new base. Explaining how he had ended things and just wanted you back. How he regretted ever letting her get to him, as if she were the only one at fault for kindling the relationship.

It also didn't help that a certain member of the 141 had come by your station, wondering if you wanted to grab a drink when you were off of your shift.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 3 - You've Torn Your Dress

Series Masterlist

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

Word Count: 7.7k

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

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

Read on A03!

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

“She did.”

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

You frowned. “He doesn’t get to win.”

“What are you, five?” 

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

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

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

“I’m on the side of the truth, Love.”

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

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

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

“Nah. Worse.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d live.”

“Bitch.”

“Cunt.”

“Prude.”

“Manwhore.”

“Whiny Brat.”

“Waste of space.”

“Waste of good pussy.”

“Waste of government money.”

“Waste of Compound V.”

“Pathetic, assfaced Dickwad.”

“Stuck up, pretentious Ice Queen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cunt.”

“Bitch.”

“Helpless man-child.”

“Prissy tease.”

“Glorified propaganda poster-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trial run?”

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

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

“Last time you failed,” Hughie muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Head-popper?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Disappear?” You interrupted Butcher with raised eyebrows.

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

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

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

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

Hughie checked his watch. “Ten minutes ago.”

“Ago?” Your eyes widened.

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

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

———-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Grabbed you?! Like, he touched you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a fucking street, Hughie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could help-“

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

She gave another nervous hum, and Ben jumped in.

“Can you answer my fucking question-“

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

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

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

———-

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

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

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

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

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

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“No.”

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

“I’m not telling you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soldier Boy blinked. “He fucks it?”

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

“Are you going to answer my question?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well?”

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

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

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

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

“He kept you locked up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[alba1221141]

Mary Janes

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

3

Y/N

She’s not here. Again...Focus.

I lower my pen. Back to my notes. Bullet points, crisp, structured. The teacher drones on, voice blending with the rustle of paper, the relentless click of pens. And yet, my eyes dart to the back of the room. To her seat.

Empty.

Of course, it’s empty. She’s never here. Too busy skipping, loitering, doing whatever people like her do when they’re not busy wasting potential. A quiet huff escapes my lips, and I straighten in my chair, brushing away the invisible speck of dust from my cuff.

Why does it bother me? Why does she bother me?

The door bursts open with all the subtlety of a cannon, and in she struts—Jinx, the resident chaos embodied. She stands there for a beat, letting all eyes soak her in like she’s the main act at some twisted circus.

Her braids are messy, straggling at the ends like she’s forgotten what a comb is. Her uniform? A farce. The shirt’s untucked, the skirt’s too short, and those torn tights have definitely seen better days. But it’s the chunky platform boots that make the most noise, clomping against the floor like she’s got something to prove.

“Oops, did I interrupt something?” she grins, completely unfazed.

“Miss Jinx,” Mrs Harrison says through gritted teeth, “you’re late. Again.”

“Fashionably,” Jinx chirps back, plopping into a seat with enough force to make it screech. Clearly used to Jinx's absolute shenanigans Mrs Harrison just sighs and goes back to explaining todays assignment.

It's a collaborative assignment on Romeo and Juliet .

Collaborative?

I feel my stomach churn. I’m used to being left alone in class, my quiet demeanor and diligent note-taking keeping me safe from group assignments. But today, I’m stuck with someone. My eyes flick nervously around the room, and then—inevitably—her name is called.

What a cliche.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Jinx

Oh fucking shit.

Her? I have to work with her?

That's got to be some sick mental torture.

This is some advanced-level psychological warfare. Torture by forced proximity—congrats, humanity, you’ve peaked.

I look over at her, and she’s already shooting daggers at me with that icy stare of hers.

I can’t help it—I waggle my fingers at her, just to fuck with her. She doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like it at all. But I can’t stop, it’s too damn fun.

She glares harder, and I can see her teeth clenching behind that fake calm. Classic.

“Really? We’re doing the silent treatment thing already?” I say, grinning.

“Shut up for gods sake.” she mutters, shoving her disgustingly perfect notebook my way like I’ll taint it by breathing too close.

She pulls out her notes on ye olde Romeo and Juliet, like she’s about to make a damn presentation or something, all pristine and in order.

“Wow.” I glance at the pristine handwriting. “Do you alphabetize your brain too, or is this just for me?”

Her jaw tightens. She’s two seconds from snapping. "Focus. For five seconds. I’m begging you."

"Aw, begging already?" I smirk, leaning forward. "This partnership’s off to a great start."

Y/N's cheeks flame.

What the fuck?

She liked that?

I liked that.... shut the fuck up, i did not.

Shit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

“Just read them, please…” Her voice is softer now.

I stare at her for a second. That wasn’t what I was expecting. Is she trying to pull some kind of mind game on me?

Please.

That doesn’t fly with me.

“C’mon, Powder! Please, please, please!" Best two outta three!” Y/N bounces on her toes, her hair sticking out everywhere, catching the sun like some star.

Her cheeks are all red ‘cause she’s been laughing too hard, and her eyes are huge and serious like marbles are the most important thing ever.

I giggle, covering my mouth. “You’re so silly.”

She puffs out her chest. “Silly and ready to win!”

"But please-"

"Fine," I snap, snatching the stupid notes off the desk.

The edges crumple under my grip—oh no, how tragic. I toss her a glare for good measure.

Y/N just blinks, all wide eyes and calm. Ugh, hate that.

I start flipping through the notes, the edges rough against my fingers.

Her handwriting is infuriatingly neat—perfect loops, evenly spaced lines, no smudges.

It screams, I’ve got my shit together, which just makes me want to set it on fire.

I glance up. She’s watching me.

Of course she’s watching me.

Always with the staring.

“What?” I snap, holding the notes up like a shield. “See something fascinating?”

Her pen clicks. And clicks. And clicks. My eye twitches.

“I wasn’t staring,” she mutters. Her face? Red. Like I caught her.

“Sure. Right. Definitely just, what? Admiring the air?” I wave the notes in her direction. “Big fan of oxygen, huh?”

She exhales hard. Through her nose. Like I’m the annoying one. “Can we just focus?”

“Focus?” I bark out a laugh. “On this? Your little masterpiece? I’m riveted. Truly.” I flip a page, not even looking.

Her jaw tightens.

Oh, she’s pissed. “Yes. Focus. Maybe try it for once in your life.”

Ouch. That stings. A little. Barely. Not that I’d ever admit it. “Whatever,” I grumble, tossing the notes back onto the table like they’re cursed.

She grabs them. Doesn't even flinch. Slides a pen my way. Doesn’t say a word.

I glare at the pen.

It’s just... too perfect.

Too clean.

I hate how it sits there all polished, ready to be put to use. It’s like it’s begging to be ruined. What’s it even supposed to represent?

Control? Order?

Fuck.

But I reach for it anyway. “Fine,” I mutter, voice low. “Don’t expect a damn miracle.”

Her lips twitch. Is that a smile? No, it can’t be. Whatever.

The bell rings.

Noise explodes, everyone scrambling to grab their things, chattering, the rush of papers and bags flooding the room.

But I stay. For a moment, at least.

I can feel her eyes on me, even if I don’t look.

I’m still gripping that stupid pen like it’s something important.

Her words from earlier, they sit in my head, too quiet, too sharp. “Don’t expect miracles,” I had said, but it feels like she’s still waiting for something.

I glance at her once—just once. She’s putting her things away.

I stand up, slow, shoving my things into my bag.

Class around me seems to blur, like I’m moving through thick fog.

The air outside is different, cleaner. I need a break. I need space.

I slip through the crowded hallways, barely registering the sounds of people.

No one notices me.

Or maybe they do, but I don’t care. I make my way up to the roof, breathing a little easier the higher I go.

It’s quiet up here.

I pull out the joint I’ve been holding onto, light it, and take a drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs.

Everything feels better up here.

Like I can breathe again.

The weight of everything—class, Y/N, that fucking pen, all of it—starts to drift away, and I can finally relax.

Just for a minute.

I lean against the roof’s edge, watching the world below. The streets are a blur, just like everything else. Just like her.

I flick the ashes off the side and take another drag.

I sit on the edge, legs dangling off the side, watching everything from a distance.

The school below me is just a blur of colors, all of them blending together like they don’t matter.

It’s funny, how tiny the world looks from here. Even if my world is limited, it feels like I could stretch my arms out and touch everything.

Like I could just... float.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Y/N

The bell rings, snapping me back to reality. The classroom slowly empties, the noise of students packing their bags and talking blending into a dull hum in the background. I remain seated for a moment longer than necessary, still caught in the aftershock of what just happened. My fingers gently tap the strap of my bag, my mind running through every word exchanged with Jinx, trying to make sense of it all.

“Y/N?” Mrs. Harrison’s voice cuts through my thoughts, warm and concerned. “Everything alright?”

I straighten up, meeting her gaze. “Yes, of course. I was just... thinking.”

She offers a kind smile, and I can’t help but return it. Mrs. Harrison always has this calming presence. “Don’t worry about it too much. You’ve been working hard. A little break won’t hurt.”

I nod, forcing my focus back to the present. I gather my things, my movements deliberate, smooth. I walk out of the classroom, a quiet sense of uncertainty hanging over me. The hallway is busier now, students rushing past, laughing and talking in groups. It’s all so loud, so... vibrant. I slow my pace, letting the noise wash over me, but I’m still lost in my thoughts.

The library is my sanctuary. Everything here is neat, quiet, predictable. The opposite of everything about... her. I step inside and let the hush settle over me, smoothing the frayed edges of my thoughts.

My shoes barely make a sound on the polished floor as I navigate the aisles. Rows of spines greet me like old friends. Austen. Brontë. Woolf. Names that speak of worlds where chaos still obeys rules, where stories wrap up neatly, unlike the frayed threads Jinx leaves behind.

I find my usual seat by the window—a table no one ever chooses because it’s too close to the radiator and too far from the popular fiction shelves. Perfect. I slip into the chair, the wood creaking faintly under my weight, and set my notebook down with care.

Opening it feels like opening a door. Everything is still and orderly here. My pen glides smoothly over the page, crafting lines of notes, phrases, sketches of ideas. Each one in its place. Each one exactly how I need it to be.

But then my hand falters. A thought intrudes, unwelcome: blue braids trailing like ribbons, boots scuffing, laughter that sounds like it’s daring the world to stop her. I shake my head, focus sharpening again as I scribble furiously, pen digging into the paper as if I can write her out of my mind.

The sunlight filters through the window, painting soft patterns on the table. The world outside is calm, orderly. Here, at least, I can pretend the storm hasn’t touched me.

Here, I can breathe.

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

authors note: thanks for reading chapter 3, chapter 4 will be coming in due time, I hope you've picked up on the dual writing style by now and how it varies by perspective, Jinx's is more sporadic, and fast paced whereas Y/N's is a bit more structured and slower.

please like and reblog :)

[corellianhounds]

You know what people like better than a Strong Female Character™, Filoni?

