#week 2 a side: the omen | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aspenmissing · 1 month ago

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ᴀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ʀᴇᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴘᴛ 2

ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ | ᴠɪ | ᴄᴀɪᴛᴠɪ | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ | ᴍᴇʟ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ || ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ || 6508 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴇ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛꜱ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴇꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ, ᴏᴠᴇʀᴅᴏꜱᴇ (ᴠɪ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ꜱʟɪᴛ ᴡʀɪꜱᴛꜱ (ᴄᴀɪᴛᴠɪ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙʟᴏᴡ ᴏɴᴇꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴜᴘ (ᴇᴋᴋᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴊᴜᴍᴘɪɴɢ (ᴍᴇʟ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ), ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴅʀᴏᴡɴɪɴɢ/ᴄᴘʀ (ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴛ 2 ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ @ɪᴍ20ʏʀꜱᴏʟᴅ, ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ <3 <3

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

CAITLYN

Being an enforcer meant standing strong.

It meant being the shield between chaos and order. The voice of reason in the madness of Piltover’s streets. The one who protected those who couldn’t protect themselves.

You had always played that role well.

Always smiled through the tension. Always cracked jokes to lighten the weight of the badge pressing against your chest. Always kept your head high, even when exhaustion gnawed at your bones.

Caitlyn had admired that about you.

Your resilience. The way you could brush off the worst of days with a laugh, the way you always seemed untouchable, unshaken by the horrors you both had witnessed. To her, you were more than just her partner—you were her anchor. The warmth in a city that often felt too cold.

And maybe that’s why she didn’t see it.

Didn’t see the exhaustion beneath your smile. Didn’t see the weight you carried behind your easy laughter. Didn’t see just how close you had been to breaking.

Until you finally did.

The night was quiet when the mission went south.

Too quiet.

A bad omen.

It was supposed to be a simple patrol. A quick sweep through the lower districts, one of many routine nights as an enforcer. Smugglers had been moving weapons through Zaun, and Caitlyn had a lead that this rundown warehouse was a part of their supply chain.

In and out. Easy work. At least, that’s what she thought. But as soon as you both stepped inside, that false sense of security shattered.

The dim glow of flickering lamps barely illuminated the rusted walls, casting long shadows that stretched unnervingly across the concrete floor. There was a moment—just a split second—where everything was still. Then, a sudden shuffle of feet. A whisper. A metallic click.

An ambush. Figures emerged from the darkness, a dozen at least, armed and waiting.

Caitlyn’s instincts kicked in immediately. With a sharp breath, she raised her rifle, her mind already calculating escape routes, cover, angles.

"Enforcers! Take them out!" Shouts rang out. Weapons were drawn. The fight began. But you—

You just stood there.

You saw them coming. You heard the shouting, the boots pounding against the ground, the unmistakable rush of adrenaline that should have sent you into action.

But nothing came. No instinct. No drive. Just… silence. A dull ringing in your ears, drowning out the chaos.

A part of you knew Caitlyn needed you, that she was counting on your backup, but another part—the part that had been whispering to you for weeks, months—grew louder.

Why bother? What’s the point? Wouldn’t it be easier to just… let go?

The first blow struck before you even flinched.

A brutal impact against your ribs, a sharp pain exploding across your side, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your body stumbled backward from the force, but still, you didn’t raise your fists.

Didn’t block. Didn’t fight.

Another hit—fists slamming into your jaw. A warm, metallic taste filled your mouth as blood dripped down your chin. But still, you stayed still. Let them hit you. Let them break you.

Because, in some cruel, twisted way—it felt like relief.

"Y/N!" Caitlyn’s voice cut through the fog like a gunshot, sharp and desperate.

You barely registered the real gunshot that followed, but you felt the force of it—the way the air shifted as a bullet whizzed past, taking down one of your attackers in an instant.

The chaos around you shifted, the smugglers scrambling at the sudden retaliation.

Caitlyn was moving before she even thought. A blur of precision, each shot landing clean. Two, three, four bodies dropped in seconds. The remaining thugs tried to flee, but Caitlyn didn’t let them—not until the last one hit the ground with a sickening crunch, her rifle slamming into his head with brutal efficiency.

Her chest heaved. Her blood pounded in her ears. Then, her head snapped toward you. You were still standing, barely. Bruised, bloodied, but alive.

Her breath caught—relief, fury, panic, all crashing into her at once. And then she was on you. Grabbing you, fingers digging into your shoulders, shaking you hard enough that your head snapped back to focus. "What the hell was that?!"

You blinked slowly, your expression eerily blank.

A thin trail of blood ran from your split lip. A bruise was already forming along your cheekbone. And yet… there was no fight in your eyes. No tension in your stance.

Just… emptiness.

Caitlyn’s grip tightened. "Why didn’t you fight back?"

Silence.

You looked away, something flickering across your face—something raw, something fragile. "Does it matter?"

Caitlyn froze. Her stomach dropped.

For the first time since she had met you, you looked tired. Not the exhaustion that came after a long shift, not the kind that sleep could fix, but something deeper. Something that had been building for far too long.

Her breath hitched. And in that moment, something inside her broke.

She had always believed you were strong. Unshakable. The one person who could take anything Piltover threw at them and still smile at the end of the day.

But now—

Now she realized she had been so blind.

Her hands trembled as they moved from your shoulders to your face, her thumbs brushing gently over the bruises blooming beneath your skin. She tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her gaze. "It matters to me." Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

"It matters because I almost lost you today," she continued, voice thick with emotion. "Because you let them hurt you instead of fighting back. Because—" She swallowed, blinking back the sting in her eyes. "Because I care about you, Y/N. More than you know."

You inhaled sharply, eyes widening just slightly. You could see it now. The fear in her gaze. The unfiltered pain behind her words. And it hurt.

Because you never wanted this. Never wanted her to look at you like this, like she was afraid of what might happen if she let you out of her sight.

Never wanted her to see the cracks in your mask.

Her touch softened, fingers ghosting over your cheek. "You're not alone," she whispered. "Whatever you're carrying, you don’t have to do it alone."

You wanted to believe her. Gods, you wanted to. But the weight in your chest had been there for so long. Pressing down, suffocating. You didn’t know how to let it go.

Didn’t know how to let someone in.

Caitlyn seemed to sense your hesitation. Because she didn’t let go. She didn’t push. Instead, she pulled you forward—slowly, carefully—until you were pressed against her.

Her arms wrapped around you, her warmth seeping into your frozen skin. She held you tightly, like she was terrified that if she let go, you would slip away for good.

"Please," she whispered, voice cracking. "Let me help you."

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers clutching at the fabric of her uniform.

And for the first time in a long time—longer than you could remember—you let yourself lean into her.

You let yourself believe, even if only for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, someone would catch you if you fell.

You always smiled.

