#he’d fight anyone and burn the world to keep that

[danceinthunder]

Regulus is sure he was only given five senses to appreciate James Potter.

Anyone would know why it was a blessing to see James. He was pretty and handsome and always so happy. It was infectious, Regulus had to fight and fight and fight not to just grin because James was. He had pretty privilege and didn’t even know it. Sweet and innocent and fun and bright - sun incarnate.

Touching James was like burning. Warm and delightful but dangerously tempting to step closer till the flames that surrounded the boy engulfed you. James made touch casual. Happy to hug anyone; slap a hand on a shoulder; a tired head on the shoulder. But Regulus monopolised his touch. He found James’ hands linger and rest on his waist. A sly finger on his cheek, brushing off an eyelash. Holding his hand and playing with his fingers. To touch and be held by James Potter was to be touched and held by a God, Regulus thought. There is no other way to explain such perfection.

James Potter never smelt of one single thing. He was a teenage boy who played sports, so unfortunately, sometimes that was for the worse. But most of the time he would smell so good. His jumpers from home smelt of turmeric and ginger and dried basil - James’ mum used to dry off their cloths in the kitchen and the smells of his childhood and family followed him always. Sitting near enough to him, near enough to breath in the spice and sugar of him, made Regulus feel like a part of the exciting world that conjured James Potter.

Everyone across hogwarts would probably be able to hear James. He was unapologetically loud. Gleeful laughs and his loud chatting would linger in hallways like ghostly echoes of a happy life being lived. Regulus would chase empty corridors to follow the sound so comfortable and tender. If moths were drawn to flames they were stupid - to be drawn to anything but James’ laughter and joy would be stupid. And his whispers, the secret words that he would pour into Regulus ears were siren songs, honey-sweet promises. ‘Drown me in them and I’ll die happy’ Regulus would think staring up at the smiling boy resting him on his legs, ‘Orpheus and Eurydice, me and you, where I hear your voice I’ll follow.’

And Regulus held the secret of what it was like to taste James Potter. To feel his lips against his own and know what he tasted of. All the sugar sweetness and gentle spice that was addictive against his tongue. Regulus would starve himself to consume the taste of James, to define its changing feeling. All the joy and happiness and sunny warmth of his lover. Ambrosia and nectar and James Potter. Regulus would fight anyone, anything to steal a taste from his lips as many times as he could.

To take James Potter away from him would be to blind him. It would be to take away any pleasure of taste, any joy of music and sound, any sensation of feeling against his skin, and leave him unable to enjoy the subtle scents of the world around him. James Potter owned Regulus Black’s heart, and Regulus would fight to keep them both safe.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Hiiii, I loveeeee ur work ❤️

I was thinking about a head cannon of how some of the mw2 characters (ghost, soap, König, etc) would react to their partner sending them a nude photo?👀👀👀

Sorry if you did this already but I’m pretty sure you haven’t tho cuz I definitely would have read it already 😭

MW2 Reaction to Receiving a Special™ Photo from Their S/O

Warnings: 18+ (just to be safe), Non-Specific/Explicit Implications of Smut, No Pronouns used for Reader except 'You', Singular Mention of Graves Throwing Himself off a Cliff, Dominant! MW2, Submissive! MW2, Dominant! Reader, Submissive! Reader, Profanity, etc.

Ghost

He will literally stare bug-eyed at the picture you’ve sent him like 👁️O👁️

Since it’s a physical photograph, he keeps it on him like a chapstick, which is to say all the time.

He isn’t risking ANYONE besides himself seeing it.

And when he’s about to embark on a mission, he keeps it tucked into his vest right where his heart is so that it’s practically part of him.

He likes to think that, somehow, you can hear – feel – his heart beating, know that he’s still alive and fighting so that he can come home and see you.

And when he returns from a mission and goes to his quarters, he has some…alone time.

You know, to really study the picture.

Not that he doesn’t know every curve and edge of your body already.

But that doesn't stop him growling your name into the pillow as he rocks against it, a hole cut into the bottom of it – a poor imitation of you.

A makeshift lover.

If anyone ends up seeing that picture – if they stole it from him, if by some act of God (because that’s what it’ll take) it slipped out of his vest or pocket – they are in for a World of Pain™.

There won’t be a time they won’t flinch upon hearing Ghost’s name, or when they see his shadow like an omen on the wall as he commandeers the halls. Prowling.

He’d feel pretty guilty about someone else seeing you how he does, even if it was only for a fraction of a second.

So he’s definitely going to make it up to you when he gets back <3

König

His heart can’t take this kind of torment.

He’ll be looking down at his phone, the image of you burning into his skin like a holy artefact.

He definitely gets more jumpy around people when he has his phone on him.

Will literally clam up and shove it into the deepest recesses of his pocket if someone comes too close.

Even when your picture is safely stored behind a password-protected photo album.

He has to excuse himself from training or other commitments whenever his mind wanders back to you, and subsequently that image (which is basically all the time).

Sometimes he calls you while he’s sorting himself out.

He just needs to hear your voice – to feel closer to you.

It’s the only way he can finish.

“Engel,” he rasps, his breath stuttering, “I need you,”

And everyone just looks at him like he’s grown a third eye when he returns because, unbeknownst to him, König can’t keep quiet, and everyone who has never heard even a peep from him is suddenly aware of the carnality that lies beneath his skin, wired into his soul.

And at the centre is his love for you, boundless and overflowing so that the rest of his teammates know it, too.

Not that they mind all too much.

They all sit and think that you must be one beautiful person to evoke such a response from König.

Soap

Will tease you back.

Sends a mirror pic of him in a tight black shirt, saying something like ‘You’ll see the rest when I get home.’

Is absolutely ravenous when it comes to you.

No cap, goes absolutely ham in the shower when the image of you in nothing flashes in his mind.

His low moans are enough of a warning for the rest of the 141 to stay away for the next half an hour or so.