A strongly written character.

Season 2 finale of The Mandalorian, after a more fractious and character-driven episode of “The Heiress,” has Mando begrudgingly asking Bo-Katan for help retrieving his kid only because it’s clear she’s had experience hijacking and navigating around Imperial ships, she has numbers with Koska and Axe behind her, and she is a legitimately good fighter.

Bo-Katan initially scoffs and refuses. To her, he is either intentionally or unintentionally the reason she lost the shipment of Imperial arms and munitions, and their culture clash only drove the divide between them even wider. Now he wants her help? Is he insane?

“It’s Moff Gideon’s lightcruiser,” Mando says.

And that gives her pause. She sneers at him with both derision and suspicion, saying nobody can just track down an Imperial Moff, especially a Moff who’s former ISB, especially by someone like you, Mando.

Mando grits his teeth and shows her verifiable proof and oh, noooooow she’s whistling a different tune. She readily agrees, giving him the same warning about leaving Gideon for her to fight. Din doesn’t care: his child is his only priority.

So the infiltration goes off and they get inside the ship with their collective crews. Mando beats Moff Gideon and saves his child, and then he shows up on the bridge with the Darksaber in hand, the tip of the blade humming at Gideon’s back.

Now Bo-Katan is even angrier. He, deliberately or not (and at this point she’s certain it’s deliberate, him continuing to foil her at every turn), did the one thing she told him not to do, and now this- this outsider, this cultist who knows nothing, is standing there with her sword.

And then he has the audacity to offer it up in forfeit, right there in front of everybody. There’s no possible way she’ll be able to challenge him for the sword now because people will know that he never wanted it in the first place, so he’d obviously just be throwing the fight and she’d have no legitimate claim over it.

He doesn’t even want it.

“It has to be won in combat,” she grits out through her teeth. She can’t even attack him here, not when he’s already tried to yield it to her and he’s holding the foundling he saved as a result of winning said fight in his other arm. The Mandalorian ideal, wrapped up in this new suit laden with more beskar than she’s seen in one place for a long time.

She can’t even begin to say how much she hates him right now.

But then in her periphery she hears Moff Gideon chuckle, and Bo-Katan bristles, knowing exactly what he’s about to say as soon as she hears him laugh and it’s going to ruin everything, but she’s too late

“Why can’t he forfeit the sword?” Gideon taunts. “Thats how I got it from you.”

The bright flash of a blaster bolt sails through the air and hits Gideon square in the chest, knocking him back with a grunt as she strides forward to kill him with her bare hands. There’s an immediate clamoring of voices, the drop soldier hitting her like a brick wall and holding her back while everyone else tries to break up the impending fight, saying he’s a war criminal who needs to answer to the New Republic for his crimes. Gideon groans, falling back against the console as his plastoid chest plate smokes, and Bo-Katan Kryze trembles with rage.

Koska and Axe are behind her. She knows what expression she’ll see on their faces, the immediate disdain and loss of respect. She shouldn’t have shot him. She shouldn’t have shot him because that’s more of an admission of guilt than anything, and now all of them know.

Gideon still somehow manages to chuckle weakly and she realizes that he knew exactly what he was doing. Even defeated and without recourse, he excels at psychological warfare and he’s just fractured any and all support she may have ever had at her back. The Nite Owls know. The cultist knows. The droptrooper, the assassin, the clone—

Everybody now knows that Bo-Katan Kryze, Mandalorian heiress to the throne of their homeworld, had at one point in time faced down Moff Gideon with the Darksaber in hand and had not fought to the death. They know that she forfeited the sword at the height of the Empire’s war, and they knew that Mandalore had fallen either because of her surrender, or because she was foolish enough to believe they would grant them mercy.

To them, she’s either completely inept and an idiot, or she’s a traitor, or she’s a coward, if not all three. Nothing about her actions was befitting of a Mandalorian and she’s fought so hard for so long to keep anybody else from finding out. With two sentences Moff Gideon has ripped any support or chance at leadership away from her entirely. It doesn’t matter what her intentions were when she surrendered; no one will ever truly know or believe her because there is no other way for them to see this freshly re-opened wound as anything other than a complete disgrace to her house, her creed, and her armor. Nobody will rally behind her now.

At the end of season 2, Bo-Katan is alone.

[cringefailvox]

I'm assuming there's going to be some sort of twist with the Vees or Alastor's powers in S2 because I KNOW he'd probably tank them easily- Vox and Velvette's domains are both built off of radio waves, right? He seemed to be able to cancel out Vox's hypnosis in Stayed Gone. And Velvette also dabbles in magic but like... she hasn't been in Hell nearly as long as Alastor, and he probably practiced in life, too.

Obviously there's still Valentino but. That's two out of three Vees. I'm sure the rest of the crew could team up to take down Val and win.

there's like hardly any evidence for this position i'm about to take but i actually think vox and alastor are evenly matched power-wise. val does say that alastor almost beat vox once, and while you can interpret that line in all kinds of ways, it does imply to me at least that alastor can't easily 1v1 vox in a full-on confrontation. stayed gone was different because that was a propaganda battle and vox was off his game (ofc, we don't know what him being on top of his game looks like yet), so alastor wrecked his shit with psychological warfare, but when it comes to actual raw strength i think alastor would really struggle, and up against all three of the vees together he would be entirely outclassed

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Ur writing is so easy to dive into I desperately need more!!! Is there more???? What happens to this awful wet cat of a woman next?????????????

uuuh. this.

in reference to this, for anyone who finds this just incomprehensible.

It turned out that she wasn't going to be left alone to rot in peace.

It turned out that she wasn't going to be left alone to rot in peace.

On Jessie’s disgustingly cheerful, rainbow-spangled doormat (an impulse purchase from a previous June that currently pissed her off every time she looked at it) a cupcake, a birthday card, and a note torn from a yellow legal pad were waiting for her.

The cupcake was chocolate topped with a mountain of blue buttercream frosting and edible glitter, and if Jessie's day kept going this badly it was probably going to end up being her dinner.

The card, also coated in glitter, wished her a happy birthday and was signed with a flourish from Uncle Ray. Ray wasn’t related to her in any biological sense of the word, but he’d been a friend of Jessie’s father since before Jessie was born, and that had to count for something. It was like her brother always said: family wasn’t about who you were related to, it was about who was there for you.

Uncle Ray was also, unfortunately, the owner of the building Jessie currently lived in and therefore her landlord, which was currently counting for way too much.

On the note he’d left her a hurried, shaky-handed explanation: he was sorry to miss her, hoped she was having fun on her birthday, and as a gift he’d be waiving May’s rent, which they both knew perfectly well was extremely overdue. However, he warned, he expected the money for June right on time at the start of the month, and if she failed to deliver they were going to need to have a very serious talk about Jessie’s status as a tenant moving forward.

And then, because Uncle Ray was Uncle Ray, he’d given her a little wiggle room: a PS, informing her that Mrs. Hoang said her dishwasher was acting up again, and that he’d happily credit the repair towards Jessie’s account if it meant he didn’t have to call in his idiotic repairman. Jessie didn’t understand for the life of her the psychological warfare that was going on between the two of them, or why Ray didn’t just fire the poor dunce if he hated him so much, but she wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to get paid for hanging out with Mrs. Hoang. Jessie loved old people, and Mrs. Hoang was a hoot. 

She pretended not to see the second maintenance job he offered her, fixing up a dryer and a washer in the basement that had both started spitting people’s quarters back out at them when they were done running. It had taken Jessie a long time to figure out how to make them do that, and she wasn’t one to foul up her own handiwork. 

Alright. Alright. This wasn't good, exactly, but she had somewhere to start, something to keep her occupied instead of completely falling apart. If she didn't give herself a little task right this second she would probably do what she had been doing for days at a time ever since Jonas left: wallowing in her own misery, eating weed gummies and jacking off, listening to true crime podcasts and shopping online until it was time to microwave something for dinner. If the morons in the Brig could see her like that they would cream their standard issue sweatpants. She decided to implement a new rule of personal conduct: whenever she found herself doing something that would make Whirligig feel like she was winning their friend breakup, Jessie had to cut that shit out immediately.

With that in mind, Jessie dragged herself to the bathroom to shower off the morning’s disgrace and wash her hair for the first time in, arguably, too many days. When the hot water ran out, something that she would be holding her uncle accountable for, she toweled off and crawled into a ratty tank top and snowflake-patterned pajama pants. A laundry day outfit for sure, but a.) it actually was laundry day, thank you very much, and b.) she deserved some time in soft clothing after spending the night packed into her catsuit like a can of spam. Then came the first of several trips up and down too many flights of stairs, because despite the criminal lack of an elevator Jessie was determined to throw all of her heaps of laundry into the wash at once. It was sort of a dick move, monopolizing all the washers like that, but she couldn’t wait around all day and her neighbors would forgive her when they realized that all of the machines would spit their change back out now. What, like Jessie had enough quarters for that many loads of laundry? In this economy?

Then she shuffled to the second floor to see Mrs. Hoang, who didn’t care that she was in pajamas and insisted that Jessie stay to have some soup before she started fiddling with the dishwasher. It was a damn good soup, extra spicy bún bò that filled her up so well that she was glad she’d neglected to eat her cupcake. Jessie ate it without saying much, offering a sympathetic ear and supportive scoffs while Mrs. Hoang talked about the convoluted feuds she kept up with various shopkeepers and other elderly women in the neighborhood.

As usual Mrs. Hoang left the TV on while she talked, the news turned down to almost nothing. She hardly seemed to notice it was on, but Jessie’s eye was caught when the puff pieces dissolved into a scene from downtown earlier that day. Nothing too shocking, by Rustbelt’s standards: Ricochet, red and self-righteous, duking it out with some new nobody on the scene, disrupting downtown traffic earlier that afternoon. Jessie ran the numbers, and figured this must have taken place not long at all after she was ingloriously dispatched from N.E.X.T. Had Ric already known? Was that why she was in such a hurry to send Jessie packing? It was nice to imagine there was a reason rather than her archenemy being an asshole, but she knew it was more likely the latter. 

In any case, the new kid hardly seemed like he was worth it. Sure, he was putting on a show. Whatever his trick was, he managed to shatter every pane of glass out of the sparkling facade of the Van Houten Charitable Foundation, a window virtually made of buildings, and send the shards surging across Central Square straight at Ricochet. She was fine, of course, boinging away to safety like the world’s bitchiest little frog, but the cars and businesses around her were definitely going to need some TLC. Hopefully they had powers insurance; you’d have to be a fool to live in Rustbelt without it. And this was a crystal clear claim, in Jessie’s inexpert opinion, caught on camera from multiple angles and everything.