No matter how hard things got, no matter how brutal the streets of Zaun could be—you were the one who kept people going. The bright spot in the darkest alleys. The girl who always had a joke, a laugh, a reason to push forward.

No one ever questioned it.

Because if you smiled, you had to be okay… right?

Vi didn’t believe in fate. She believed in fighting. For what you wanted. For who you loved. That’s why the unease gnawing at her gut tonight pissed her off.

She had been trying to ignore it for hours, trying to shake the damn feeling crawling up her spine. It sat in her chest, heavy and unrelenting, like a bad bruise that just wouldn’t fade.

She stood behind the bar at The Last Drop, idly drying a mug as the crowd buzzed around her.

Vander was working the far end, caught up in a conversation with some regulars. Mylo was running his mouth, probably talking himself into trouble. Claggor was doing his usual rounds, keeping an eye on things.

Powder had been hanging off Vi’s arm all night until Vi finally told her to go upstairs and get some sleep. That had been hours ago. And still, the feeling didn’t go away.

Something was wrong.

Her fingers tapped against the wooden counter. She hadn’t seen you all day. Not at breakfast. Not in the usual bickering between Mylo and Powder. Not at the bar, where you’d always sidle up next to her, smirking, trying to get her to sneak you an extra drink when Vander wasn’t looking.

At first, she figured you were just off doing your own thing. Maybe you were out. Maybe you just needed space. But the longer the night stretched on, the worse it got. Because you never just disappeared like this.

The mug slammed against the counter. Mylo shot her a look, but Vi ignored him. Her fists clenched at her sides. No. Something was wrong.

She wasn’t waiting any longer.

She shoved her way out from behind the bar, ignoring the way Vander glanced at her as she moved. She didn’t have time to explain. Didn’t have time to say anything.

She was already heading toward the back of the bar, her boots thudding against the wooden floor.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, the dim lanterns casting flickering shadows across the walls. Normally, she could drown it all out. But right now, it felt suffocating. She took the stairs two at a time.

"Y/N?" Her voice was firm as she stepped into the hall.

Silence.

Her stomach dropped. She passed Powder’s room, the door slightly open. Soft breathing. She was asleep. Good. She wouldn’t see whatever this was.

Vi didn’t stop. Your door was closed. That cold, sinking feeling in her chest turned into something sharp. She stepped closer. Knocked once.

"Y/N?" Nothing. Her breath hitched. Another knock, harder this time. "Y/N, open the damn door." Still nothing. Then she noticed— The door wasn’t just closed.

It was locked.

Her pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. She kicked the door open. The wood splintered under the force of it, crashing inward. The noise barely registered.

Because—

Oh, fuck.

You were slumped against the bed, body limp, skin too pale. Your breathing was slow. Too slow. And on the floor—an empty vial. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt.

"No. No, no, no—" She was at your side in an instant, grabbing your shoulders, shaking you roughly. "Y/N! Wake up—what the fuck did you do?!" Your head lolled, eyes barely cracking open. Hazy. Unfocused. Wrong.

"Vi..." Your voice was weak. Barely there. Like you were already slipping. Vi’s chest ached.

"Shit—shit!" Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She pulled you up against her, patting your cheeks, trying to keep you here. "You’re okay, you’re okay—just stay with me, alright?" Her voice cracked, panic bleeding into every syllable.

She had been in fights before. She had taken punches, thrown them, broken bones, gotten back up, and kept swinging. But this—this wasn’t something she could fight.

And that terrified her.

"Why?" The word barely slipped out, hoarse and broken. "Why would you do this?" Your fingers curled weakly around her wrist. You barely had the strength to hold on. You turned your head slightly, like you wanted to look away.

Vi wasn’t having it.

Her fingers caught your chin, forcing you to look at her. "Talk to me." Desperation clung to every word. "Please, Y/N." A tear slipped from the corner of your eye, trailing down your cheek.

"I... I didn’t want to be a burden."

Vi went still. The words hit her like a sucker punch. A full-force gut-shot that knocked the air from her lungs.

"A burden?" She said it like it was something disgusting. Like it physically hurt to say it out loud. And then—

Rage.

Pain.

Helplessness.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Her voice was rough, almost shaking. "Do you know what it would’ve done to me if I found you too late? If I—" Her throat closed up. She couldn’t say it. She wouldn’t say it.

Her hands clenched into fists against your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt so tightly her knuckles burned.

You were supposed to be here.

With her.

Always.

Your breath hitched weakly, your body pressing against hers. You felt so fragile. She swallowed thickly, blinking hard to fight the sting in her eyes.

Then she brushed damp strands of hair from your forehead, fingers gentler now, lingering in the way she needed to touch you.

"You’re my family, dumbass." Her voice was raw. Rough. But her grip was gentle. "You don’t get to just leave." A breath. A beat. "Not without a fight."

Your chest trembled. Vi had always been a fighter. For Powder. For Vander. For Zaun.

For you.

And now, for the first time, you realized— She wasn’t just fighting for you. She was fighting to keep you. Your throat tightened. Your vision blurred.

"I don’t know how to stop feeling like this." Vi exhaled sharply. Shakily. Then she shifted, pressing her forehead against yours, grounding you in her.

"Then let me carry it with you." A sob broke from your lips. She held you tighter. And for the first time in what felt like forever—

You didn’t feel so alone.

CAITVI

The thing about masks is that people believe in them.

And you were good at it.

Flashing that brilliant smile, cracking jokes that made Vi snort into her drink and Caitlyn shake her head with soft, fond exasperation. Being the warmth between them. The glue that held the three of you together. Or at least, that’s what they thought.

Because if you smiled, they wouldn’t ask. If you laughed, they wouldn’t worry.

But no matter how much you smiled, no matter how much you pretended—it was never enough to silence the voice in your head.

The one that told you you weren’t enough. That they’d be better off without you.

So you did it.

The blade had felt cold at first. The sting had been sharp, almost electrifying. But when the warmth of your blood pooled at your wrists, dripping onto the tile, the world started to fade into something quiet.

Something peaceful. For the first time in forever, your mind wasn’t screaming.

Until Caitlyn and Vi found you.

The first thing Caitlyn noticed was the smell.

That sharp, metallic scent of blood. It made her stomach turn before she even fully processed why.

Then she saw you.

Her breath stopped.

There you were, slumped against the bathtub, skin pale—too pale—contrasted by the deep, red streaks trailing down your arms. Blood pooled beneath you, soaking into the white tile, seeping into the cracks like it belonged there. Your hands lay limp at your sides, fingers twitching weakly, your head lolling forward as if even existing had become too heavy to bear.

The world tilted.

"No—no, no, no—" The sound that left Caitlyn’s throat was barely human. A strangled cry of disbelief and pure, pure terror. She froze.

Just for a second. Because this—this—wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

But it was.

Her body moved before her mind caught up, knees slamming against the floor as she threw herself toward you. Her hands hovered over your wrists for the briefest second, like she was afraid touching you would break you further—then she clamped down.