Aside from that, he’ll just look at the picture because he finds you beautiful.

Stares at it while he’s in bed. Laments on how much he misses you ☹️.

He’s counting down the days until he can see you again, and with each that passes, he can feel your silhouette becoming tangible in his hands, as if you were stepping out of the photo.

Sometimes, he dreams that you’re there with him, nestled between his arms.

Other times the dreams are a little more…graphic.

But Johnny can’t help it.

He just can’t contain himself when it comes to you.

Valeria

If you thought her violent tendencies could never extend to you, prepare to be amazed.

The second this woman sees what you’re trying to do – or, rather, what she thinks you’re trying to do – she is not happy.

You could have sent that image with the purest (within reason) of intentions; just letting Valeria know that you miss her, wishing her a good day – whatever.

What she sees is you trying to manipulate her by using your body as an instrument of destruction.

Dramatic, yes. But Valeria has never been one to take chances.

She’ll be deceptively calm over text: ‘Don’t tease me, Darling. You know what happens when you do.’

All day, all she can see is that image.

Whenever she turns a corner, you’re there; whenever she’s talking to someone, you’re peering at her over their shoulder; when she’s alone, you’re sat with her – on her – trying to take her attention away from her paperwork.

Redemption is a baseless concept when Valeria returns home that evening.

You will not know rest until she’s done with you.

Price

“Fuckin’ Hell, Love,” he’ll say, the darkness hanging on his voice tangible even through the voice note.

“What’ve you been up to while I’ve been away, hmm ?”

Will not rest until he knows he’s got you hot and bothered.

This entails him sending increasingly risqué images of himself; first, just one of him flexing, his arms thick and crawling with veins.

The next is of his shirt raised just below his chest, the dim light of the room keeping enough of him shrouded that his identity is unknown to all but you, his wide silhouette taking up most of the picture.

And, if you decide to be resilient against his attempts to make you feel as you have him, you’ll receive a series of menacing messages.

‘Don’t get too comfortable, Angel’, he’ll say.

‘You never know when I’ll come through that door–’

He grins as he sees you’ve read his message, hanging on his every word.

‘And ravage you.’

And you know he means it, too.

Meanwhile, he’s multitasking; keeping a clear, professional head and giving orders while resisting the primal urge to drop everything and find you.

And no amount of pleading or tears will spare you from his wrath when he returns.

Horangi

Regardless of how well the military life trained his self-discipline, nothing can dampen the sheer need Horangi feels whenever he receives a special picture from you.

I’m talking: he will literally sit in silence for ten minutes because he’s got a raging issue he needs to take care of but can’t risk anyone else seeing it.

Will thunder down the hall to the nearest bathroom when the meeting’s over and take out his frustrations there.

When he calls, you’d better pick up the first time.

If you don’t, you’ll have Hell to pay when gets home.

“Baby,” he breathes down the phone, the fog already making his mind frost over, his body burning up.

“What have you done to me–”

These brief encounters are the only thing keeping him sane while he’s away; they make him feel closer to you.

And, repaying you in kind, he returns one night, in the silence of the moon hours.

He finds you, pulls you to him, clutching on tight as you begin to wake.

And, between delirium and consciousness, his voice is all you can hear.

“Shouldn’t have tested me, Sweetheart,” he says, whispering as though partaking in a secret.

“Now I’m going to have to challenge you.” His arms are snakes as they constrict you.

“Fall asleep before I’m done with you, and I promise there will be no end to your suffering.”

Alejandro

Teasing a man as passionate as Alejandro is not going to end well for everyone involved.

Expect to receive a barrage of very choice texts back.

‘You have no idea what you’re doing to me’, he’ll say, followed by a photo of the tent in his trousers.

And a sinister: ‘But you will’.

If he’s away on business for even just a few days, he’ll go practically feral whenever he sees that picture of you.

To everyone else, he’ll be the leader Alejandro Vargas they all know him as – ruthless and righteous.

Yet, there’s something different in the way he walks as he excuses himself from the table, his destination unknown.

His gaze is narrowed and his teeth are grinding, rabid in disposition.

And when he gets home, no matter how long of a day it’s been, you’re in for a very long night.

He’ll appear behind you, a spectre, clamping a hand down on your shoulder.

“You shouldn’t test a soldier, Love,” he says, his grip tightening.

You don't turn around, an exhilarating fear keeping you frozen.

He leans down, his mouth just at your ear, his breath hot.

“Because you never know when he’ll snap.”

Rodolfo

This man is usually rather quiet and submissive when it comes to the more personal aspects of your life together.

But when you send him a picture that makes him question how long he can keep his composure for, you’re in trouble.

You’ll be receiving a phone call from a very exasperated Rodolfo, who, despite his best efforts, has succumbed to your charm.

Definitely a growler when he’s in a dominant mood.

More of a whimperer when he’s not.

At times like these, you get both.

“Darling,” he breathes, the back of his head pressed against the cold cubicle wall. “Look what you’ve done to me…”

His whining is more than enough to let you know the effect you’ve had on him.

And it’s what he says next that makes your blood run cold.

“I won’t let you get away with this.”

The husking baritone in his voice tells you he’s being truthful.

And if you try to clap back with something witty, or even an apology, Rodolfo just laughs.

“The time for mercy is long past, mi Amor,” he tells you.

“All you can do now is prepare for the Reckoning.”

Graves

This smug idiot.

Definitely smirks to himself when he gets that picture.

Has to resist the urge to show it off to everyone in the boardroom because he’s just that proud to have you as his partner.

Yes, he is hard. Yes, he’s still going to give this presentation in front of all the major shareholders.

Why ?

Because he’s Graves. Also, because he knows he has more money than everyone else in that room, and, consequently, more power.

Will shoot you back a text like: ‘Mighty fine work, Babydoll’, followed by, ‘You’re getting a promotion when I get home.’

Yes, he uses corporate jargon when discussing intimate matters.

He’s a businessman at heart, he can’t help it.