But the actual so-called villain? Pathetic. Amateur hour. Nobody knew his name, for one, because he hadn’t bothered to announce himself, so the chyron at the bottom of the screen could only refer to him as “mystery criminal.” Hardly inspiring stuff; nobody was going to be shelling out for merch of Mystery Criminal. And he hadn’t even bothered to get a decent outfit together, instead showing up in ratty black skinny jeans and a green hoodie like he was fresh off a shift at Hot Topic. He was wearing a backpack, for fucks sake! The only points Jessie would give him were for the fact that he’d at least had the presence of mind to keep the hood up, which was concealing his face to an impressive degree. None of the security cameras or cell phone footage seemed to have gotten a clear look at his face, so at least that was something.

Still, she wasn’t impressed.

“I can’t stand it when these wannabes come crawling out of the woodwork with no direction, no goals, no panache, no nothing,” she said to Mrs. Hoang. “Like, you’re not a villain just because you have powers. If you’re not going to put any artistry into it, you might as well just put your hand in your pocket to pretend you have a gun and go rob a 7/11.”

“Well, not everyone can be as professional as you. You’ve got the passion for it, more than anybody I’ve ever met in my life.” Mrs. Hoang said from beside the kitchen window, where she was on her second cigarette and blowing smoke rings. She was a pack a day kind of broad with a voice to match, and Jessie admired the old-school panache even if she shuddered to imagine the state of Mrs. Hoang’s lungs.

The compliment made her blush. “Thank you. You really mean that?”

Mrs. Hoang shrugged. “I’ve met every type of criminal they make, right? And nobody’s having more fun than you. There are kingpins living in palaces on their own tropical islands who don’t like what they do as much as you do. I think you’re made for this.”

“God, thank you. I’ve been kind of, like, second-guessing myself lately.”

“What? Since when?”

“I don’t know. Like, this morning?”

Jessie gave Mrs. Hoang the abridged version, leaving out details here and there that made her seem extra pathetic—namely, the thing about Ricochet’s secret identity. Jessie didn’t mind painting herself as a victim of N.E.X.T.’s bullying, but she didn’t want to implicate Jonas in anything. The two of them had to present a united front always; that was one of their rules. Still, she was pretty sure she got across exactly how fucked she was, which was why it surprised her when Mrs. Hoang simply shrugged her bony shoulders again.

“You’ll figure it out,” she proclaimed.

“Yeah but, like, how?”

“Well, that part’s not my job. What, you think I’m going to train you? You think I’m trying to be your fucking Mr. Miyagi?” Mrs. Hoang cackled so hard at her own joke that she made herself cough, pounding her chest until she got it back together. “Look, you’re a great girl. I’d let you marry one of my grandsons.”

“You said you’d disown them if they married white people!”

“Eh, I’m getting desperate with this one. He’s a good boy, smart, but he’s got no direction. No ambition. All he does after work is go home to play his video games. I think girls scare him.” She looked at Jessie meaningfully. “He’d be an easy husband, is all I’m saying. He works in tech, makes lots of money that you could spend however you want. And a tough girl like you could really sort him out.”

“I really appreciate it, but I’m not marrying your cringefail loser grandson. That feels wrong, somehow. Like, extremely wrong. I feel like you’re trying to sell him to me.”

“See? You’re a good girl,” Mrs. Hoang said. “But you’re also an eel. That’s the point I was getting to. You’re slippery. You’ll wiggle around and bite whoever you need to so you can survive, because you have to. What else would you do? What is there for you, if not being a villain?”

That wasn’t a rhetorical question; she had a hard look to her face like she actually expected answers. So Jessie scrambled, trying to come up with anything else she might feasibly do to pay the bills.

“I mean, sales? I used to do that.”

“Where’s the last place you were a salesgirl?”

“This snooty-ass jewelry place in the mall. Mostly selling engagement rings and stuff. I kind of hated it, and they ended up firing me for, you know. Stealing an engagement ring with a big honkin’ diamond in it.” 

“You can’t work sales, girl. You love to steal.”

“Okay! But what about, like, waitressing?”

“You’ve done that before?”

“No, but I know how restaurants work. I can hold things. I’m good with people. How hard can it be?”

Mrs. Hoang waved her cigarette scoldingly in Jessie’s direction. “First of all, you apologize to waitresses. That’s skilled work. You can hold things, but what are you going to  do when some tight-ass starts yelling at you for not bringing her shitty kid enough chicken strips? And your feet hurt, and half your dipshit coworkers didn't show up for shift, the head cook is on meth, and nobody's tipping worth shit?”

Jessie tried and failed a few times to come up with what was probably the right answer, and ultimately landed on something a lot closer to the truth. “I don’t know, call in a bomb threat and go home early? Jesus Christ, that sounds like a nightmare.”

“Apologize to waitresses!”

“Sorry, waitresses.” She rolled something around in her mouth, unsure if she should say it at all, then figured it couldn’t hurt to dig herself in a little deeper. “There’s this other place that’s, like, super shady and hires girls who don’t even have to serve the wings, they just walk around in costumes. So like models, basically. It’s superhero themed, and they just have all these girls there to hang out dressed up as the slutty Halloween costume version of heroes and villains and stuff. I figure they might hire me on the spot if they realize who I am, because having the real Frostbite is kind of a get, right? And then I get paid to just, like, hang out with other cute girls and take pictures with people like a character at Disneyland.” Not that Jessie had ever been to Disneyland, but she gets the idea. 

“Okay, so what’s stopping you from doing that? Go apply right now.”

Jessie groaned. “But, like, I know that the first time some guy gets too grabby I’m going to break his fingers and get turbo fired. And also there’s a chance that they’ll tell me I’m too fat to play Frostbite, which is, like, you know. Obviously I’ll just have to burn the entire restaurant down, which is probably illegal.”

Mrs. Hoang nodded like this was all going about as well as she’d expected. “Anything else?”

“Well, like, I have the crafting thing, right? Like, I take some commissions and stuff. I could pivot to do that full time?”

“No. Never try to make a hobby your whole life. You’ll end up hating it.” Mrs. Hoang nodded to the soup simmering on the stove, making a face. “I like to cook. You know what happened when I tried to start a restaurant?”

“You ended up having to burn it down, change your name, and leave San Jose forever.”

“And kill my second husband.”

“You killed your… I don’t know if you’ve ever told me that part before.”

Mrs. Hoang shrugged, as if to say that sometimes second husbands had to die and there was nothing that could be done about it. “He was more of a business partner than a husband, really. Not a lot of love. Sometimes it’s the partner that’s the problem, you know what I mean?”

“I’m not killing my brother,” Jessie said flatly.

“No, no. But you don’t need him, either. You’re smart, tough, quick-thinker. Go find someone else to do crime with you. You want to hang around with pretty girls in costumes so much, go find some yourself. Every big villain I see on TV, he’s got some lay sidekick in a sparkly little outfit. Why not you?”

“I mean, those girls are all union. I can’t afford moll rates.”

“So don’t hire a professional, dumbass. Get a friend,” Mrs. Hoang said. She flicked a little ash off her cigarette derisively. “You remember how to do that?”

“Yeah,” said Jessie, who wasn’t actually sure of that at all. When was the last time she’d made a friend? There was Whirligig, which had obviously been an ass-shattering disaster. Even before it broke really bad, there had never really been a lot of love between them. Then there was Xochitl, who Jessie actually liked and had still managed to completely blow her chances with. That one was still so raw that she couldn’t even joke about it. God, why couldn’t Xo have just yelled at her like a normal person? It would be so much easier if they could just hate each other now. And she’d made a hell of an effort with Night Noir when they did that little crossover job in the fall, but all that had gotten her was the worst ghosting of her life. 

Maybe she didn’t actually know how to make a friend. Maybe she could start by finding a henchperson and figure it out from there. She didn’t really need a friend friend, right? A partner would suffice. Anyone to fill the Jonas-shaped void while Jessie figured out how to go it alone. Sure, she and her brother had been a team. But anyone could watch her back, right? That was hardly skilled labor.

“You really think I can do it? Run my own shit?” 

It was a question for herself as much as for Mrs. Hoang, one of the biggest things that had been pinning her into inaction for the past few months even as it became increasingly clear that she needed to do literally anything. The solution was obvious, really; there was no other path Jessie could take. But the prospect of figuring out how to do it all alone, of having to stand without Jonas’ support for the first time in her life, was scaring her shitless. 

Mrs. Hoang sighed. “What do you like about it? Being a villain?”

Jessie hadn’t expected another question, but this time she was immediately ready with an answer. 

“It’s fun. I mean, it’s hard and stressful and it's kind of scary, but it’s never boring. Every job is a different challenge, and I really like that. And things actually happen. At most jobs you do the same thing over and over again every day to try and keep everything the same forever, right? If you do everything right, nothing really changes. Best case scenario, some months you sell more stuff than last month. But if I do my job right I get to go home with a diamond the size of my ass cheek, because I was smart enough and tough enough and ballsy enough to take it when nobody else was. And there’s no CEO or boss or board of directors who get to take a cut or give me a bad performance review or anything. Nobody can fire me. Nobody can tell me what to do. I’m free to do whatever I want.”

She stumbled a little on the last part, because it wasn’t exactly true anymore. Ricochet very much had told her what to do, had even taken away her freeze ray to really rub it in, and Jessie had no fucking idea what she was supposed to do about that. She had spent years thinking of Ricochet like a yappy little dog, irksome but easy enough to kick away when she got too annoying. And now it turned out she wasn’t scared of Jessie and never had been, and Jessie’s head was still spinning.

Mrs. Hoang cleared her throat, snatching Jessie’s attention back. “You know how you look, when you talk about it?”

“What?”

“You talk about being a villain like you’re in love. You get this look on your face like my third husband used to get, back when we were falling in love.”

“The one in Rikers?”

“God bless him.” Mrs. Hoang crossed herself in the wrong order, cigarette trailing a smoky crucifix across her chest. “Listen to me: you look happier talking about crime than most people do talking about their own children. We all have to work until we die on this bitch of an earth, so if you can make money doing something you don’t hate, why would you let that go? Because your brother’s not around? Your brother’s a bastard. You don’t need him.”

“Hey.”

“I know you love him, but you’re a smart girl. You can love someone and know they’re a bastard. That’s my third husband, too. You’re tough. You’re a survivor. And you never take no for an answer. So why the hell are you waiting for an old woman to tell you that you can do it?”

“You’re right. Oh my god, you’re so right.” Jessie stood up, awkwardly smoothing out her pajama pants. Suddenly she was feeling hideously underdressed, embarrassed to have even gone outside of her apartment like this. She had a reputation to maintain. “Thank you so much for this. What time is it? I need to get moving. I have to get my life together.”

“Eh eh, hold on.” Mrs. Hoang snapped her fingers impatiently. “You need to fix my dishwasher first. It’s making that noise again. I can’t stand that shit.”