Warm, slick, too much blood.

"VI!" Her scream tore through the apartment, a desperate, raw plea. The door slammed open so hard it nearly broke off its hinges.

Vi.

Caitlyn barely registered her presence—barely saw the way Vi’s chest heaved, the way her wild, frantic eyes locked onto you, and then—

And then Vi stopped breathing.

Because she saw.

She saw the blood. She saw Caitlyn’s hands shaking as they pressed down on your wrists. She saw the way your body wasn’t moving.

And for a moment—just a second—Vi was sixteen years old again, standing in the ruins of her home, looking at her dead parents, her fallen family, feeling that same, raw helplessness that she swore she’d never feel again.

Her stomach lurched.

"No. No, no, no—baby, stay with me," Vi choked out, running to you, falling to her knees so hard it hurt. Her hands hovered over you, trembling, afraid.

"I—I need cloth, something to—Vi, help me!" Caitlyn’s voice broke.

Vi snapped out of it.

"Shit—fuck—"

She ripped off her undershirt, barely noticing her own shaking fingers as she pressed it hard against your wrists, wrapping the fabric as tightly as she could, ignoring the way the blood seeped through instantly.

"Shit—shit—Y/N, you’re gonna be fine, okay? You’re gonna be fine. Stay with us, baby, please—" Vi pressed a shaking hand to your cheek. You were cold.

Too cold.

Her stomach twisted. "Why the fuck would you do this?" Her voice cracked, forehead pressing against yours as she held onto you like you were already slipping away.

Your eyelids fluttered. A weak, barely-there breath slipped past your lips. "V-Vi…?"

Vi let out a broken sound, something between a sob and a growl. "Yeah, baby, I’m here. We’re here. Stay awake for us, okay? Just—just keep looking at me."

Your eyelids fluttered again, but the effort of keeping them open seemed too much.

"Don’t—don’t move," Caitlyn whispered, her hands still clutching your wrists, her grip so tight it was almost painful. "Just hold on, love. Stay with us."

Your lips parted slightly, but no real words came out. Just a breath, just the faintest trace of a tired smile. "I'm sorry…"

Vi snapped.

"Don’t you fucking say that!" she barked, voice shaking violently. "Don’t you fucking dare." Your brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering through your glassy gaze.

"I didn’t want to be a burden…" Caitlyn inhaled sharply.

She squeezed her eyes shut for just a second, willing herself to hold it together before she spoke, her voice steady but so, so broken. "You—are not a burden, Y/N."

Your breath hitched. "Then why do I feel like one…?" You hated how your voice broke, how weak you sounded.

Vi pulled back just enough to look at you, her face a mixture of heartbreak and fury—but not at you. Never at you.

"Because your head is feeding you lies, baby." Vi’s voice shook, her hands cupping your face like she was terrified you’d disappear if she let go. "You’re fucking everything to us. Everything."

Caitlyn swallowed past the lump in her throat, nodding fiercely. "We love you, Y/N. So much. Do you hear me?"

Your vision swam, everything hazy, but through the blur, you saw it.

The absolute terror in Vi’s eyes. The devastation in Caitlyn’s. The way they were holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping them breathing.

Your throat tightened. "I’m tired…"

Vi shook her head. "I know, baby. I know. But we’ve got you, okay? We’ve got you. Just hold on a little longer. Please."

Caitlyn took a slow, shuddering breath, squeezing your hands in hers even as the pressure hurt. "We’re not letting go of you. Ever."

Vi swallowed hard, pressing a kiss to your forehead, her lips trembling. "We need you, Y/N."

Your chest rose and fell in a slow, uneven rhythm. Your mind was a storm, a chaotic mess of exhaustion and numbness, but their voices—their love—was something solid.

Something that fought against the darkness trying to drag you under. Maybe the storm wasn’t over. Maybe the weight wouldn’t disappear overnight. But with them?

Maybe, just maybe, you could try again.

EKKO

Zaun never slept, but tonight, the air was eerily still—a rare silence that seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was about to unfold.

Ekko’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as he sprinted through the labyrinthine back alleys. His heart pounded louder than the clamor of any fight he’d ever known. This wasn’t a chase against enforcers or a desperate escape from chem-barons or even a cunning dodge from a Piltover patrol. No—this was something far more personal. This was the race to save you.

A Firelight scout’s panicked words still echoed in his ears—something about you, about explosives, about how you were alone near the old docks. That was all it took for him to bolt, his mind burning with dread and determination.

When he finally found you, the scene seared itself into his memory. You lay curled on the cracked stone floor of a deserted alley, your trembling hands clutching a small, flickering device. It was a bomb, its fuse a silent promise of impending catastrophe.

For a moment, time halted. Ekko’s heart lurched as he cried out, “Y/N!” The sound reverberated off cold walls, slicing through the heavy silence.

Your head snapped up, eyes wide with shock and raw fear, just as Ekko lunged forward. In a split-second decision, his hand snatched the explosive from your grip, his muscles straining as he hurled it away. The bomb sailed through the air and, with a deafening clatter, skidded across the uneven ground before coming to rest. The fuse sputtered and then, in an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity, the bomb exploded.

The blast tore through the alley, a violent burst of heat and force that threw debris and darkness into every corner. Ekko’s instincts, honed by years of defying time and fate, kicked in immediately. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw himself forward, his arms outstretched to shield you from the fury of the explosion. In that chaotic moment, when the world around you was reduced to a maelstrom of light, sound, and raw energy, his arms became a sanctuary—an anchor amidst the devastation.

When the roaring noise subsided, dust and ash settling like a sorrowful shroud, Ekko was there. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths as he knelt by your side. His eyes, wide with shock and heartache, locked onto yours, as if willing you to see just how deeply you mattered to him.

“What the fuck were you doing?!” he demanded, his voice raw and broken by a mix of fury, relief, and unspeakable grief. The force of the explosion still lingered in his veins, each throb a reminder of how close he had come to losing you forever.

You curled tighter into yourself, the weight of the moment crashing down like a tidal wave. “I—” your voice faltered, torn between words and the overwhelming cascade of emotion.

“You were gonna blow yourself up?” Ekko’s voice cracked, and suddenly, his hands were on your shoulders—gripping you with a desperate tenderness as if to ensure that, even for a fleeting second, you wouldn’t slip away. “You—Y/N, do you even understand what that would’ve done? To me? To everyone who cares about you?”

Tears burned at your eyes, but you maintained the same guarded expression you’d perfected over the years. It was your shield, your way of hiding the storm inside. For so long, you’d worn that happy front as a mask, convincing everyone that everything was fine, even when your inner world was in ruins.

In the thick silence that followed, Ekko’s grip loosened just enough for him to breathe, his forehead pressing against yours as if trying to merge his warmth with your cold despair. “You were gonna leave me? Just like that?” His words trembled in the air, laden with disbelief and pain.