Definitely more playful than most of the others on this list.

The type to take his time with you and make you laugh while he does so.

But when he wants to be rough (and when you want him to be), he can be.

And he gets mean when he’s like that.

I’m talking hair-pulling, name-calling – basically just bullying you, but consensually.

Does his best to take care of you, though.

If he found out that he’d actually upset you, he’d literally jump off a cliff – he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

Expect many lavish gifts if this happens, though.

But don’t tell him that I told you that 👀.

Gaz

Will nearly drop his phone – it turns to butter in his hands.

He looks over his shoulder at least fifty times before he’ll allow himself to look at the photo again.

Poor boy’s face is turning red, his palms are sweating, he can’t think straight.

Paranoid 24/7 that everyone knows he has that picture of you.

But it doesn’t intimidate him enough for him to even try to keep quiet in the barracks when he has some alone time.

Similar situation to Soap; everyone knows to steer clear of whichever room Gaz was last spotted walking into for a while.

It would take him a few days for him to send a picture back.

More than likely, it’ll be of him in a scarcely lit bathroom in nothing but his boxers with a very prominent outline in them.

Followed by a text with something to the effect of: ‘Been thinking about you all night, Sweets’

And God forbid you send him another image of yourself. And definitely do not send a message saying ‘Aww, has my good boy been behaving himself ?’

Will literally send him over the edge.

The rest of the 141 can’t commandeer the bathroom for the rest of the day after that.

And when Gaz gets home, just know that your phone screen can’t protect you anymore.

Not when you have a man made of pure intellect and solid mass running full-force at you with all the pent-up energy seen only in a nuclear reactor.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[mecub]

It is past 1am and I am thinking about @somerandomdudelmao’s Marble Sky, and this lightly bonked my writers block on the head for long enough that I wrote a little thing.

The world is green. Green, bleeding from the lights and from his insides and from the space where—

—

Ward wakes up shaking, crumpled on the floor like an old paper someone couldn’t be bothered to throw away. 

The world. Is green. Green and pretty, green with plants and vines, but for a moment something inside of him screams like something’s clamped over his mouth and his blood is burning and—

But it’s not green like that. Here, the green isn’t the immediate threat. The threat is one of them, bigger than him and probably put there to make sure he doesn’t try to escape.

“Oh. You aren’t dead,” the alien says.

That’s… not reassuring. But also not the threat he’d been expecting?

“Are you by any chance one of the talking ones?”

Something is wrong. Everything is blurry, and when he goes to rub his eyes, he finds gauze and okay, that. That is going to be a problem for later. Once he’s safe. Once he can let panic overwhelm him without the lack of attention putting him at risk of—

“I am,” he says.

“Cool. So they found another civilization to destroy. Hungry?”

Them. Like this alien, this alien who looks so much like them, doesn’t trust them. 

It’s ridiculous, but at this point? Ward just wishes he could’ve just been thrown in a normal prison cell. Just one normal, reasonable thing that made sense would’ve been nice. And yet, he’s sitting in vegetable prison with someone who might be an ally but is also probably very much not anyone Ward can trust. How does someone even end up in vegetable prison?

“What’s with all these greens?” he asks, because he can’t just demand answers. “Are you in jail for being the only vegetarian here or something?”

Good ole sarcasm. A great way to be eaten by aliens! Hey, maybe they consider humans a vegetable.

“You’re radiating negative energy at me.”

No shit. “Wanna guess why?”

“Hey, I’m not with those— Wait!”

Uh oh.

“You said greens! You know what color is?”

Um?

“You must have eyes!” And then the alien moves towards him, without a second thought, like they know anything he does, running away or fighting or yelling for help, won’t do anything. Ward flinches away from their outstretched hand. 

(An outstretched hand, moving towards his neck, slicing him open like the specimen he was. An outstretched hand, with his blood on it, and he couldn’t move couldn’t fight it couldn’t—)

“Yes. So?” he snaps.

“Can I touch you?”

“Wh— No.” No.

“Please,” the alien says, “I won’t hurt you. I swear.”

Ward… could try saying no again. He could try to move away, try to talk about this, try to save himself from whatever’s going to happen. He wants to, he really wants to.

But. Sculptor didn’t listen, didn’t care, he just cut into him with a smile. And this one is larger than him, and they said they wouldn’t hurt him, they swore it, they asked for a favor, they look desperate, so maybe, maybe he’ll be safe. Maybe this will keep the alien from dropping whatever this act of an ally is.

The world is green, and Ward reaches out a hand and says, “Here. Happy?”

And the alien reaches out a hand and— 

And lightly touches his. Gently. 

—

The world is green. And in the middle of it is someone who looks a lot like him.

[idkfitememate]

Still tired but just wanted to remind you that the Obey Me Brothers (- Satan + Lilith) were probably the “Seven Heavenly Virtues” before they fell/died and that was probably so hard for them like-

Lucifer going from Humility to Pride

Mammon going from Charity to Greed

Leviathan going from Kindness to Envy

Asmodeus going from Chastity to Lust

Beelzebub going from Temperance to Gluttony

And Belphegor going from Diligence to Sloth

Imagine as Lucifer going through it because now you can’t talk with your brothers, now you hold them to an expectation you would’ve never before - and yourself to an even higher one - and watching them loose themselves to their sins.

Watching Mammon lose himself to monetary values to the point where he’d be willing to sell his own brothers out if it came to it, and knowing that at some point he would’ve sold his everything because he believed it was right. Shit thing is that he still loves his brothers, and under the greed is guilt for hurting them like this.

Watching Levi, once a kind and loving man who would never leave anyone out become a self deprecating and destructive mess who shuts the world out. Who spends his time obsessing over what others have that he can’t and fighting tooth and nail to fix that, even if it hurts him. He, like Lucifer, has to be the best at his chosen craft or else it’s all for naught, but unlike Lucifer he’s very vocal about his losses and how much he hates others who have better than him.