“Oh, fuck. Sorry. Hang on.” Jessie immediately redirected that energy back into the kitchen, yanking open the dishwasher and dropping straight to the floor. “Seriously, thank you so much. I really appreciate it when you let me pick your brain like this. You don’t happen to have a cringe pushover granddaughter, do you? I’d marry her in a heartbeat.”

“Nice try. All of my granddaughters are brilliant and mean.”

“God, that’s hot.”

“I’m very proud. I’ll pack up some leftovers for you, okay? I know you’ve been sad without your bastard brother around. It’s hard to eat when you’re sad. You should have come to see me sooner, so I could feed you.”

“I’m really sorry,” Jessie told her, and meant it. “I’ve been in kind of a funk, you know? But I’m trying to shake it off now. I promise.”

That was an understatement. What remained of the afternoon passed in a blur, with Jessie cramming in as much as she could to make up for lost time. She actually put away all of her clean clothes when they were done drying instead of leaving them to rot in the laundry basket, got dressed in a proper functioning outside outfit, and styled her hair and slapped on a little eyeliner and lip gloss for good measure. Then she went to see Isaac, the sweet Zimbabwean grad student across the hall. She’d been letting him use her Wi-Fi since he moved in and had knitted him a scarf to get him through the winter, and he’d always sworn he owed her a big favor for it while Jessie swore that he didn’t owe her anything at all.

Well, the times were a-changing, and Jessie was coming to collect. 

He was surprised to see her but didn’t refuse when she asked to go to the grocery store, or ask questions when she insisted on going to the fancy one that was well outside of their neighborhood. Jessie recommended, as delicately as possible, that he stay in the car while she shopped, and if he suspected that she’d stolen every single item in her overstuffed cart then he was polite enough not to say anything about it. It was a risky move, for sure, but if Jessie had learned anything as a child it was that even the worst circumstances seemed a little better when you at least had a full pantry, and she needed to save the last of her dwindling cash for bigger and better things. 

One-Eyed Polly’s was cash-only, after all, and somehow it always came back to One-Eyed Polly’s.  

According to family legend, everything had actually started there for Jessie, specifically in the middle stall of the women’s bathroom where her mother’s water broke. Yes, her mother really was the kind of bitch who was still hanging out at the local bad guy bar shooting the shit and hustling people at pool while she was nine months pregnant. Explains some things, doesn’t it? 

Anyway, Jesie spent her childhood obsessed with the idea of the place. It was a mythical location in her little kid brain, like the White House or the North Pole. God only knew what actually went on in there, but her imagination was filling in the gaps in the most lurid way possible. Polly’s was where Dad went to find work when every other lead dried up and the family was getting desperate, their saving grace. Dad would slink off to Polly’s when the power was about to get turned off, and he’d come back flush with confidence and enough money that the family wouldn’t have to worry for a few more months.

He never told Jessie much about Polly’s when she pressed, or anything else about his work. From Jonas she had gathered that their dad, gentle and bumbling as he was, had been an enforcer once, what Jonas scathingly called dumb muscle. It made sense, physically; Jonas and Dad were built exactly alike, tall and broad and sort of looming huge no matter what they did to seem smaller. But Dad didn’t do that anymore, not in years. These days he kept his head low, mostly serving as a driver, but he still wasn’t sharing any details. 

In young Jessie’s mind Polly’s was a nightclub like the ones on cop shows, dark rooms with throbbing music where sexily-dressed people writhed through smoke and neon lights. The villains would lean up against the walls, watching the crowd with a sharp gaze until they found just what they were looking for, and then they’d smile and beckon the lucky hench who’d caught their eye. You. And the crowds would part to let the chosen one through, everyone envious of whatever trait had been enough to deem them worthy. 

Admittedly it was hard to picture her deeply uncool dad in such a setting, but it must have worked out somehow. 

She didn’t actually get to see what Polly’s was like until she was thirteen, and that was still too early as far as Jonas was concerned. Before they went in he’d given her a whole lecture in the car, his knuckles white on the steering wheel even though they were parked.

“I’m going to walk you up to the bar and have you sit with Maudie, alright? She’ll take care of you.”

“Will she make me a drink?” Jessie asked. She was avoiding looking at her brother because she didn’t want him to see how excited she was, or that she’d been experimenting with eyeliner and mascara. He wouldn’t care that she was wearing makeup, but he would want to know where she got it and he’d probably guess that she’d also been experimenting with shoplifting. Best to annoy him on purpose so he had something else to be grouchy about.

It worked perfectly, and he made a sound of deep distress like he thought she was being serious. “You can’t drink. She’ll find you a chocolate milk or something, and then you’ll hang out with her until I’m done with my meeting. Don’t talk to anybody else, okay?”

“Why not?”

“Stranger danger, Jess, come on. People are freaks in here.”

“You’re here.”

“Because I have to be, alright? I don’t like it.” Jonas rubbed his eyes, looking tired. He’d looked tired since he moved out of their parents’ house, so much that Jessie worried about his health. She swore he was starting to get gray hairs, even though he’d only just turned twenty-one.

“What am I allowed to do?”

“Have a nice conversation with Maud. Tell her about how good you’re doing in school.”

“I’m not doing good in school.”

“Then you better come up with something nice to talk about, because you’re not doing anything else. Don’t even look at anybody too much, people get twitchy if you start doing that in case you’re a snitch.”

“Am I allowed to piss?”

He looked strained, the way he always did when she swore for no reason. “Have Maudie go with you.”

“Seriously? I’m not a baby, I can go to the bathroom by myself.” Jessie couldn’t even imagine what kind of trouble he thought she would get into there. In health class they’d said that people hung out in strange bathrooms to offer kids drugs, but that seemed stupid to Jessie. She would probably take a drug if it was free, just to see what it was like, but someone giving something away for no money seemed like a stupid idea to her even though she’d gotten detention for saying it.

Anyway, Maudie wouldn’t let something like that happen in her bar.

“I know you can wipe yourself, doofus, but you’re also gonna meet someone and start talking their ear off,” Jonas was saying. “Don’t do that.”

“Gaaaaawd. Why don’t you just leave me in the car if you’re so worried about it?”

“Because that’s child abuse. Any more questions?”

She could have asked questions forever, if he’d let her, but she was getting antsy and didn’t want to make him late, so she zipped her lips and shook her head. 

Jonas steered her inside with a big hand on her shoulder, his skin a little chilly even through his stupid little driving gloves. When they stepped through the door Jessie’s hopes momentarily soared, then immediately crashed and hit the ground like a dead seagull. Where was the pounding synth and the sex appeal? This was just a boring room with worn-out furniture and a pool table and completely normal lighting shining down on a scratch-up wooden floor. The most notable features were a jukebox blasting old people rock that made Jessie think of her dad and an ashtray smell that made her think of her mom.

Her brother steered her straight back to the bar, where a graying butch was waiting with a dusty can of grape soda that had clearly been dug up from somewhere deep in the bowels of the basement.

“Heya, tyke,” Maudie said, unsmiling.

“Heya, dyke,” Jessie said, with a shit-eating grin. She swung herself up onto one of the barstools, kicking her legs eagerly. “How’s it hanging?”

“Same old.” Maud turned to Jonas, somber. “Recluse is already waiting for you in the corner.”

Jessie swiveled all the way around her stool to have a look, and was delighted to see a menacing figure occupying the big booth jammed into a corner at the back of the room. She was wearing a lengthy trench coat that was bulging in the back, with long, bristling black spider limbs poking out at angles that didn’t seem like they should work. 

“Holy shit,” Jessie said, right before her brother spun her forcibly back around to look at Maud.

“Do not,” he said. “Please. I’ll be right back.”

He patted the top of her head and left, hunching his shoulders the way he did when he wanted to look even bigger and wider. Maudie sighed, long and slow.

“How’s school, kid?”

“Stupid. I wish it was summer.” 

“Yeah? What are you going to do when school’s out?”

“I don’t know. Watch TV. Who’s Recluse?”

“Trouble. Mind your own business.”

“Why’s Jonas talking to her?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Does she owe him money?”

“How about I put this pop in a margarita glass, huh? Would that be fun for you?”

“Can I have a little paper umbrella?”

“We don’t do those here. You get the fancy glass, take it or leave it.”

“Take it.”

The grape soda tasted musty, the carbonated fizz warm on her tongue, but Jessie sipped it anyway to be polite, swirling it the way she saw women do with wine glasses on TV. Her eyes were swiveling over the glass, trying to get a look at anyone else inside without being obvious about it. There was mostly nothing to see except a lot of sad, slouchy men who looked like her dad, but over at the dartboard there was a woman that Jessie wanted to look at forever.

There were some men with her, too, but she was clearly the center of the situation. Tall and leggy (in the normal way, not like Recluse), pale and dark-haired, face filled with all kinds of exciting piercings that Jessie hadn’t previously realized were even possible. Her outfit was all black, shiny black boots and a black cropped t-shirt and tight black pants that rode low enough to show off a skeletal stomach and jutting hips. God, even her belly button was pierced. Her whole body was like a knife, nothing but sharp edges and bits of metal. As Jessie watched, the pointy woman flipped a dart backwards over her own shoulder and hit a perfect bullseye, never even glancing at the board.

“Stop,” Maud said sharply.

“Stop what?”

“Looking. Thinking. Whatever you’re doing.”

Jessie leaned across the bar, conspiratorial. “Who is she?”

“Too old for you.”

“Maudie! That’s not what I meant!” Jessie said, blushing in a way that strongly suggested otherwise.

“Like hell it’s not.” Maud rolled her eyes, cut a glance over at the sharp woman, and spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “She calls herself Flechette, like machete. You’re not supposed to pronounce it like that, it’s French, but she’s mangling it on purpose. Dumbass. She’s been hustling those saps for the last fifteen minutes, taking them to the cleaners, and if I was dumb enough to gamble I'd say they’re about to start catching on.”

“Hey,” said one of the saps, right on time. “How the hell are you doing that?”

“She’s a freak!” one of his friends declared, which was followed pretty immediately by sounds of terrible pain.

Jessie didn’t turn around fast enough; hardly anyone could have. By the time she could see what was happening Flechette was already twirling a pool cue like a weapon and pulling off a series of improbably high kicks and sharp elbow jabs. The guys she’d been soundly beating were hardly amateurs—they all had the look of professional enforcers, dumb muscle to the bone—but their lumbering punches never had a chance to land.

Maud whistled, loud and sharp enough to split right through the fracas “That’s enough. You know there’s none of that bullshit in here.”

Flechette froze at once, except to deal one more swift kick to a man trying to drag himself up from the floor. She dropped the pool cue and held her hands up, wide open to show that she was done being a threat. It was a choice though, Jessie thought; this woman was entirely in charge of how and when she was dangerous. Maudie had always seemed unshakeable to Jessie, stubborn and stern as a stone statue, but what could she have actually done if Flechette didn’t want to leave? The baseball bat beneath the bar wouldn’t be much use against someone like that. 