Your lips trembled, the simplest apology feeling woefully inadequate. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” His whisper, though soft, carried the weight of an entire universe. “Don’t fucking apologize, Y/N. Just tell me—why? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting so much?”

Your gaze dropped to the stained ground, every word a shard of regret. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“A burden?” Ekko’s voice hardened into a hollow laugh that quickly dissolved into despair. “You’re everything to me, Y/N. Everything. And you thought I wouldn’t care?” His fingers, gentle yet insistent, brushed against your cheek, tilting your face up so you could meet his eyes—eyes that seemed to hold every promise of protection.

“I see you,” he murmured, his voice softening as he spoke with fierce tenderness. “Even when you're smiling, even when you’re pretending everything’s fine—I see you. I know you’re hurting.”

In that moment, as the smoke of the explosion still swirled around you and the city’s chaos resumed its ceaseless pulse, Ekko gathered you into his arms. His embrace was a fortress built of raw emotion and unwavering resolve. He held you close as if anchoring you to life, his heartbeat a steady drum urging you not to fade away.

“Please,” he whispered against your hair, his words trembling with urgency. “Stay. Just stay with me. Let me help you carry this burden. I can’t—won’t—imagine a world without you.”

The overwhelming noise of the aftermath faded into a distant hum as you clung to him, your own pain momentarily swallowed by the safety of his arms. In that fragile, suspended moment, you realized that maybe—just maybe—allowing someone to see your true self wasn’t a weakness. Perhaps, instead, it was the beginning of healing.

Ekko’s eyes, fierce and full of unspoken promises, searched yours for any hint of hope. And as you met his gaze, you understood that while the scars of tonight might never fully vanish, there was a chance—a fragile, flickering chance—to rebuild, together.

In the stillness that followed, with debris settling and hearts slowly mending, you allowed yourself to believe that the light he offered could one day outshine even the darkest shadows of your pain. And as his arms held you, you took that first trembling step toward a future where you didn’t have to hide behind a mask anymore.

MEL

Piltover’s skyline was breathtaking at night.

From this height, the city stretched endlessly, a glimmering web of golden lights. The streets pulsed with life—figures moving between towering structures, carriages rattling over cobblestone roads, people talking, laughing, existing.

It was beautiful.

It was distant.

And standing on the ledge of the building, the wind whipping against your skin, you felt like you were watching a world you didn’t belong to.

How many times had you smiled in those streets? How many times had you laughed, held conversations, reassured others, lifted them up? How many times had you convinced everyone—yourself—that you were fine?

But illusions had never been enough.

And tonight, you were tired of pretending.

Your fingers curled against the cold stone beneath you. The wind tugged at your clothes, teasing, inviting. You wondered if falling would feel like freedom—if for just a few seconds, you’d feel weightless, untethered from everything that had been suffocating you for so long.

But before you could lean forward, a voice shattered the silence.

"Y/N."

The sound of your name made your body jolt. It was smooth, controlled, but beneath that carefully placed veneer, there was something else. Something raw.

You turned your head slightly, already knowing who it was.

Mel Medarda.

She stood a few feet away, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights. The golden accents of her dress shimmered as she moved, slow and deliberate, like she was approaching a wounded animal that might bolt at any second.

She didn’t shout. Didn’t cry. Didn’t break the fragile moment with frantic desperation.

She just watched you.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to remain steady. "Go back, Mel." She tilted her head ever so slightly, unreadable. "This isn’t something you need to see."

Mel didn’t listen. Of course she didn’t. Another step forward. Then another. The click of her heels against the rooftop was almost inaudible beneath the wind.

She was closer now—close enough that you could see the flicker of something dark in her golden eyes. Something almost dangerous.

Not anger. Not fear.

Determination.

"You’re trembling," she observed, her voice impossibly soft, but her gaze never wavered. "You don’t want this."

Your jaw clenched. "You don’t know that."*

Mel exhaled through her nose, almost like she was restraining herself from reacting. She studied you, as if peeling back every layer, every mask you had ever worn.

Then, after a pause, she murmured, "Don’t I?"

Your breath caught in your throat.

She took another step, slow and measured, until she was close enough to touch you. But she didn’t. Not yet.

"You’ve spent so much time making sure everyone else is happy," she said, her voice dipping lower, "that you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve the same."

The words struck something deep inside you.

A bitter laugh bubbled up, but it sounded wrong—hollow, empty. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." Mel hummed, a sound so soft you almost missed it.

"You do," she countered. "You always do."* Silence stretched between you. Your fingers curled against the stone ledge. Your heart pounded.

"I just…" You hesitated, voice barely audible. "I don’t think I can keep doing this, Mel."*

Mel inhaled slowly, carefully. Her posture remained composed, but there was something new in her expression. Something that made your chest ache.

Pain.

"You can," she whispered. "And you will."

You turned your head fully now, searching her face, your eyes burning. "Why do you care so much?"

Mel stilled.

And then, after a long moment, she spoke.

"Because I know what it feels like to stand on the edge of something and believe there’s no way forward."* Her words sent a sharp chill through your body.

You had never seen Mel Medarda falter. She was always so composed, so in control. A force of nature—untouchable, unreadable.

But tonight, she was human.

"And I know what it feels like," she continued, "when someone reaches for you before you fall."*

Your throat tightened.

Mel slowly, finally, reached out, her fingertips brushing against yours. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just there.

"Come back to me," she whispered. "Step down." The wind howled around you, but it wasn’t the wind that made your body waver. It was her.

Because Mel Medarda was not a woman who begged.

And yet here she was, golden eyes raw with something so painfully vulnerable it almost undid you completely. Your lips parted, but no words came.

"I don’t deserve you," you choked out instead.

"That is not your choice to make," she countered, her voice unwavering. "Step down."

Your heart thundered against your ribs. You stared at her outstretched hand, at the warmth and steadiness it promised.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself be selfish.

You took her hand.

The second you did, Mel moved.

With a quiet, shuddering breath, she pulled you into her arms, crushing you against her. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other gripping your waist as if letting go wasn’t an option.

Her warmth surrounded you—steady, grounding. Her heartbeat thrummed against your own.

"I’ve got you," she whispered. "I’ve got you, Y/N."*

Your fingers dug into the fabric of her dress. "I’m sorry," you whispered against her shoulder.

Mel exhaled, her hand smoothing over your hair. "No," she murmured. "Just stay."

And in that moment—buried in her strength, her quiet desperation—you realized something.

You had spent so long trying to carry the world, to be the light for others, that you forgot what it felt like to have someone hold you.

Maybe you weren’t alone after all.

And maybe, just maybe, you could learn how to stay.