Asmo, who at one point was basically repulsed at the idea of carnal love and wanted to wait, to hold out until he found the one he was searching for. Believe if that saving himself for his future partner was the ultimate act of love. And now watching him fall to depravity, unable to feel love unless it’s carnal in some sense. Everything must be passionate, with little room for true love. Feelings pushed aside for the heat of the moment, giving his body away to feel something. Finding no worth in himself unless it’s his body, and that translating over to how he treats his brothers. They have to suck up his shockingly flirty remarks to them because he can’t help it, that’s how he’s forced to show love now; fast, rushed, and carnal.

Watching Beel, a man who took everything in moderation, never allowing himself more than what he needed in food and drink in favor of helping others, loose himself to the mind numbing pleasure of sitting there and eating and drinking and eating and drinking and eating and drinking with no end in sight. As he can’t help himself but do anything for a meal, much like Mammon. Willing to do damn near anything to fill the hole in his stomach. No matter the cost.

And Belphy. A man once so awake and alert and ready for anything that even Lucifer would have to tell him to take a break. Always raring and ready to go and help any and everyone in need sleep his days away. Too lazy to do basic tasks at some points like eat. Lazing about too tired to do anything, including care for those around him. Too tired to do anything.

And the haunting truth that you, as Lucifer, created Wrath. Satan, your youngest brother in age and fourth in power. Knowing on the daily that he puts on a mask, a front so that his rage doesn’t consume him in an all burning inferno. Knowing that any little thing could set him off, and that’d be it. He shares next to nothing with you and your brothers because, while unspoken, it’s known that he’ll never be as close as the six of you. He didn’t experience the war, he didn’t experience the fall, he didn’t experience her death. Unlike your brothers who have all changed in some distressing way he’s always been rage. Always been Wrath. A true sin through and through. Never will you experience the same things and that keeps you separated.

And about her, to know deep in your heart that she, the Virtue of Patients, would’ve become the Sin of Wrath keeps you up at night, her face of smiles turning to a wrathful frown scares you. Nightmares flash behind your eyes of her being mad, furious even, so you starve the nights off with a never ending pile of paperwork and coffee.

… Did I just accidentally character study?-

[awkward-walking-potato]

Can I request Scott, Remy, Logan x reader headcanons with a reader who they just rescued from an illegal mutant fighting ring. They had been in there for a long time and were roughed up pretty bad, they were pretty hesitant and scared.

Here are headcanons for how Scott (Cyclops), Remy (Gambit), and Logan (Wolverine) would react to rescuing a reader who had been trapped in an illegal mutant fighting ring:

Scott Summers (Cyclops)

- Scott would be horrified by the state you were in when they found you. Seeing the bruises and the fear in your eyes would hit him hard, igniting a fierce determination to protect you. He’d be incredibly gentle, trying not to overwhelm you as he led you away from the place that had caused you so much pain.

- Scott would be extremely patient with you, understanding that trust wouldn’t come easily after what you’d been through. He’d take things slow, speaking softly and keeping a respectful distance until you showed signs of being comfortable around him. His natural leadership would shine as he quietly reassured you that you were safe now, and that no one would hurt you again.

- Scott would make sure you had everything you needed—medical care, a safe place to rest, and someone to talk to if you were ready. He’d check in on you frequently, but would also give you space, knowing that you might need time alone to process what happened. He’d encourage you to take things one step at a time and would be there to support you whenever you were ready to open up.

- Over time, Scott would gently encourage you to regain your confidence and control over your powers. He’d offer to train with you, not to push you, but to help you feel strong again. He’d emphasize that you weren’t alone in this—that you had a family now who would stand by you, no matter what.

Remy LeBeau (Gambit)

- Remy’s heart would break seeing you in such a battered state. The usually carefree Cajun would be deadly serious, his red eyes burning with anger at the people who had done this to you. But he’d push those feelings aside, focusing entirely on making sure you were okay.

- Remy would approach you with a careful mix of charm and sensitivity, using his natural charisma to try and ease your fears without overwhelming you. He’d speak to you softly in that smooth accent of his, offering you a comforting smile and a warm hand to hold if you wanted it. He’d let you set the pace, never pushing too hard or too fast.

- Knowing how heavy your experiences were, Remy would try to lighten your burden with humor and gentle teasing, anything to make you smile or forget, even for a moment, what you’d been through. He’d show you card tricks or tell stories, anything to distract you and bring a little light back into your world.

- Despite his usual laid-back demeanor, Remy would be fiercely protective of you. He’d stick close by, making sure you knew that he was there for you. If anyone even hinted at trying to hurt you again, they’d have to deal with Gambit’s explosive temper. He’d also be the first to offer to teach you self-defense, wanting you to feel capable and safe in your own skin.

Logan (Wolverine)

- Logan would be furious at the sight of you, covered in bruises and clearly traumatized. The animal inside him would roar with the urge to tear apart those responsible, but he’d shove that down, knowing that right now, you needed someone calm and steady.

- Logan wouldn’t overwhelm you with words; he knows that after what you’ve been through, words might not be enough. Instead, he’d offer his presence—solid, dependable, and unyielding. He’d wrap you in his jacket if you were cold, carry you if you couldn’t walk, and make sure you knew that you were safe with him.

- Logan would be surprisingly patient with you, especially considering his usual rough-and-tumble attitude. He’d understand your hesitance, your fear, and would give you the time you needed to adjust. If you flinched away from touch, he’d respect that, but would also make sure you knew he was there whenever you were ready.

- Logan would keep a close eye on you, his protective instincts in overdrive. He’d make sure you ate, rested, and had the space to heal. He might not say much, but his actions would speak volumes—like making sure no one bothered you, or leaving small gestures of care, like a cup of tea or a blanket.