It didn’t matter. Flechette flashed a smile like a shark and made for the door, pausing to throw a wink back at the bar. Maybe that was meant for Maud, a final little taunt to remember her by, but Jessie liked to imagine that it was meant for her. She was watching with her jaw dangling to the floor, not trying to make any secret of it. When Jessie told the story later she would always editorialize, hinting that Flechette must have sensed a kindred soul in her that day, spotted another villain’s star rising. 

In any case, nobody ever saw Flechette around Rustbelt again. From there on out she started climbing the ranks as a mercenary and assassin for hire, eventually working for A-list baddies all over the world. She upgraded from darts to razor-thin daggers that could find their mark from nearly any distance, thanks to her superhuman aim, and her services were sufficiently in demand that no prison could keep her contained for long. Somebody more powerful was always eager to break her out and have her killing in their name.  

In the meantime, the door of One-Eyed Polly’s slammed shut at the exact moment a giant hand gripped Jessie’s shoulder and made her jump.

“It’s time to go,” Jonas said, low and urgent. “Come on, Jess. Say thanks to Maudie.”

“I didn’t even finish my drink,” she said, knowing immediately that it was a stupid thing to say.

“Maybe next time.” Maud’s face was tight, and she was already whisking the margarita glass away. “Take care, kids.”

Jonas steered Jessie straight to his awful van, completely silent until he was back in the driver’s seat and gripping the steering wheel. He hadn’t taken off his gloves, but Jessie could imagine his knuckles turning white. That was a bad sign, considering the van wasn’t even running.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said quietly.

Which confused Jessie for a moment, because she had assumed that she was in trouble. An apology was unexpected.

“It’s okay,” she assured him. “It was cool. She’s badass.”

“She’s not a role model. Nobody in there is.”

“What about Recluse?”

Jonas groaned, lowering his head to the steering wheel as well. “You shouldn’t even know her name. No, she’s not a role model. She’s a psychopath.”

“What about Maudie?”

“She’s on thin ice,” he said, which would normally make Jessie chuckle and point out haha, ice, but he clearly wasn’t in the mood. And she wasn’t either, because Jonas was treating her like a baby and that ticked her off, so she did something rude.

“Well, what about you?”

That made him raise his head, at least, and she immediately regretted pushing him, because Jonas looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen him in their entire life. He was getting dark hollows under his eyes, and he seemed skinnier and more raw beneath his baggy clothes every time she hugged him, and that hair that was going gray. 

“I don’t want to be there either, Jess. Don’t think for a second that I do, alright? This is pragmatism.”

“What does that mean? Come on, I’m failing English. I don’t know words.”

He reached into his jacket and withdrew a fat wad of bills clipped together, slapping them down on the center console. It wasn’t forceful, not enough to make Jessie cringe or scare her in any way—he was always careful about that, conscientious to be gentle with her since he had always been so much older and bigger. But she could tell he wanted to make a point about it.

“It means that I’m being smart and doing the thing that will make me the most possible money, even though it sucks.”

“Why, though?” Jessie pressed. “You don’t have to do it if you hate it so much.”

“Jess, come on. I’m trying to take care of you, okay? Dropping off groceries every week is expensive, and driving you around is expensive, and I’m…” He paused, rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. I didn’t want to bring it up too soon, in case it didn’t pan out, but what if you came to stay with me instead of Mom and Dad?”

Her heart skipped, and she immediately clamped down on that feeling before she could get too excited. She had to play it cool. “But you said I’m never allowed to visit your place.”

“Well, I’d have to get a new place. With no housemates, so I’d have to pay the rent and security deposit and everything by myself because it would be just me and you. But I think I could do it.”

Jessie swallowed hard. “Do Mom and Dad know?”

“No. But I think I could make them understand, if it was what you really wanted. And that’s another thing I’m saving up for, getting a lawyer if they try to fight about it. So that I could legally adopt you or something, if I have to. If you want me to.”

“Adopt me?” Jessie repeated. It sounded silly, thinking of Jonas as her parent instead of her brother. He was too young to be her dad. But it made sense, didn’t it? Mom made sure she had food and clothes and all that, but Jessie had never felt like her mom loved or even her. Dad loved her plenty, but he was responsible for losing all their money and getting the lights shut off at least as often as he was responsible for fixing it. Jonas was the only one who had ever managed to love her and take care of her. 

“If you want,” he said again. She’d never seen him so nervous. “You don’t have to. But I know Mom and Dad have been getting worse, and I don’t want you to have to stay there if you don’t want to. You should feel safe at home. And I’ve never forgotten what you said that night at the park. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

She knew exactly what he meant; there was only one night at the park for them. The night they’d been eating ice cream sandwiches and watching fireflies when the sky opened up, when time slowed to almost nothing and snapped back to a different world, a world where her brother was a walking blizzard. 

“It’s okay,” Jessie told him, even though it sort of wasn’t. She’d gotten used to it. “But I would. I’d live with you. It’d be cool.”

Jonas didn’t smile often or easily, but right then he looked happier and more relieved then she’d ever seen. Maybe even excited, like he had been worried she would say no and pick their parents over him. “Okay. Yeah. We’ll make it happen, Jess. I’ve been saving up as much as I can, and I think I’m close. We won’t be anywhere very nice, but I’ll find us somewhere. We’ll make it happen, okay?”

Jessie’s heart was racing, all the excitement of One-Eyed Polly’s already forgotten in light of this new development. She had to make sure this was for real, had to make this as close to legally binding as she could. “You promise?” 

He extended a little finger and she grinned, tied their pinkies together to seal the promise like they had since she was little.

“I promise,” he said. “You and me against the world.”

[vm-haunts]

Me: haha I'll just make up a timeline for this crazy crossover idea.

Me, a week later: what the fuck what the fuck how did I end up with so much plot how is it still expanding oh my god stooooop.

Aaaanyways. I don't know if I'll ever got it properly written, but this monster of a plot bunny now covers several major events and I'm losing my mind...

But anyways, cliff notes version on the plot and how far it stretches:

..

College trio was involved in the dionesium (aka Lazarus water) research, and somehow they're actually the more ethical bunch. Which is saying a lot considering.

DP events happened but they encountered and got help from several DC magic users during it. Budding occultist Sam for the win. (no agit yet and no phantom planet either)

The GIW got somewhat reformed, thanks to the help of Team Phantom's JLD friends. However at some point they got new management. Now instead of destroying ghost, the new comers are interested in the correlation of ecto-contamination, liminality... And secretly, in the increased success rate of induced metagene activation in liminals. Yikes, they somehow got worse.

Again, the Fenton parents are somehow the ethical ones here, despite everything. They refused to work with the new branch of GIW, stuff escalated (don't they always), and now they're dead. And in ghost jail. At least Vlad is there with them for the heartwarming reunion.

So Team Phantom ended up faking their death and goes on the run while raiding GIW bases, and along the way they found a weird guy (Jason). Weird guy's mom showed up and. Well guess they're involved with assassin cult's power struggle now, at least they get to help a guy out.

More shenanigans later they ended up with some monks in the Himalayas, and- wait Danny what do you mean you know them? Oh yeah Plasmius's little stint with the Infi-map... Gotta love time travel.

Anyway, after Danny got scammed for long overdue property damage fees and Jason got a pair of cool swords, they met Talia again and she brings news! Totally no ulterior motives or anything :) (Sam called her out to her face and she just smiled)

Jason, considerably more chill in this au, is still unhappy about... Well. Everything in Gotham.

Cue the Red Hood stint but with much more control and less blood shed. Which ironically made RH more intimidating because he moves like a ghost(duh). Especially when Jason's main act of revenge is 'pranks', which reads as mild psychology warfare actually. But hey the bats did that to themselves, he did nothing wrong (besides being a drug lord).

Red Hood peaceful mode does however attracted some unwanted bird themed attention, the Owl's not the Robin's. And well, undead Talons sneaking around undead experts, what could go wrong?

Everything apparently. Because on top of the Rh stint, Jason is somehow also infiltrating the Court of Owls now. As his real identity Jason Todd-Wayne no less. But the real suprise is Danny running into his parent's old researches, and. Well, the poor talons need help, might as well join in with the infiltration.

Some more shenanigans later it ends in Jason and co. quietly turning the talons against their old masters, and oh boy did they overachieved the goal of getting a foot into Gotham's crime world. Must be Danny's Fenton luck.

Ol' Batsy is very very not happy about that development by the way. But he can die mad about it as far as Jason is concerned.

...

The end. Of part one.

Stay tuned for part two, where we cross AGIT with crisis.

And massive thanks to @taddy-cat, a large part of this is inspired by the lovely discussion with you!

[coffeegnomee]

Minecraft pvp is so freaking interesting. I was thinking back to watching the Jumper pov of the Minute and Pentar ban and it was so good. Like I was on the edge of my seat and I knew how it ended. We need more group battles in Lifesteal, I beg.

1v1 pvp is just like who can get the most hits in, or just who can quick drop the other person faster. 

But group fights are sooooo different. The actual personality and experience of each member matters so much. And it doesn't show until there's at least 5 people on the battlefield. Preferably 7.

Minute, Pentar, and Jumper came with basically identical kits, very solo-minded towards their approach to pvp. They got overconfident with their secretly-netherite armor durability and 15 stacks of xp (each.)

And they, as far as I know, have very very little experience in large group battles and long pvp battles. They all fought drain season 5, but 4v3 group drain is much different than a 2v2. 

And the fight was LONG. Minute didn’t realize the change in tides until really late, not initiating the run to the trap, their ONLY trap my goodness why didn’t they set up more it’s the final days, so when the trap was already blown up they had zero backup plan. 

They didn’t start calling in people until Minute had like 2-3 stacks of xp left, that’s something you do the second you realize the tides are turning, especially when it’s an uneven 3v4.

And just listening to his coms vs Clown’s coms was just night and day. Minute doesn’t have the experience yet to know how to manage a team in a fight, how to allocate assets, choose targets, and keep the team’s morale up and on target while they’re dying. He’s said it himself that he likes the quicker fights kits with netherite sword and diamond armor.

But Clown is naturally skilled at managing his soldiers. He knows exactly who to target and how, reassigning pvp skill so it’s him, the most skilled, with the least skilled player to do maximum durability damage on Minute. Like every phrase out of his mouth is in service of optimizing the team. 

And then they came with a minor kit adjustments. Clown and Mapicc came with harming arrows because of their net strength 1 from the blessings/curses, but Minute didn’t know that strat. So it was both an: “they’re trolling” moment, but when Clown came with the same kit it was like: “wait did I miss something?” Psychological warfare right there. 

And then Mapicc had his knockback sword and Zam was on water drain duty. Those two small changes to their kit, on just two members, really sealed their victory. Mapicc was such a menace.