SEVIKA

The water welcomed you like an old friend. Cold. Heavy. Quiet. You thought it would hurt. That maybe your body would fight against it, that some primal instinct would kick in and force you to claw your way back to the surface.

But it didn’t.

There was no struggle. No panic.

Only the gentle pull of the depths, the soft lull of the current wrapping around you, dragging you downward as if the city itself had finally decided to let you go.

The world above faded, the distorted glow of neon lights disappearing as your vision darkened.

And for the first time in a long time—there was peace.

No expectations. No forced smiles. No pretending.

Just silence.

Just—

Nothing.

Sevika had a bad feeling. She wasn’t the sentimental type. Didn’t believe in gut feelings or fate or any of that bullshit. But tonight, something was wrong.

It started with little things.

The way your hands shook when you thought no one was looking. The way your laughter came a second too late in conversations, like you had to remind yourself how to react. The way your smile was too perfect, stretched too tight like it might shatter at any moment.

Sevika noticed.

She always noticed.

You thought you were good at hiding it. Thought you had everyone fooled. But Sevika had spent too many years reading people, understanding their weaknesses, predicting when someone was about to break.

And tonight— Something in you had cracked.

She should have said something. Should have pulled you aside, forced you to talk, pried the truth out of you with sharp words and soft hands.

But she didn’t.

And now you were gone. She searched for you. The bar. The alleys. The rooftops. Nothing. Her heartbeat quickened, each passing second making her pulse drum louder in her ears.

Then she heard it—

A scream. Bloodcurdling. Terrified. Sevika’s stomach dropped.

Her legs carried her before her mind caught up, pushing through the thick crowd gathering near the docks, voices blurring into meaningless static.

She shoved past them, her gut twisting, and then—

A splash. A glimpse of something pale beneath the surface. And then—

You. Floating. Still. The murky water of Zaun was swallowing you whole. No—

"NO!" She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. She jumped. The river hit like a fist of ice, numbing her limbs instantly, but she fought against it.

Her body cut through the water, powerful strokes tearing through the current. The city above blurred, muffled, disappearing as she dove deeper, reaching for you—

Her fingers brushed your wrist. Then your arm. Her metal hand latched onto you, tight, refusing to let go.

"I got you, baby, I got you," she muttered, voice lost beneath the water as she dragged you back up, her own lungs burning.

She kicked hard, breaking the surface with a sharp gasp, the cold air slicing into her chest like a blade.

"Breathe, damn you," she growled, hauling your lifeless body onto the dock, collapsing beside you on trembling arms.

Your skin was ice. Your lips were blue.

You weren’t breathing.

"Shit, shit—fuck!" Sevika’s voice cracked as she pressed two fingers to your throat. Nothing. "No, no, no—" Her pulse roared. Her vision blurred. Her hands shook. Then she moved.

She tilted your head back, her hands automatically finding position on your chest.

"Stay with me, baby—!" She pushed. Hard. "Come on, come on, come on," she muttered through gritted teeth, slamming her palms into your sternum, forcing your heart to beat.

Once. Twice. Five times.

"Don’t fucking do this to me, Y/N—!" Her breath hitched, but she kept going.

She tilted your chin, pinched your nose, sealed her lips over yours, and breathed.

Her own chest ached from how hard she inhaled, desperate to fill your lungs, desperate to hear you gasp, to feel anything.

She pulled back.

Nothing.

"FUCK!" Her fists curled, her body shaking as she wiped the wet strands of hair clinging to your face. "Don’t you dare fucking leave me, you hear me?" Her voice cracked, splintering with something raw and ugly. "Don’t you fucking do this—!"

She pressed down again. Harder.

"Come on, babygirl, fight—fight me, damn it!" Another push. Another breath. "Please, Y/N—just breathe, just fucking breathe!"

Her vision swam. Her jaw clenched so tight she thought her teeth might crack. "I swear to God, if you leave me, I’ll—" Her voice caught, breaking into something closer to a sob.

Another push. Another—

A cough. A strangled, gasping choke as your body convulsed violently.

Water spilled from your lips, your whole frame shuddering as air tore through your lungs.

"Oh, fuck—" Sevika nearly collapsed onto you, hands cupping your face, her forehead pressing hard against yours.

"Shit, shit, baby—" Her breath came in ragged, uneven gulps, and she felt her body trembling, her mind catching up to what almost just happened.

You were alive.

Barely. But alive.

"Sevika..." Your voice was wrecked, barely a whisper, but the second you said her name, her fingers tightened on you.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Her voice was hoarse, torn somewhere between anger and something closer to begging. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Tears burned your throat. "I—I don’t know." Her breath hitched. You looked small. Smaller than you ever had before. Like if she let go, you’d slip away all over again.

"You really think I’d let you go that easy?" she muttered, voice raw.

You swallowed thickly, barely holding back the sob in your chest. "I thought—"

"Don’t." Her grip tightened. Metal fingers digging into your soaked shirt, grounding you to her. "Don’t fucking say it."

Silence.

The water dripped from both of you, pooling beneath her knees, mixing with the blood on her knuckles from where she had gripped the dock too hard.

Then, softer—

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

Her forehead pressed against yours, her breath warm despite the cold, her entire body trembling. "Do you have any idea what I’d do if I lost you?" Your chest ached, but not from the CPR.

"I didn’t want to be a burden."

Her eyes darkened. "Burden?"

She pulled back just enough to glare at you, her jaw clenching so tightly you swore you heard her teeth grind.

"You're the only thing in this shit city that makes me feel alive, and you think you’re a fucking burden?"

Your breath shuddered. "I'm sorry."

Sevika exhaled sharply, shaking her head, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a bitter chuckle—one that held no humor, only exhaustion.

"Yeah? Don’t be sorry."

She pulled you closer, her arms wrapping around you, her metal hand pressing against the back of your head, keeping you there—safe.

"Just don’t fucking do it again." You weren’t sure if you could promise that.

But as she held you—tightly, desperately, like you were the only thing keeping her tethered to this world—you thought… maybe, just maybe…

You could try.