- Over time, Logan would try to help you rebuild your strength, both physically and emotionally. He’d offer to train with you, teaching you how to defend yourself if you wanted, but never pushing you beyond what you were comfortable with. He’d want you to feel powerful again, not because he thought you needed to fight, but because he wanted you to feel safe in your own skin. And he’d be there, silently promising that no one would ever hurt you like that again.

[leth-writes]

Marcus, Aro, and Caius quick headcanons

Aro

“Oh, how wonderful!”

Aro’s ecstatic. Thousands of years have all boiled down to this moment. The two of you meet out on the town, most likely in a museum in Volterra. He’s in a private, cordoned off section, wealth has its benefits, when he spots you staring at one of his favorite paintings.

Everything clicks, and he knows he just has to have you

Aro is honestly quite creepy, and does tend to be a bit overbearing. Before even introducing himself he probably brushes his hand against you, seeing your entire life in a flash. He falls even deeper in love just seeing that. 

Takes you back to the castle with promises of rare art, but ends up turning you right away. Keeps you locked in  the tower. Sometimes treats you like a possession, but once you develop your newborn strength, just threaten to leave and never see him again and he’ll calm down

Marcus

“Finally…”

Marcus never thought he’d be able to love again, but spotting you within the crowd right before the feeding breathes a new life into him. He moves quicker and with more passion than anyone has seen him exhibit since Sulpicia died, picking you up bridal style and moving you to his private suite.

Tells you immediately, and under Aro’s goading, turns you quite soon after, though he does try to make you feel as comfortable as possible. 

With Aro whispering in his ear, and the fear of you dying and leaving him completely shattered, he’s incredibly protective. The same energy that led to the creation of St. Marcus’ day is the same energy he uses to keep you safe.

Caius

“Don’t get too comfortable, you won’t remain human for long.”

Also meets you when he spots you in the feeding crowd, but this time it’s right as he’s about to bite you. Probably goes through with it and bites you in the moment, turning you immediately. This is because he hates the idea of you being so vulnerable. He has a tough exterior, but he would burn the world to the ground to keep you safe.

Loves painting you, and his walls are littered with your visage. Spends every day with you, and is quite possessive. Loves play fighting and training you to use your strength to its true potential.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 7 - The Blinding Ultra-Violence

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: Can y’all please let me know if the long chapters are harder to digest? Because I love writing them, but if they actively impair enjoyment of the story I can start to cut them in half. Chapter Title from DEVIL by Shinedown.

Word Count: 13k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Everyone has a lesson in actions and their subsequent consequences. Emphasis on mental health issues warning for the chapter: specifically suicidal ideation and PTSD.

Read on A03!

Chapter 6 - Chapter 8

Taglist: @lordofthunderthr @kritara @sukunassfinger, @justiceforquentin @acciditties

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Free will was cruel, and you had some choice words for whatever had given it to you. "Words,” meaning several unspeakable acts of violence, a wide variety of cuss words and vulgar phrases that would leave even Ben agape, and at least one loud, feral scream.

Free will had allowed you to attend a fancy party at Vought, a party that put you in a silk dress and winged eyeliner with glossy lips. Free will had let you do one, two, three shots and gotten you tipsy enough that when the elegant woman with strawberry hair had asked if anyone wanted to sing on stage, asked the crowd if there was at least one guest who wasn’t tone deaf and could do a passible rendition of Moon River, you’d raised your hand. Free will had made you not do a fourth shot, so that when you started to sing you didn’t stumble around the stage, missing notes and embarrassing yourself, but had put on a perfect show, singing and swaying in time to the music.

Later, you had learned that the woman with the strawberry hair had been killed later that night, and Free will had allowed you to feel sorry about it. Free will had you visit her grave in the dead of night in a thunderstorm, and let you sing Moon River one last time.

Free will had allowed you to cave when Butcher and the Boys had found you in a different graveyard, only a month later. Free will let you stick with them all the way to the barn. Free will was what had you coming up with very, very stupid plans.

Not this plan, though. You loved this plan. You loved this plan enough that you hadn’t waited even a half hour after thinking of it to call Butcher, or two minutes after Butcher had screened your call to turn around and call MM instead.

“What’s wrong?” MM had picked up after two rings, and you could almost see his worried frown with his words. “Did Soldier Boy-“

“Ben’s in the living room yelling at a documentary about World War II.” You’d dismissed. “He likes to point out all the alleged inaccuracies. I have a plan, I need everyone here by tonight.”

“Uh,” MM said your name apprehensively. “I don’t think that’ll really work.”

“Look, I know everyone’s probably still freaked out about last night, but this is really important-“

“No, that’s not it. We’re fine. Butcher’s still being a fucking ass about it, but everyone else- Hey!” MM had yelled away from the receiver as something banged in the background, accompanied by muffled shouts.

“Uh, MM?” You’d frowned. “Where are you?”

“Ohio.”

“Ohi- why are you in fucking Ohio?”

“Soldier Boy’s shield is here. Turns out it’s been so motherfucking difficult to get because Vought has their hands on it, and they’ve been keeping it in a warehouse in Akron.”

“I thought it had been flown from Jacksonville, with the suit?”

“Nope. Akron. We didn’t know until a few days ago, even Mallory thought it was just waiting in cargo at JFK.”

You’d glanced down the hall to make sure Ben hadn’t heard that his shield was in Ohio, a state he’d once called “America’s shitstained taint” while watching a football game. You heard him shout “fucking commies didn’t do goddamn shit about the Nazi’s, fuck off!” And decided you were in the clear.

“When do you think you’ll be done?” You’d asked, keeping one ear open in case Ben decided to stop fighting with Ken Burns’ voice and join you in the kitchen.

“If Butcher keeps it together and nobody sees Annie and tips off Vought? Tomorrow night.” MM had answered tensely.

“Ok, come right here when you get back. Like I said, I've got a plan, but it’s time sensitive.” You gone to hang up, but paused with your finger over the button. “Don’t die.” You’d added, and heard MM’s grunted acknowledgment just before the call dropped.