Which is so fascinating. Minute had been ruling the server simply through being amazing at getting out of fights and never getting into a slightly outnumbered fight. Same with Jumper. 2v2’s for them were a guaranteed win. 

But once you get 7 people on the battlefield it turns into a completely different mindset on how to turn the tides back in your favor and it’s all about targeting specific players. As Clown was targeting the strongest player on their team, pb&j needed to get drain-drop Ro so it would be a 3v2.5 (with Zam/Spep) 

And Jumper, just because of her skill level and background, doesn’t know the dynamics of who to target and when, when to be aggressive and when to back off, when to call for help and when it’s better to stay in the fight. She did absolutely her best but it was so interesting to see he true smp pvp skill after months of just being like why is she so good in every fight and undefeated against Mapicc and Zam while she says she never practices.

Lifesteal fights, and yes I’ve only ever really watched Lifesteal fights and I am fascinated in theory for how Levels fights used to go, feel so much more dirty than a normal server. It feels like other servers just get a trap off or fight completely even and it’s just skill vs skill. (And I’m feeling that even more now just observing how Flame talks about other smp pvp) 

And Clown coming into the fight with an advantage was so much stronger than Minute deciding an advantage halfway though the fight. Clown does this all the time, not taking a fight until he’s properly prepped for the specific situation. Like bringing the crystals to the finale fight to even out the playing field: he prepares to get the advantage. 

Vs Minute is too good-hearted to think that cutthroat from the start (well, except for changing the durability of their armor) He absolutely thinks cut-throat when he realizes he’s doomed, but off the bat he’s too much a superhero. He thought the fight would just be Mapicc and Ro while Zam would sit out, like what??? It’s Lifesteal, if they’re on they’re all fighting. And then they were surprised when Clown came back on to fight. They were confident, but they should have been thinking defensively and like they were doomed the second it was a 4v3. Maybe not doomed, but not like it was even. 

Much like all the lore of the server, the specific players matter so much in each scenario. Without someone, or with someone, a whole arc is different. Clown changed the tides in that fight simply from being the better team manager. Had someone else been the 4th player it would have gone completely differently. 

-----

jumper pov here

zam here fight starts 2:47:00

[wordy-little-witch]

Okay CoraBug hours where we look at canon, go HAH No, and carry on bc I Do Not See It

Buggy and Cora being absolutely the schmooziest, goofiest couple ever.

Cora and Buggy experimenting with makeup looks together.

They each have an Egg Each, but they have each other's eggs, or they both make two each so one can have the second egg on hand for long distance stints.

Long denden calls and writing letters to each other.

Sengoku having several attacks of just as many varieties because his son is dating a pirate and it's THAT pirate as well and he's So Fucking Angry bc Buggy isn't even all that bad, he HATES it-

Uncle Garp. The shenanigans there. Need I say more?

Shanks telling Buggy about Luffy and it goes "my brother adopted the grandson of my boyfriend's honorary uncle" and you can see the smoke coming from his ears.

Cora and Buggy were childhood sweethearts, and Shanks ABSOLUTELY gave Cora a shovel talk. Roger also gave Cora a shovel talk. Rayleigh played psychological warfare as a test (Cora passed).

They do shows together and their favorites are acrobatics and aerials.

Buggy has forbade Cora from fire stunts, so Cora simply watches Buggy do them and drools respectfully. (In his defense, Buggy is VERY skilled with batons and dragon staffs.)

Devil Fruits have something they need to Feed or things that Feed the fruits. For some, it's foods, some it can be abated with tobacco. Cora uses his cigarettes and Buggy runs on sugar.

Cora is actually a very clean person and prefers unscented soaps, he just has a skill for always looking freshly mugged in an alleyway. Buggy meanwhile is a neat freak who changes up his soaps frequently, but always within a certain brand/maker rotation bc he has sensitive skin.

Drawbacks Of Devil Fruits My Beloved - they're both more lethargic in highly humid weather, or in the rain. Cora's sleepier overall when stuff gets to that point, but Buggy runs a higher risk of getting sick as a result.

Buggy sometimes has Bad Brain Days, be it an episode or he's overstimulated. Regardless, when he needs Space, he'll shimmy under Cora's feathered coat and Cora will cast a bubble for them with just enough muted input to calm Buggy down but not trigger his intrusive thoughts.

Likewise, when Cora is in Cover And Perform Mode, Buggy will gently lead him away and pull the other down to his chest, ear over his heart, and will just... talk. Random, unimportant things like "Oh I heard dinner will be this tonight" or "I've been thinking of getting x, y, z tools for the ring". Just stuff to ground him, she he isn't alone, that things are okay and fine and safe.

They have prank wars. Ritchie always wins. Nobody knows how.

Cora will straight up scruff Buggy like a cat when he gets angry and stabby.

Buggy will climb Cora like a tree when he feels playful.

<><><><> Bonus Incorrect Quotes <><><><>

Buggy: They call it committing murder because it's a commitment. It's stronger than marriage.

Cora:

Buggy:

Cora: babe, no-

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Cora: I could kill you if I wanted.

Buggy: Yeah? So could any other human being. So could a dog. So could a dedicated duck. You aren't special

Cora:

Buggy:

Cora: I love you-

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: *banging a pen on the table out of frustration*

Cora: Stop that. How would YOU feel if I banged you on the table?

Buggy: I—

Buggy: I don’t know the correct answer to that question.

Cabaji, who just wanted to eat his lunch in peace:

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: BE A BETTER PERSON!

Cora: WHY?!

Buggy: BECAUSE SOMEONE NEEDS TO HAVE MORALS IN THIS RELATIONSHIP, AND IT SURE AS FUCK AIN'T GONNA BE ME, SWEETHEART!

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Cora: *sighs*

Buggy: You bored?

Cora: Yeah.

Buggy: Wanna start drama for no reason?

Cora: I thought you’d never ask.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Cora: I truly go into housewife mode when I'm someone's soulmate- like, I'll make you pancakes and bacon every morning.

Buggy: This is a lie.

Buggy: I'm literally dating them. This is a lie.

Buggy: THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO COOK A PANCAKE, WHAT IS THIS.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: What’s your favorite color?

Cora: Stop asking stupid questions. Ask me something logical and mature.

Buggy: How many moles of sodium bicarbonate are needed to neutralize 0.8ml of sulfuric acid at STP?

Cora: My favorite color is pink.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Context: Roger and Garp having a play date, Shanks and Mihawk are sitting to the side while Buggy is doing smth mundane across the beach when Cora descends on the swordmen

Cora: Wait, what's going on? Are we all talking about how hot Buggy is? Because Buggy is a straight up sexual fox riding a red-hot nuclear bombshell right toward the yowza plaza in the heart of Babe City, Assachusetts, U S A. The last A just stands for more ass.

Mihawk:

Shanks:

Cora:

Mihawk: wh-

Shanks: YEAH!

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: I'm very scary.

Cora: You're about as scary as a wet kitten.

Buggy: Wet kittens are cute, at least I've got that going for me.

Cora: And small.

Buggy:

Buggy: ...Yeah, yeah. I guess.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: Live fast, die young, leave behind a pretty corpse! That’s what I always say!

Cora: You should say something else.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Cora: What’s your body count?

Buggy: Do you mean sex or murder?

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Cora, carrying a box: What would you say if- if I, hypothetically, came home with several kids one day?

Buggy: …

Buggy: What’s in the box?

Cora: What woul-

Buggy: Cora, what’s in the box?

Cora: I think you know.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Buggy: Hey, wanna take a shower with me?

Cora: I have a gun in that nightstand beside the bed. If I ever say no to that question, I want you to take it out and shot me because I’ve obviously gone crazy.

[whereseekersfeartotread]

🖤 Seeking Dangerous Games & Forbidden Alliances! 🖤

Are you a 21+ Transformers: G1 enthusiast craving a dose of intrigue, forbidden romance, and ethically gray Decepticon shenanigans? Look no further! I'm searching for RP partners to delve into the shadowed corners of Cybertron with my original character, Singularity.

🔥 Meet Singularity - Decepticon Femme Fatale: 🔥

Appearance: Sleek black and captivating purple, an Arabian horse in alt mode. Elegance meets danger.

Personality: A master manipulator, a collector of dark secrets, and a devotee of Lilithra. She's prideful, sadistic, cunning, and always seeking the next power play.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral. She's all about her desires, no matter the cost.

Relationships: Singles (Multiship). She's searching for those who have ambition and a thirst for power. But don't get to close, she only likes to win.

Background: Born of the upper class, raised in luxury, but drawn to forbidden magic, manipulation, and power. She's hungry.

What I'm Looking For:

Experienced 21+ RPers.

A love for Transformers: G1 canon characters. Bonus points for Decepticons!

No limits on themes! I'm open to exploring mature themes, smut/NSFW content, and dark/triggering storylines.

Hetero Ships/Romantic Content. (That's the only one that I can do)

Creative storytelling and collaborative world-building.

If you are a Transformers G1 character you get bonus points!

What kind of stories are we talking?

Forbidden romances filled with betrayal and passionate entanglement.

Political intrigue within the Decepticon ranks, where alliances shift and loyalties are tested.

The hunt for dark artifacts and ancient powers.

Psychological warfare, mind games, and manipulation – both giving and receiving.

A taste of everything in the dark corners of the G1 universe.

Sound enticing? Here's how to join the fun:

Send me a message!

Tell me about your favorite G1 character or potential RP ideas.

If you have questions, ask them.

I am looking for partners with G1 canon characters (primarily Decepticons). Let's get to playing!

You can find my rule via the link below

RULES Short Bio Below

🔥 Singularity - Decepticon Femme Fatale 🔥

Faction: Decepticon. Expect chaos, intrigue, and a touch of dark magic.

Alt Mode: Arabian Horse. Graceful, yet undeniably powerful. A blend of elegance and potential danger.

Color Scheme: Sleek black and captivating purple – a color combination that whispers of secrets and forbidden power.

Do you dare to meet Singularity?

Born from the upper echelons of Cybertronian society, Singularity is more than just a Decepticon; she's a master of manipulation, a collector of dark secrets, and a devotee of Lilithra. With a 5,000,000+ year history and a penchant for extravagance, she moves through the Decepticon ranks with an air of aristocratic superiority and an insatiable hunger for power.

Physical Age: 5,000,000+ (Eternity has only sharpened her edges.)

Gender: Female.

Romantic Orientation: Heteroromantic.

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual.

Pronouns: She/Her.

Status: Single (Multiship - because one is never enough to satisfy her hunger)

Beneath the Surface:

Skills: A master of dark magic, interrogation specialist, adept in stealth and espionage, skilled in the arts of persuasion and seduction. Prepare to be charmed... or ensnared.

Personality: Prideful, Sadistic, Cunning, Charismatic, Secretive. She's a chaotic neutral force, driven by her own desires, and finds amusement in the psychological torment of others. She is the perfect Slytherin!