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lua-stellar · 10 months ago

Text

What Will This July Bring You??✨ Tea Leaf Reading 🍵

Reading done with Tea Leaves 🍵 Predictions for what will come your way this July (2024) *images included

tip me on ko-fi if you liked this reading :3

pile 1

in the first week or first couple of weeks of july you will experience some kind of event or celebration and i see that during this you'll experience an extremely lucky coincidence, i feel like this is love related somehow and this event can help you possibly become closer with someone? I see a giraffe thats touching the inner rim venus symbol and the glass but also what i think looks like a lamp, thats also touching the venus symbol going into the sunrise symbol. A lamp and a sunrise, i feel like fortells a new beginning with your path enlightened regarding romance somehow whether its with someone you like now or someone you meet at this event possibly? Like i feel like whatever it is your path will metaphorically be enlightened and you will have luck on your side regarding this future event and possibly shooting your shot with someone romantically? Like i'm getting a vibe of you putting yourself out there romantically this july and within the first two weeks is my prediction based off the placement of the symbols on the cup. The lamp also kind of looks like the rune Algiz which kind of affirms my interpretation of the lamp in the sense that you will have luck on your side and be sort of protected in a way when doing something risky like making a move on someone romantically. Like if i had to make a comparison it'd be the ten of hearts card in cartomancy, you will have nothing to worry about because things will go your way and you can let yourself be confident in what you do basically. Further into the month like closer to the end of the month i see like a little unicorn, or a pony. I initially thought it was a unicorn, but it i get the vibe that you are someone who maybe limits themselves a little and feel like you underestimate yourself. Basically late july you will be able to accomplish alot of things that you have always wanted to accomplish, and you will be able to open your roads and make all sorts of things possible even things you didn't think could even be possible for you. Good things are definently coming your way this july, wishes being granted, manifestations etc etc. I also see a rabbit in the distant future same area as the little unicorn and i think that means things will be increasing for you, increased ideas increased creativity, you will be coming up with new ideas and increased growth in different aspects of your life. I also see a little candle as well which is just more metaphorically your path being enlightened and things working in your favour, you can pursue whatever it is you want without worrying because again things will be going good and everything will work out for you. In your little tea plate, which i use to drain the water, it typically represents like the drama or overall energy of the reading,, i initially saw like two people in the middle of the plate like holding hands perhaps, or embracing, just connecting somehow. It kind of looks like one is a little kid and the other person is some kind of animal like a dog maybe, I feel like you will make a new connection this july with someone. And for this upcoming month there is alot of energy of growth and things like growing, improving, etc etc.

pile 2

i feel as though within maybe the first or again second week of july, you will be reaching out to people and connecting with others being sociable, and i feel like a new romance will blossom. A summer fling if you will. I don't know why i keep getting romance related messages but i see a heart on the mercury symbol, through reaching out to people and communicating and whatnot a new romance will blossom in your life, and its sort of like a slow burn romance because there is a tortoise right next to the heart. This romance will move slowly but the tortoise is a good omen that things will last and you will be successful through patience, and possibly getting to know this person. There is also alot of like loose little tea leaf dots like freckles that are kind of surrounding mercury in general like i feel like there is alot of energy in that aspect of your life in this coming july you will be reaching out to people, communicating getting out of your comfort zone possibly, etc etc. This outgoingness type of energy attracts a new romance into your life. In distant july like more closer to the end perhaps i see a rabbit a really big one on the bottom of your cup and i think it signifies alot of growth and new things happening new opportunities springing up new ideas etc, I also see a giraffe which i feel means you will experience good luck when doing things kind of risky or out of your comfort zone, you may experience happy coincidences and things working out for you very well, I also see like a little puppy like one of those white fluffy puppies, the kind you'd see on a rich lady's purse, idk. I feel like this could represent someone like a friend or a partner, someone who is friendly, it could also represent literally 'puppy love'. On your tea plate, which I read to represent the drama occuring in your life and the overall energy of the reading and overall energy of this upcoming july in general. There is a lighthouse right on the plate which shows to me that maybe you are someone who people will look up to, maybe you will be in a position of authority, perhaps in a summer job and whatnot. But also I see like a dinosaur right on Pisces and Aries, on the rim of the plate. It's completely covering the pisces symbol actually. I feel like maybe this fortells you living in the past a little bit during this month and refusing to change certain things, because its covering up pisces completely i'm inclined to believe you may have trouble during july regarding change that threatens your inner world you may be more outgoing this summer however during this time i'm picking up on the energy that you are not someone who enjoys the spotlight for long and shies away from it eventually, and at a certain point you don't want to sacrifice your comfort for anything really anyone or circumstances which leaves you holding onto the past a bit like the dinosaur. I feel like this bleeds into aries because it's like part of what can tick you off, and although there is a lightouse in the middle of this plate implying people around you will like you and look up to you at a certain point the spotlight will even irritate you and people who are annoying and threaten your comfort or even world view will just tick you off this july. I also see a little arrow on the aquarius symbol, I think this ties in with you going alot out of your comfort zone this july when it comes to communicating with others but also internally shows how you may be unsure about it, the arrow is like you wondering whether you should take that leap and the fact that its right on aquarius i feel means that you have a need for stability and security when it comes to friendships and being around others, and you are someone who requires space and to be alone with their thoughts perhaps.

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neil-gaiman · 2 years ago

Note

Had to make an entire account just to tell you this, and I'm sure you've heard it before, but I figure it never hurts to repeat it--what you've done for me as a queer person, specifically with Good Omens, has rewritten my perspective on every piece of media I've ever consumed. When I watched the finale episode, it was about 2 a.m., and I remember being confused as to why I was so shell-shocked, why I couldn't talk about it for weeks afterward, and still can't without my chest tightening like a middle schooler at her first concert. Sure, it's emotional, but so are a lot of stories, and none of them have impacted me in the same way.

The thing is that to my bones, I had this certainty that it would never happen. I've watched/read queer love stories, ones that ended happily and ones that didn't, ones as side plots and ones that are the plot--but if I ever encountered one with actual uncertainty, with the double-meanings and the overemotional turmoil, I thought, "Oh, that's how it's going to be," and I resigned myself to wait for the writers or the actors to say they're TOTALLY together, we just didn't need to be obvious about it. And Good Omens isn't, in the trailers, wholly about a romance. Of course it is, but there's some plot squished in amongst all the romance, so I thought it would be one of those uncertainty-stories, where I'd know and you'd know they love each other but we didn't need to make a big deal about it. I didn't think they'd say it. I certainly didn't think they'd kiss. I watched Crowley stalk up to Aziraphale and grab him by the coat and I still thought, "Nah. Not gonna happen."

The only writers who had ever represented people like me in relationships like mine with any authenticity, who gave value to the drama and the camp, were romance writers. If it wasn't in the romance section, I was resigned to being a side note or a shoo-in, a love INTEREST instead of a love STORY. And I didn't realize how earth-shattering it would be to be, for lack of any suitable word, Jane-Austened like that. Can't speak for all queer people, but I just wanted to thank you for giving that to me and my partner--who still, for the record, cannot do much more than giggle like madmen at gif-sets and plot how to get our other friends to watch it too.

Thank you. That means a lot.

#go2 spoilers

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godmadeaterribleerror · 9 months ago

Text

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

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pretzel-box · 7 months ago

Text

"This is a side note from Professor Doctor XXXX from the research department to the person in charge of the archive in the basement level.

We have found a curious file among our stash, no name or serial number marked, and would like to know if it accidentally slipped among the requested research material from last week.

Multiple assets are found in the said file.

Please page me or leave a note if you find out more. I leave the keycard to retrieve the file at the front desk.