Somehow they’d managed to meet MM’s prediction, and all returned in one piece. The team had stood awkwardly in the kitchen—almost everyone avoiding full eye contact with you despite MM’s claim of everything being fine—as you and Ben had sat at the counter, Ben making a mediocre effort to fake some sort of hospitality per your request.

“Thanks to Ashley,” you’d started. “We know Sage told Homelander that I’m in New York and Ben’s awake.”

“Yeah, we’re really sorry about that.” Annie had said your name apologetically. “We should’ve been more careful-“

“No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” You’d cut her off, giving Ben’s shin a swift kick behind the counter before he could’ve said anything, his disbelieving scorn at your statement running through where your arms were brushing. “And we can use this.”

“Use what?” Hughie had frowned, and you’d continued.

“They haven’t told anyone else about it. We weren’t even sure they knew until Ashley told us. I’m not anticipating them to start alerting the media about me anytime soon, but they should’ve announced that America’s number one traitor is back from the dead and out to attack the innocent.”

“Fucking rude.” Ben grumbled, and a surprisingly bruised feeling ran through you. “All I do is help you, Sunshine, and that’s how you fucking thank me?”

You gave him a quick, half-apologetic, half-annoyed look. I’m being sardonic for arguments sake, and you know it. He’d just rolled his eyes, returning his attention to the mozzarella sticks you’d heated up before the Boys arrived.

“But they haven’t done that,” you’d continued, giving Ben one last dirty look. “Which means-“

“They’re saving it for something.” Annie had finished your sentence with a thoughtful frown.

“Exactly. Sage has some sort of plan, some dramatic and complicated way to fear monger people, turn everyone against Starlight by saying you released Soldier Boy, and have been risking public safety by letting him run rampant for your own anti-American reasons.”

“You want to get ahead of it.” MM had said, eyes narrowed.

You’d nodded, and shared your plan. Now, two days later, you were squished in the back of the van between Hughie—a well placed towel separating any physical contact—and Ben—who despite many protests was eating your burger—watching Firecracker and The Deep sing in a way that made you want to permanently remove your ears.

You visibly recoil as The Deep looks into the camera, and Ben looks up from eating to watch the video as it plays on Hughie’s laptop.

“Fish-boy sounds like a fucking constipated cowboy,” Ben mutters through a mouthful of food.

You hum in agreement. “You even sounded better on your stupid Rapture video.”

Ben scowls, taking another large bite that muffles his words. “I was fucking fantastic in that.”

“You were certainly, technically, singing.” You look up at him with a grin. “With all the passion of a dying squid giving one last, mighty squirt.”

“I don’t ’squirt’, Sunshine.” Ben grumbles, and you can see the moment every filthy thing he could say pops into his head. He takes a rough swallow, mouth opening to say something that will undoubtedly make Hughie regret volunteering to stay in the van, and you cut him off.

“Before you say anything, keep in mind that is still my burger, meaning I have every right to take it back and shove it right up your ass.”

Ben glowers at you, taking another aggressively large bite. “Bitch.” He grunts, and a piece of lettuce falls fully out of his mouth. Though you can feel his dirty look in your direction, you can also feel a spark of amusement run from where your knees are touching into your chest.

“Cunt.” You pick the lettuce off his lap and throw it into his face. “You eat like a squid too.”

“The only thing that me and squids have in common is our giant-“

“Okay!” Hughie shouts, pausing the video. “Soldier Boy, can you please not say something sexual for like, fuck, ten minutes?”

Ben doesn’t respond, invested completely in the burger, and you elbow him in the ribs.

He gives a loud cough, little bits of meat spurting out of his mouth. “What the fuck?!” When you incline your head to Hughie, Ben rolls his eyes and offers Hughie a grunted, “Fuckin hell- fine, you pussy.”

“Oh, ok.” Hughie blinks at Ben nervously before fumbling to unpause the video.

As the laptop catches up with the live feed, jumping to Firecracker bouncing over-excitedly around the now empty stage, Ben leans over you to get a good look at the screen.

“That’s her?”

“Yep.” You give the screen a glare. “Crazy brown-nosing bitch.”

Hughie lets out a noise of agreement, and Ben snorts. After another minute, in which Firecracker manages to say a record twenty-two objectively wrong things in a row, Ben grunts in annoyance.

“When I was at Vought, we had real goddamn talent, not whatever the fuck this is.”

“I know, in the 80s they managed to book a Pretty Boy squid who could kind of sing.”

Lettuce hits you in the face, and you let out a sputtering string of profanities.

“I can more than kind of sing, Sunshine. I have the voice of a goddamn angel. And that song didn’t make any fucking sense, I fucking blew it out of the fucking water- what the fucks so funny?”

“Nothing!” You try and smother the giggles that had built in you as he’d devolved into rambling ire. “You’re way angrier about this than I thought you’d be.”

“I’m not fucking angry-“

“I can feel it, Ben.” You press your leg further against his in reminder. “And even if I couldn’t, you just said ‘fuck’ so many times.”

“I’m not a damn pussy, I’ll swear as much as I fucking please-“ Ben falters slightly as the word slips out once more, and you grin at him.

“When you’re angry, every other word out of your mouth is ‘fuck’. It’s actually really funny.“

“I’m glad it’s amusing for you.” He’s glaring at you, but you can feel the rapid ebbing of his anger through your body.

“It is.” You shrug, and attempt an olive branch. “So was the Rapture video. I used to watch it all the time.”

“Really?” At your words, he’s suddenly giving a toothy, egotistical grin. “What, did you have a crush on me?”

“No,” You mirror his grin, even as you feel your cheeks heat and hear your sister’s teasing in your ear. “It was just really funny.”

He scoffs. “Like you could’ve done it any damn better.”

“Oh, I know I couldn’t have. I sing like a horse who chain smokes.” The lie slips through your teeth with practiced ease. “But nobody would be paying me whatever digusting amout they payed you.”