Traits to remember: INFP, 4w5, Melancholic, Scorpio. (These are just to give you a deeper look at this complex individual)

Weaknesses: A phobia of losing control, which is her greatest fear. She struggles with narcissistic traits. And don't even think about tech, that will be her ultimate end.

What Lies Ahead:

Goals: To achieve ultimate power within the Decepticons (through her dark magic, of course), indulge in luxury and, to gain the attention of powerful male allies to leverage their power for her benefit.

Conflicts: Internal struggles between craving emotional connection and her manipulative tendencies. The Decepticon politics, and the threat of rivals.

Relationships: While primarily solitary, aligned with Shockwave or Starscream, rivals are a dime a dozen. She is always looking for the next one to be romantically intrested in (a weakness of sorts.)

Intrigue and Plot Ideas (for your consideration):

The Artifact: Singularity seeks a powerful artifact that amplifies her dark magic. But she must navigate a web of deception where her allies are also trying to get it.

A Decepticon Game: Her desire for a particular Decepticon leads her into dangerous games, creating turmoil in the Decepticon ranks.

Forbidden Romance: A secret relationship with a rival Decepticon, where manipulation and influence intertwine.

Unexpected Connection: A surprising connection with a naive Autobot that forces her to question her motives.

Ready to play a dangerous game? If you're over 21 and looking for a partner who loves to explore dark themes, complex characters, and intense dynamics, send me a DM. I'm seeking partners who enjoy playing canon characters and original characters.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Man-Sized 5/9 Rebound Effect

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

He left after that.

And what was more, he left without saying goodbye, he just sneaked out in the morning and left her with a bunch of money on the table. At some level, it made her feel like a prostitute, even when she knew that was not what Simon had meant.

She didn’t harass him for leaving like a thief in the night because the man had obviously freaked out. It would do no good at this point to try and have a therapy session about it. But what she did comment on was the money roll he had left her with.

She wasn't bitter, only bereft. She had thought Simon would stay at least a few nights if he was on leave. Truth be told, she had thought he'd stay for a week like he used to when he came to watch her at the club. But he was running away from guilt, not her; protecting her by pulling back the potential threat that was him. As soon as she realized he only did what a soldier would do, all confusion left her. It was admirable, but she feared it also meant that the silk gloves were back on.

You forgot something on the table.

A gift. Don't take it the wrong way.

If you say so.

Thank you.

Anytime.

The gratitude came mainly from remembering her manners. But it got under her skin, so much so that she felt like there was more to this than just Simon wanting to help her out or play the provider.

In a furious decision of not submitting to the role of someone who just waited for their man to come home from work or war, she tried to concentrate on her studies. But the next time she visited the library, she walked straight to the psychology shelf and loaned books about PTSD and war-related trauma.

She read about the major symptoms of torture victims, the PTSD treatment for combat veterans, she read how to screen for impulse and control issues. Whatever had happened during Simon's career as a soldier had left more than just scars. Combined with a traumatic childhood, it was a marvel he was doing as well as he was. If she were to continue down this path with him, she would have to take it slow.

Slow and steady would win the race. Creating an atmosphere of safety would win the poker game. Again, she could hear the alarm bells ringing but did nothing about it.

Simon had left but wasn’t wholly unavailable this time. He wasn’t working in the field and had more time for her. He even called, and not just once, but nearly every night. For the first few times, it was only a brief session, just an exchange of how are you’s and how’s it been’s. It was a change and a welcome change at that. The calls soon turned into hour-long marathons.

He shared more details about his life in the base of the unnamed military organization he was working for and revealed that he was the commanding officer of his team. The person she had taken for a shady ladies man and a simple soldier turned out to be a warm-hearted, level-headed leader who was fiercely protective of his subordinates.

The way he and his team found humour, even in the most grim situations, was hilarious, and she spent most of the calls laughing with tears in her eyes. Simon seemed especially vexed with a certain Scottish teammate who was the exact opposite of him: extroverted, silly, and cheerful. So lovably childish that it was clear that Simon was more like a father figure than a superior officer to this man. And it was also clear that he wasn’t actually vexed at all: he loved this particular person, who was codenamed after being good at "cleaning", more than anyone.

"What do they call you? Skeletor?"

"Very funny."

"Why is your alias a secret but Soap’s isn’t?"

He finally told her, and another door into his soul opened. It was labeled with one simple word.

"Ghost."

And of course it would be something memorable and ominous.

"What’s the story behind that one?"

There was a short silence on the other end.

"I was buried alive once but came back."

At her end, the silence was much longer, much more palpable. It sounded like a stupid joke, but she knew better. The men she had previously dated were definitely not in the same league as Simon.

This was fucking crazy. She tried to sound casual as she made a quip about another horrible trauma this man had suffered.

"So you’re the Kill Bill Bride instead of 007."

"I used the jawbone of the dead man I was buried with to get out."

Jesus Christ on a motherfucking surfboard.

"Oh, or a MacGyver."

There was a husky laugh at that, but she was fucking horrified.

That stuff followed her even to her dreams. In them, he was the undertaker, and she had to get out of a coffin by using a skull he gave her. Another test… not assigned by Simon, but by Ghost and those eyes that wanted her dead.

In other dreams, she was there with him in the field, invisible to everyone but him, helping him find a way through bombarded buildings like Ariadne escorting Theseus in a labyrinth. She liked those dreams more because in them, Simon needed her and not the other way around.

He seemed hellbent on his protocol of not updating her on where he was, what he was doing, and when they would be able to see each other again. She kept her apartment always tidy in case he would stop by, she put on makeup, even when she went to grab something from the store. Her eyes roamed the campus in search of a tall man dressed in black, and the smell of cigarette smoke made her stomach pinch with excitement. If Simon was even half as into her as she was into him, he would have serious trouble concentrating on his work.

She was tired of being the one always waiting for him. In that department, slow and steady started to feel like an absolute torment. Appearing calm and collected, playing hard to get had worked for a while, but what would happen if she went all in and made him want and wait? What if there was a hidden jackpot in being a tease?

She sent him photos in various states of nudity, cuteness and temptation: when she was chilling on her bed, or about to walk on the stage, once even when she was at school — always with the enticing words Wish you were here or Thinking of you. It was raunchier than the first time, highly uncharacteristic of her, and so much fun that she didn't even have to fake a smile in those photos. It was a pure attempt to seduce him.

And it worked: after only a few days of sending such pictures, Simon came back. As always, there was no warning, unless the radio silence after the fourth photo could be considered a warning that a storm was coming.

She was at the club, and her gaze had turned inwards when Simon had walked into her life. She didn’t choose a guy from the audience anymore. She only danced for herself and him, wherever he was.

She noticed him only in the middle of her show and started smiling, something she never did while on the pole, at least not here. The second she saw him in that familiar setting with a scotch in front of him and those eyes burning, the whole world shifted. Had he taken a day or two off just to come here and make her pay for her little come-hithering? The rest of the dance was energetic and wild, and that beaming smile gave her a roar of applause she had never experienced before. The whistles followed her even to the bar as she went straight to his table and all but radiated delight.

"I've forgotten how bloody good you are on that thing," he said with a thicker voice than usual.

"Nice to see you too, honey."

He looked at her with a full-blown smirk then and was, all in all, completely different from the guarded stranger she had first met at this very same place.

"I've been promoted to honey?"

"Don't take this new position lightly."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He downed that scotch, and she went to get her things, and when they walked to her apartment, he took her in a gentlemanly arm-in-arm escort. It felt good, the kind of possessive that said he was committed, that they were in a relationship. An established couple.

But as soon as the front door of her home was closed, the gentleman turned into a ravenous mercenary who pinned her against the wall, much in the same way he had done nearly three months ago. The shared kiss was starved and desperate, and she had no trouble whatsoever getting wet for him anymore.

"You're the most infuriating man I have ever met, did you know that?"

They were both panting at that point, and she was feeling high and wild, especially when Simon seemed suddenly more serious than ever.

"I'll take that as another promotion."

"Of course you will," she whispered out of breath as he devoured her neck and pressed her even more fervently against the wall of her hallway. Her heart was racing, and she had never, ever had a feeling that a man could merely lift her skirt and pull her panties aside and slip inside with no effort. Right now, she did, and right now, she would go mad if he wouldn’t do it.

"Ya missed me?"

"Every day."

The whispers were like long-held secrets finally uttered out into the open air. The lights were off, the city was sleeping, her ghost was here, and she wasn’t afraid at all. She was ready for everything, to conquer the whole world with him.

"How about you?"

"I'll show you just how much," he answered and suddenly detached from her, then grabbed her by the shoulder to spin her around and pin her against the wall again. It was a rough treatment that briefly reminded her of The Incident… But she was so drunk on him that even that didn’t spoil this moment that only felt good and right.

"This too much for you?" A slight trepidation in his voice told her that they were both walking on the brink of something new, but his cautiousness only made her feel more sure about letting him do whatever he wanted before they set the world aflame together. The silk gloves and normal dudes could go to hell; she wanted bare, calloused skin and a revenant, she yearned for the shared suffering that was only a kin to passion.

"No."

That steel of muscle kept her in place as the other hand went under her skirt. The garment was loose enough again and made the plundering far too easy. And of course he commented on it.

"I like the skirts you wear."

The arm from her back disappeared, only to descend down her back and grab hold of the lifted clothing. There was a soft rustle and a poignant click, and then her underwear was stretched away from her skin.

"They're convenient."

She didn’t feel the blade as it cut the fabric, but she could feel the sudden snap as the soft material yielded under a sharp edge. The rest of the ruined clothing was torn down from between her legs, and he didn’t even put the knife away, didn’t fold it with another precise flick and tuck it back to wherever it had been hidden.

He drove it to the wall. Next to her face, not close, but close enough for her to draw a panicked gasp. It wasn’t a classic stiletto or a pocket knife; it was sturdy and tactical, something she would never even have guessed was foldable. The silk gloves were nowhere to be seen, and she was overjoyed about it.

"You know what's infuriating?" The next thing she heard was a zipper opening as he got himself out of his jeans, then pressed his whole body against her.

"Watchin' all those fucking blokes drool after you in that joint."

It was that kinky talk again, but something told her there was more than a few months worth of frustration here too, gushing out like a flash flood. The thickness was guided to her opening in an almost blunderous manner, but he wasn't a brute. He only seemed to be in a hurry to get inside her and chuckled when he found her completely ready for him.

"Makes me wanna shoot everyone." And then he did push inside, with one measured but steady thrust, letting out a shaky sigh as he did it. She was watching the blade jutting out from the wall and didn’t give a single fuck what her landlord would say about the dent left on his property. Her ghost slid in and out of her, finally content. Tender, but thoroughly passionate, like he had missed her far more than mere words could express. He didn’t need his hands to keep her steady anymore; his chest did all that, but a hand found its way to her hair and pulled gently, lovingly, as he nuzzled close to whisper in her ear.