Day 1: Arrival

Day 2: Bad Omen

Day 3: In the Black

Day 4: Dying Lights

Day 5: False Friends

Day 6: Wrong Rooms

Day 7: Loose Assets

Day 8: Ventilations

Day 9: Suprise Guests

Day 10: Faces in the dark

Day 11: Unspoken Crimes

Day 12: A warm thought

Day 13: Drowning

Day 14: Hide and Seek

Day 15: Dehydration

Day 16: Stocking Up

Day 17: Wrong turn

Day 18: Meeting with Death

Day 19: Three Eyes

Day 20: An Easter Egg

Day 21: Items of Interest

Day 22: A cup of Tea

Day 23: Campfire Story

Day 24: Pumpkin Collection

Day 25: Ghost Hunt

Day 26: A spooky decoration

Day 27: Your favorite monster

Day 28: Costume Parade

Day 29: Summoning Circles

Day 30: Stormy Blackout

Day 31: Trick Or Treat

And with that, welcome to Pretzels October Prompt Challenge, totally selfmade by Pretzel herself. It's a selection of 31 prompts which I will turn into short stories and dabbles.

Of course, others can participate too! It doesn't have to be fanfiction. You can make art or write poems too. Anything is allowed, and you don't even have to do every single day. It's a fun little opportunity to be creative once you feel like it.

I will post the short stories all with the #OctoberPressurePrompts !

#OctoberPressurePrompts #Masterlist #sebastian solace #roblox pressure #sebastian solace x reader #sebastian solace x you #pressure #sebastian solace fanfic #pressure x reader #Painter x reader #Pressure Painter #Pressure Writing

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i-only-ever-asked-questions · 1 year ago

Text

Map of Soho Good Omens Season 2 - Part 1 (Location and general map)

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Update: Map now identifies Lucky Snake and the coffee shop listed in Aziraphale's clipboard may indeed be Give Me Coffee I think we all have wondered how the GO Soho looks like and where it would be in real London. So using all the screenshots, BTS pictures and videos I could find I did my best to map out where things are. It is not to scale but everything I could see is there. I originally had all the pictures and explanations in this post but soon it became obvious it was going to be too long and impractical so I had to split it in different posts and I hope I got it right. The map has five reference points (circle with two diverging lines); imagine the circle is you, standing in the set, and the lines are your viewpoint if you were taking a picture from there. The left side of Whickber Street (#1 and #2) is in Part 2, the intersecting street (#3 and #4) is in Part 3 and the right half of Whickber Street (#5) is in Part 4.

As to where the bookshop would be in real London. We know that Whickber Street is supposed to be Berwick Street so let's start there. The intersecting street is not obvious from the show. In this post Neil said he imagines the bookshop to be where Gosh! Comics is (Peter Street) while Michael Ralph and Douglas McKinnon probably put it at The Week (on Broadwick Street). Because it is ambiguous and really you can do whatever you want, I just left it as "intersecting street". We know from the book that Crowley takes Wardour Street after the bookshop fire. Wardour is behind Berwick so in our map it would be where the Chinese Buffet Restaurant is, considering they run more or less parallel. On the other side, we have the Windmill Theatre located on Great Windmill Street. From Berwick St. and Peter St. it takes three minutes to walk to the theatre, it is that close! (yes, I know, Crowley was conducting business two blocks from the bookshop while not talking to Aziraphale for 80 years). I have never been in that part of London so I used Google Maps streetview and based only on that, I like the corner of Berwick St. and Broadwick St. better. It has the crooked intersection but the proximity of the theatre matches Peter St. better, so whatever works better for you!

There is one place missing from the set map though: Brown's World of Carpets! It is nowhere to be found, we simply don't know where it is My very personal headcanon is that it is nothing but a desk inside the furniture store. I find that idea of the guy most worried about storefront looks being the one without a storefront very amusing, but don't mind me, it is just my very silly hc XD Now, we know Aziraphale has a list for the shops he needs to visit. And we know he wrote it in alphabetical order which begs the question: Where is the Dirty Donkey?! Are they not invited? And what about the fabric shop? And Bilton Scaggs? Battye and Palm? The News Agency? Is "Mo Coffee? No Coffee?" supposed to be Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death? Or is there another coffee shop somewhere? @crow-bee23 suggested it could be "Me Coffee" which it is entirely possible, the full name is kind of long. So many questions to ask Mr. Brown.

Anyway, I put pictures and details on the shops in parts 2, 3 and 4. Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens 2 set #good omens soho #A. Z. Fell & Co #the dirty donkey #Windmill theatre #whickber street #berwick street #peter street #broadwick street #the bookshop #good omens 3 #they will be using the same set after all

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lovebugism · 1 year ago

Note

congrats on one year of your blog!!

for your one year celebration, could you write something with the prompt

“you showed up at my door of all place?”

“trust me it wasn’t my first choice either.”

with steve perhaps? maybe he’s injured (because when isn’t he) and has no one else to turn to but the reader??

tysm lovie! hope you like it :D — steve seeks comfort in you, his rival since high school, a week after fighting vecna (enemies in love, hurt/comfort, post st4, 1.7k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

Steve’s stitches start weeping a week after the brawl with Vecna — the ones you’d sewn along his ribcage when a gang of demobats made a feast of him.

He’s gotten so numb to the pain (the constant, never-ending, three years of nonstop pain) that he doesn’t realize his wound has torn open again. Not until his shirt starts sticking abnormally wet to his skin. He looks down, notices the dark red patch blooming on the gray fabric, and then feels the distant stinging of the week-old bite.

Most of them have healed or are starting to. They’ve turned pink and marred over, unlikely to fade. But there’s one gash that refuses to mend, and he’s starting to think it might be some kind of bad omen. Like the constantly knicked sutures are some kind of prophetic telling of an undone fight and not just a consequence of his restlessness.

He thinks of you first, anyhow. Before a solution or a way to dull the pain. He thinks of you and your gentle hands and how you were the only person he’d let touch him after coming back from the Upside Down.

Steve drives to Forest Hills and ascends the rickety porch of your trailer even though he knows it’s 2 a.m. He knocks at the paint-chipped entrance even though he knows Eddie only lives four doors down. Max lives across the way from Eddie, and he knows that, too. He could go just about anywhere, he figures, but he’s here — on the steps of the girl who couldn’t stand him in high school.

You answer the door much quicker than he anticipated. Ten seconds after he knocks, you stand before him with wet hair and no pants. The damp strands drip onto the oversized shirt you wear. The sleeves of the old thing hang low off your arms, the hem of it falling just above your knees.

You don’t look sleepy despite the early hours of the morning. Tired, maybe, but not sleepy. “Steve?” you say, so suddenly alert at the sight of him. Your eyes, lined with a sleep you haven’t gotten in days, go wide with distant horror. “What happened? Are you okay? Did someone die?”

You ask him all this before he’s said a single word. Good questions when you live in a town like this one, when you’ve seen the things you’ve seen.