"Joke's on you, Sunshine. I bought a house with that money."

"Hm," you give him a toothy smile. "I think that makes the joke on Vought."

“I liked your dancing,” Hughie offers weakly. “It was… interesting.”

“See, Cocksucker gets it.” Ben says smugly, giving you a nudge as his attention refocuses on the video.

“That’s, that’s not my name…” Hughie sighs, and you offer him an apologetic, close-lipped smile.

Still leaning over you, Ben takes another bite of the burger as he watches Firecracker. “She’s got good tits,” he observes, and you tilt your head to look at him incredulously. “What?! She does!”

“You didn’t even last,” you look at the clock on Hughie’s laptop. “Five minutes.”

“That’s bullshit, I always last more than five minutes- Hey!”

You manage to fit the entire remaining burger into your mouth a once, chewing frantically before he can try and take it back from you. You give him a smug look. I warned you, Pretty Boy.

He narrows his eyes at you. I’ll make you fucking regret that, Sunshine.

You swallow, his promise of regret already catching up to you from the large bite as the food aches down your throat, and push Ben until he’s fully in his seat. “Her tits better not be nice enough that you decide to blow the mission.”

“Don’t worry, Sunshine, yours are better.” He ignores your venomous look. “And she’s with Homelander. Even the best fucking tits in the world couldn’t make up for choosing that pussy.” His eyes narrow at the screen. “I should just fucking go now, it’s been the same stupid shit for a damn hour.”

“No!” Hughie’s arm shoots out to hold him in his seat, before thinking better and pulling back just as fast. “No, they’re almost ready, please, can we just wait until they’re ready?”

Ben shoots you a look of questioning annoyance. I could just fucking go. Cocksucker couldn’t stop me, and we could all be fucking done and go home early.

No. We’re sticking to the plan. You glare back.

He rolls his eyes. Fucking stupid plan if it takes ten goddamn hours to set up.

You stick your tongue out at him, and turn back to Hughie. “Have they sent any updates? At least gotten the stage passes?”

“They aren’t supposed to check in for another three minutes.” Hughie shakes his head. “And MM’s still working on the stage passes. They’re $350 for some fucking reason.”

“I don’t need a stage pass.” Ben grumbles. “I could just walk in if you would give me the suit, none of those pussies would stop me.”

“The whole point is that you don’t have the suit. But…” You trail off, frowning to yourself. “Hughie, Ben might be right about the stage pass.”

Ben makes a satisfied “Ha!” as Hughie gives you a wide-eyed stare.

“But they can’t know he’s working with-“

“Butcher and Starlight, yeah, I know, it's my plan. But the whole idea is that he’s rogue. Soldier Boy, back from the dead once more, loose on the streets of Manhattan with no adult supervision.” You sweep your hand in a mock headline gesture, and pretend you can’t feel Ben’s indignance. “A real rogue hundred year old terrorist would not have a credit score that lets him buy Vought’s super-diamond-truther backstage pass.”

“So I can have my fucking suit-“

“No,” you snap, and Ben scowls. “That defeats the point even more than the stage pass. Your suit is known government property. It was being kept in a high-security warehouse in Florida. It would be really fucking suspicious if you were wearing it.”

“They were keeping my suit in Florida?!” Ben’s face coils in disgust. “Was my fucking shield in Florida too?! Fuck, is it still fucking there?! In goddamn, sweat-stained-“

“No, apparently Vought was keeping your shield in Ohio.”

“Fucking Ohio?!”

“This doesn’t really seem like it’s about the mission anymore,” Hughie says nervously.

“It’s not, it’s about you fucking dumbass cum guzzlers keeping my shit in goddamn Florida and Ohio- Fuck!”

You give Ben a warning glare, fingers still smoking, as he rubs his arm. “They survived it, and maybe if you put on your big boy pants you’ll manage to as well. Now-“ You turn to Hughie. “You should tell MM that we don’t need the stage pass before he spends a disgusting amount of money on it.”

As Hughie takes out his phone, closing his laptop and standing to cross the van for some semblance of privacy, Ben nudges you with a grunt of your name.

“I don’t like this.” He’s frowning at nothing in particular, and you can feel tight, solid concern through your body. “It’s too fucking public.”

You wrinkle your brow at him, eyes narrowing. “Since when do you give a shit how ‘public’ a mission is?”

“Since it’s a fucking liability. Too fucking public means too many fucking people that even I won’t be able to control.”

“That’s the point-“

“I fucking know ‘that’s the point’, Sunshine, you’ve made that real fucking clear.” Ben grunts, giving you an odd look as his tight feeling grows in your chest. “Doesn’t mean I have to like this fucking dumb plan.”

“Well,” you shrug. “I love it. It’s going to work, you’ll admit I’m a goddamn genius, and maybe Firecracker will start crying like a baby.”

Ben snorts, and a jab of his amusement hits you. But before he can make any snide comments, Hughie hangs up his call with MM and returns to where you and Ben are pressed against the wall of the van.

“Well, MM’s really not happy about it, but he agrees it’s smarter not to do the pass.” Hughie sighs. “And he says that Butcher’s on his way to get us. He should be here in five.”

You nod, turning to Ben with narrow eyes. “Repeat the plan to me.”

He rolls his eyes. “What, don’t you trust me, Sunshine?”

“To retain vital information about my plan that you’ve called ‘fucking stupid’ numerous times? Absolutely not.”

“It is fucking stupid.” He grunts.

You sigh. “Please, Ben. Humor me and pretend you give a shit for one minute.”

Ben’s leg tenses against yours, and something falters along your ribs. He scowls as he speaks in terse, clipped words.

“Get on the stage, make sure the cameras see me, neutralize that Firecracker broad, and beat her up, but don’t kill her for some fucking reason.” The last part is muttered resentfully, and you chose to pretend you don’t hear it.

“And then?” You prompt.

“Break the cameras, find you, and get back here.” He grumbles.