"Would ya like that?"

She tightened around him — she didn’t know whether it was his voice or his words that made her so unhinged. But another huff of silent laughter hit her at the response she gave him without uttering a single word.

"Yeah… That's wha' I thought."

His other hand reached for her thigh, slid down under the knee, and lifted, granting him better access to hit even deeper, and she finally moaned. She could almost hear the good girl talk, even when it never came. He didn’t have time for that, for there were more important matters at hand.

The longing of entire months came undone, and the knife on the wall was evidence enough that Simon was very much dedicated. Somehow that ferocious gesture was a vow, a whole pledge from the man who didn’t fuck anyone else after all. And if that didn’t make her wet, then nothing would.

"Dripping all over me here…" He stated the obvious as he continued the pillage she surrendered to — gladly and with an orgasm that came almost without a warning as the mercenary drove deep and grunted his desperation on her skin. She had to bolt her lips tight to not whisper something stupid that would only ruin the moment that was her first experience of a quickie, first experience of a fierce, intense rutting perfectly capable of having a godly amount of affection in it.

She broke against that wall and knew that she was lost: lost in Simon, in Ghost, or whoever he was. From this day forward, he would be forever inside her. Even if and when he pulled out, she would never get him out again.

Simon was a full package, and she had to accept all of it rather than try and fix him. If he would leave her only with his ghost, she would be forever bound in that frozen state of the engraving, the woman who dropped everything for the sake of sulking and only remembered beauty and meaning from a distant past. It was better to take the risk and die one way or another with this man.

"Simon," she sighed, whispered, because she was afraid that the three words that must not be said would come out if she wasn't careful. His hand found hers and entwined their fingers together, a surprisingly gentle lapse in the middle of a rough fuck.

"You're the one who's infuriating," he grunted. It was his way of telling her that he was nearing the point of loving too, and her only answer was another broken sigh as she came down from the overwhelming realization and the stunning, sinful orgasm that felt more like a love confession.

She was being pressed into pieces between that hard wall and an even harder chest, spread open for his taking, but it only felt safe to be trapped there like this. She was crying inwards by the time he came inside her while having all the earmarks of emotional turmoil as well. The controlled, rigid manners were gone, and he didn’t pull out for a good long time, only panted together with her against that wall that she paid rent for, which had a knife on it, a knife he had probably used to end human lives. How could the same man kill someone one day and bring someone back to life the next?

The desperate clutch that had curled both their hands into a fist loosened its hold, and the chest that had heaved her up pulled away just enough for her to catch some air. He pulled out reluctantly, and the seed gushed forth, making a magnificent mess. A gentle hand ran down her back, another released her leg just to slide up her hip like she was the most precious work of art a bloodied man like him had ever looted. She reached a hand behind his neck to tell him that she was his if he wanted her.

"Love," she whispered the most important one of those three words, and he lowered his head to rest on her shoulder. His was a heavy weight to carry, but she didn’t feel like she was Atlas holding the world. This burden was something she shouldered with joy.

---

The next morning was laced with drowsy tenderness and lazy lovemaking, and she couldn’t hold the question in any longer.

"Simon… are we in a situationship or a relationship?"

"You tell me."

She turned in the loose hold of his arms and admired how comfortable he looked under the mundane, flower-patterned linens. Simon still couldn’t be described as someone joyous or carefree, but he did appear calmer than ever. She liked to think that at least some of it was her influence.

"I like you. I like this."

"Yeah... You're okay, I guess," he muttered with a sleepy smile. She laughed and got up with the intention of making some coffee. And tea.

He soon followed in her trail, and the mood in her apartment was heavenly. He sat on her couch with nothing but his boxers and t-shirt on, the sunlight got in, and the coffee machine made cozy sounds and filled the air with the smell she loved. Simon didn’t even go outside for a smoke: it looked like he was in no hurry at all to get anywhere from that little piece of furniture.

She knew that love was a drug. Would Simon find it amusing if she told him he was the only drug she was on? If she confessed that she was an addict who never wanted to go to rehab...

"Why do you wanna be with me of all people?"

She had already asked the question once before, but today, she was feeling unusually confident. Some of his cockiness was contagious, and something had shifted last night, some fragile power, and she felt wild and optimistic again.

"You're a hot school girl."

"Simon…"

"You remind me of… I dunno. Something from back home."

Again, she didn't quite know what to make of him. Did he mean that he liked the girl from next door look? Was she a nice holiday from his exciting, death-defying work, a small slice of wholesome dullness? It wouldn’t bother her if she was. But something in that remark screeched in her head like nails on a blackboard.

"Something from back home? Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

The sunlight didn’t only fill the room with light; it exposed dust and long-forgotten clutter.

"Tell me about your childhood in Manchester."

"No thanks."

Her confidence this morning was more than enough to move whole mountains and seas. She wanted to know, even if it would hurt to know. If this was supposed to last, she needed to know.

"Was your father a beater?"

"Yeah, and a serial cheater."

He didn’t run away; he didn’t escape this conversation in any way. She had braced herself for resistance, but she was met with none, which caused her to mentally tumble all over the place that was Simon’s past.

And suddenly, she didn't like where this was going. Even if she was the one who had dragged them on this path.

"Only with paid women, though," Simon continued without any filter on.

Hold on…

That didn't sound right.

"Could you please tell me what I remind you of from back home.”

He finally stirred, a torturer who realized he was the one being questioned.

"Sarah…"

"I remind you of a hooker and you're trying to save me?"

"That's not… No."

She saw in his eyes that it was a blatant yes. At least for some part. The jealousy, the offering of money… All made perfect sense now. She felt like a project, not a love interest. She was a nut to be cracked, even if he did it gently and with a tenderness that left her writhing with pleasure. The need to set some things straight suddenly chose to override everything else.

"I’m a dancer, not a sex worker. And just for the record, I've had like three men before you. Plus the relative who abused me when I was… almost of age."

She never said "as a child" because that sounded too fucked up. She had been 16, so it wasn't the same as 6. It fucking wasn't.

She immediately got an excellent reminder of why she didn't share this stuff with people; because that pity stare was even worse than the fact that shit like that had happened. It reduced her back to a helpless victim.

"I don't want your money," she declared.

"Got it."

She turned, feeling guilty and idiotic for having ruined the most beautiful morning they could ever have had. The coffee was ready, but she felt like throwing up. She put the kettle on — would he want milk and sugar with his tea? Perhaps another slice of trauma dump served with it?

Whatever happened to slow and steady, to creating that calm atmosphere…

She hadn’t meant to share that. It simply flew out of her mouth. Not because she wanted pity, but because she wanted him to know that in some way, there were things that needed to be saved, ruins that needed to be haunted by different ghosts…

And hadn't he been her project as well?

She wanted more than this, more than tests and strategies and projects. Raw, naked flesh was what she wanted, not a treatment plan. He had disarmed her last night, and apparently, it was time for the final surrender. She waited for the bullet of mercy, but it never came.

She heard him rise and walk behind her, then felt Simon place his hands on her shoulders. He was here amidst her ruins, and her eyes stung, even after all these years.

"Are we gonna have a pity party?" She squeezed the ear of her favourite Don’t make me use my art historian voice mug. She wondered why the hell she had voiced anything at all.

"No."

"I don't want your money."

"You already said that."

The hands wouldn’t draw away, they stayed and felt soothing. At least as comforting as her snug little home and the familiar smell of coffee in the morning. The nausea had left her shaky, but he held her, just with his hands, making it known that he was here and wouldn’t leave her with her shattered self.

"I only want you," she finally said to the coffee machine and the empty mug and waited for a second or two to see if that warmth would leave her.

It didn't. If anything, the sun seemed to shine on whole new parts of her.

"You have me."

She felt bold enough to finally turn, and he immediately closed her into a hug and pressed her against his chest.

He breathed more life into her, day by day. All the goodness in the world returned, the water reached a boiling point in the kettle, and an exceptionally loud magpie made a racket outside.

"Ok," she whispered and let herself soften against his warmth.

Simon wasn’t a phantom or a cold, emotionless soldier. He was a man and very much alive. There was coffee and tea, and even if they strangled each other occasionally with ghosts that weren’t invited, it wasn’t enough to choke the mass of beautiful things that came from having found something as pure as this.

"You have me too," she announced in his shirt.

"I was hoping you would say that."

[soudakuwunmoment]

i feel like theres smth to say about the relationship between dirk and hal compared to the relationship between dave and davesprite. like i dont know what, but theres parallels and differences that i think are interesting, and you could use them to come to some kind of interesting conclusion about the differences between dirk and dave

hal was created to be a tool for dirk to use for convenience and to utilize as an upperhand in sburb (multitasking mostly) hal did not want to exist as a tool. hal wanted to exist as the person using the tool but got the short end of the stick by pure chance and has to live with his actions after not having thought them through.

davesprite decided to become a tool for dave to use to have better chances at winning sburb. dont take this as me saying that davesprite enjoys being what he is. simply that he was prototyped by his own will.

hal is considered to be a false version of dirk. he is technically dirk, but he is different enough that dirks friends do not perceive him the same way, and in some cases, do not consider him their friend.

davesprite is considered to be a fake dave. not that anyone doubts the validity of his existence as Dave Strider; more-so that people consider dave to be "the real dave" and davesprite to be an iteration of him, despite them both being real daves who lived different lives.

dirk and hal have an antagonistic relationship. they accuse the other of being exactly the same, while sometimes switching to claiming they are the superior version - dirk for his existence in the physical plane and being The Original, and hal for his intelligence and capabilities as a digital being with access to any information he desires in an instant.

dave and davesprite have a very subtle relationship. we assume davesprite struggles with feeling inferior to the alpha timeline dave, but dave doesnt reflect those feelings. dave sees davesprite as simply another him, maybe since hes used to meeting other versions of himself. they are generally friendly to each other, davesprite offers dave any information he might need about the game without being cryptic, but dave doesnt really take the offer. other than this, they dont interact all that much.

dirk and hals relationship is somewhat of a fight for dominance, constant low-blows, social gymnastics and psychological warfare, which reflects the self-loathing nature of dirk and his splinters.

dave and davesprites relationship has similar themes of inferiority, jealousy, and being seen as the "real dave" but its much more constructive and dave seems eager to assure davesprite of his validity.

maybe its representation of how dirk and dave deal with.. emotions? trauma? something like that. dirk is defensive and lashes out at others who he sees himself in, while dave is empathetic and reaches out to other iterations of himself because he understands how they feel. im not saying either is better than the other, just interested in how their personalities have an impact on how they react to having themselves reflected back at them.

you could also add jade onto this!! i was really interested in how she was so cruel to a reflection of herself despite how nice she normally is, and how she was able to recognize that about herself. shes somewhat like dirk in that sense, but i think shes more... self aware than him? something like that.

this post was more meant to be about dirk and dave tho :3