“Nothing. Everyone’s fine,” Steve answers in a monotone, still gripping his side with his opposite hand. “My stitches just ripped.”

You blink rapidly at him, trying to clear the daze of exhaustion and the subtle shock of seeing him. “Stitches— What?”

He pulls back his hand, the palm of it now blotched pink. There’s one large circle of deep brown blood staining his shirt and two more tiny patches just below it. “I’m bleeding,” he tells you, as if it isn’t obvious now. “My stitches pulled.”

Your gaping gaze flits from his freshly opened wound to the annoyed look on his chiseled face. His pale features glow amber beneath the buzzing porch light. “And you showed up to my door, of all places?”

“Trust me. It wasn’t my first choice either.” He clutches his side again and slides past you in the doorway, walking into your trailer, mostly uninvited.

He knows your parents aren’t around. It’s the only thing you’ve ever been able to bond over. You grew up mostly alone and learned to raise yourselves accordingly. So it’s not totally surprising to find your trailer dripping with girlhood — tiny trinkets, movie posters, half-alive plants, and vibrant colors. More of a home than his empty mansion ever was.

“Why don’t you just go to the E.R.?” you ask and shut the door behind you. You have to lean your body weight against it and press really hard — or else it won’t close fully, and the wind kicks it open while you’re sleeping, and you wake up to a family of raccoons ravaging the candy bowl on your coffee table.

Steve huffs and sits on your grass-green couch, face scrunching at the distant stinging along his ribcage. “Because I don’t know how to tell people that potentially rabid demobats took a pound of flesh outta me,” he sasses.

You shake your head. “If you get blood on my sofa, Harrington, I swear to god…” you mumble and sit down beside him.

You lift the hem of his shirt to assess the damage, knuckles skimming warm along his golden side.

Most of the bites scattered along his ribs are healing now. They’re small and shallow and turning slowly pink instead of scarlet red. But there’s one still pulsing crimson, the only one deep enough to need stitches. The only one refusing to heal.

The sight of the raw, throbbing wound makes your stomach writhe. You remember pulling the stubborn demobat off of him by its tail. You feel the sting of his pain even now, like it’s your own.

Steve watches your face the whole time. He decides to base his pain on how you look at him, whether you shrug it off or grimace in disgust. You do neither. Your eyes dart over his skin, glimmering with concentration, as your fingers brush his aching side with a gentleness he didn’t think was possible.

His brows pinch at your lack of response. He tilts his chin to his chest and ducks his gaze to look at you, honey eyes eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Is it bad?”

“Well… It’s not good,” you conclude after a few moments.

“That’s such a non-answer,” he scoffs, dropping his head to the back of the couch to watch you walk into the kitchen.

You disappear behind a wall for a few moments. The distant clattering of something, muffled as you dig inside cabinets, fills the empty trailer.

You’re back in thirty seconds, tops, with the first aid kit you’ve been a stickler about keeping restocked. ‘Cause Steve isn’t your first patient since coming back home. He’s not your second, either.

It was Eddie first, for his own demobat bites, and then Lucas when the cut along his swollen cheek split open again.

You’re not cut out for any of it. Not professionally, anyway. You only know how to do sutures because of Mr. Mundy’s ninth-grade health class.

You return to Steve’s side and begin to clean up the bite, lest an infection spread and Vecna take him out from beyond the grave.

The burn of the alcohol makes him wince. “Ow,” Steve whispers under his breath, a subtle pout scrunching his features.

“Don’t be such a baby,” you laugh.

“I’m injured— You’re supposed to be nice to me.”

“You’ve been through three separate concussions and a thousand demobat bites. I think you can handle a little sting, Harrington.”

Steve tilts his cheek to his shoulder, squinting his twinkling eyes and flashing you a lopsided smile. “Has anyone ever told you how amazing your bedside manner is— ow!”

You start stitching him up without warning. You make it look easy despite having no real idea what you’re doing. Steve figures it’s because you’re a natural at taking care of people. Sometimes he thinks that’s the only reason all of you managed to make it out of the Upside Down in the first place.

“All done,” you murmur after you’ve knotted the last stitch.

“Thanks…” He tries to sit up again. The sting hasn’t yet left him. It’s less of a pain now, and more of a warning — the thin sutures screaming as they threaten to snap.

“If you don’t move around so much, they won’t pull. Again.”

“Is that the rule?” he teases.

“Yeah. That’s the rule— the don’t be stupid rule.”

Steve takes a sharp breath in and rises. He’s prepared for the ache, so it burns less this time. He sees you reach for him in the corner of his eye, hands darting out to help him and then shooting down again when you decide against it.

He wouldn’t have minded if you had. He would’ve made fun of you for it, obviously, but he wouldn’t have minded.

He’s been missing the warmth of your touch more and more since the Upside Down — back when he laid mostly limp on the arid ground of a desolate land, when you cradled his body to shield him from the bats flying overhead.

He stopped feeling scared when you held him. He thought it was because he was dying, but now he knows it was because of you. The healing in your touch. It’s like the amber glow of streetlamps in the dead of night, or sunsets that paint the whole world pink. Being touched by you is like dancing in summer rain and running through a field of wildflowers.

“Sorry, for uh— for keeping you up,” Steve apologizes and inches towards the door.

You follow close behind him, with an urgency that borders between letting him out and keeping him in. “It’s— It’s fine,” you stammer, then laugh at yourself. “It’s not like I was sleeping anyway.”

“Really?” Steve asks, an inquisitive swirl to his scruffy features.

He turns around to face you more, his sneakers melting into the plush of your rug. Your hand gets clammy and tightens around the rusted doorknob when he looks down at you — with his eyes made of velvet and his mouth made of flower petals. His face is so hardened, but he looks at you so softly anyway.

“No,” you confess with a soft shrug. “I mean— after everything, I don’t know how anyone is. I was with Eddie earlier, and the fucker was passed out before ten.”

Steve breathes a sharp laugh through his nose. His plush lips curl into a crooked smile. “He deserves the sleep, though.”

“Yeah,” you sigh.

“And so do you.”

“I know,” you grin, equal parts bitter and genuine. “But I’m not getting any.”

“Me neither,” Steve confesses, exhaling so deep it makes his chest deflate.

The two of you linger in place for a long, long time. Both of your mouths curl to say the same things — let’s grieve together, let’s wait for the sun to rise so the nightmares will pass — but neither of you is brave enough to say them out loud.

“I’ll see you around,” Steve nods, finally.

You wrench open the door for him, pulling extra hard when it jams. “The next time you pull your stitches?” you joke, smiling like you’re not grieved to watch him walk into the empty night alone.

Steve grins like he’s not mourning, too. “Probably,” he scoffs.

Maybe before that, he hopes, healed again as he walks to his car. Maybe I’ll be brave enough soon.