You nod in approval. “You have to make sure you break the cameras, Ben. Frenchie’s going to make sure that all the phones get fried, but you need to break the cameras. There can’t be any evidence you’re not working alone.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I fucking got it. Kill the bitch, break the cameras.”

“Do not kill Firecracker!” Hughie says frantically, giving you a desperate look and saying your name in a pleading tone. “Please don’t let him kill her.”

You elbow Ben in the gut as you respond. “He knows, he’s just being a fucking dick about it.”

“Fuck off, Sunshine,” he mutters. “And you should let me kill her. She’s not fucking innocent, she’s a goddamn lying bitch.”

“Nope. No killing her.” You say firmly, crossing your arms. “You only get to beat her up because we need to sell the whole ‘out for revenge’ narrative. That’s-“

“The point.” Ben finishes your sentence mockingly. “I fucking got it, Sunshine.”

You kick him again. “So prove it, Pretty Boy. No killing Firecracker.”

“What if she tries to attack me? I should be allowed to fucking defend myself-“

You snort. “Her power is being a dogshit human sparkler. Her attacking you would feel like this.” You poke Ben’s arm, and he frowns.

“I thought she was a fucking fire supe. Like you.”

“I mean, yeah. She technically is. But not all fire supes can have massive fucking horse cocks like mine.”

Hughie lets out a chocking sputter, and Ben rumbles a loud laugh that makes your stomach feel soft and warm. You’re saved from dwelling on how the feeling lingers, starting to spread through your body in time with an easy delighted, sensation that’s not yours, by the opening of the van door.

“Am I bloody interrupting something?” Butcher’s dry voice is raised over Ben’s laughter, an angry and wired frown across his face. “Or can we all stop jerking each other off and do our fuckin jobs?”

“Pull the damn stick out of your ass, Butcher.” Ben rolls his eyes. “We’re not the pussies who took a year to do recon on three fucking blocks.”

"Well, someone has to make sure you don’t blow your load all over a bunch of innocent civilians again.” Butcher sneers, and Ben’s fists curl at his sides.

“I have it under control, you fucking-“

“Butcher,” you interject, feeling something hot and bloody in Ben’s chest start to grow. “We’re ready?”

Not taking his eyes off of Ben, Butcher grunts. “We’ve been ready, Love. We’re just waiting on you bloody cunts.”

“Then let’s go.” You start to stand but have barely moved from your seat when Ben’s hands are on you, holding you in place.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ben glares at you, and you feel that weird, tight concern along your skin again.

“On the mission, dumbass.” You snap, trying to pry his grip off of your thigh.

“No.” His hand doesn’t move, and the tight feeling grows. “Too fucking risky.”

“It’s my plan, Ben. Did you seriously think I was going to stay in the fucking van?”

He ignores you, turning to where Hughie and Butcher are watching the exchange, Hughie wide-eyed and Butcher scowling impatiently. “Tell her she’s fucking staying here with Cocksucker.”

“No can do, Mate. She goes where you go.” Butcher gives Ben a mocking grin, and another weird feeling writhes in your—Ben’s—gut.

“We’re right in front of fucking Vought, there’s going to be a shit ton of cameras-Fucking hell!” Ben’s hand jerks off of you, smoking and red.

“I’m a grown ass woman, Ben.” You hiss. “I know what I’m walking into, and I know what the risks are. And seeing as you somehow forgot, I’m in charge of you. I go where you go, and that’s not up for fucking debate. I can, I will handle my goddamn self.”

“Trust me, Sunshine, I know you can.” He says, facing his still-raw palm to you. “Doesn’t mean you have to fucking risk yourself for this bullshit-“

“It’s my fucking job!” You burst out. “The whole ‘find me’ part of the plan requires me to be in the fucking crowd, not sitting on my ass with Hughie!”

“What if fucking Homelander’s there? Then what?”

A painful ardor kicks up in your lungs. “He won’t be.”

“You fucking sure about that?” Ben’s voice is dripping with unconvinced cynicism.

“Why are you being so weird about this? It’s not like-“

Butcher gives an overdramatic cough over your words. “Oi, Bonnie and Clyde. I’d let you two fuck it out, but we’re on a bloody tight schedule. She’s coming, that’s that. Now get off your arses and let’s fucking move.”

“Shut the fuck up, you pussy. We’re not done with our fucking conversation.”

“Yes, we are.” You stand up, walking across the van. “Hughie, wait a bit until we’re out of the alley, then send Ben out. Ben,” you raise your hand, dropping fingers one by one as you run through the plan. “Get on stage, blast Firecracker, give her a few light punches, break the cameras, and find me. No casualties.”

“Maybe sprout some anti-patriot shit as well, Gov.” Butcher adds. “Really bloody sell it.”

You shake your head, giving Butcher an exasperated look. “No, we don’t know what Firecracker might say. What Homelander and Sage have told her. In, violent, and out. That’s it.”

You look back at Ben with a steel gaze, to find a glower of his face you’ve never seen before. His whole body is rigid, jaw clenched, mouth in a dropped scowl as his eyes burn through you. He’s looking at you in a way you aren’t able to read, but you feel like he wants you to. Everything about his face screams that you should be able to understand it, but you can’t.

“You’re, you're leaving me here with him?” Hughie’s voice is unsteady, and when you remove your eyes from Ben you find his face has grown pale.

“It’s only a few bleedin’ seconds, Lass. He don’t bite, don’t he?” Butcher gives Ben a cocky smirk.

“Fucking watch yourself, Butcher, I’ll crack your weak fucking skull and not break a sweat.” Ben snarls, eyes still on you.

Butcher scoffs, a taunting jeer in his voice. "No, you won’t. You don’t want to upset Sunshine.”

Ben’s eyes rip from you as he stands up at a freighting speed, body tense and fists clenched as he reaches his full height. For a second, you think you might have to interfere and prevent Butcher’s life from finding a brutal and inconvenient end in the alleyway, but Ben just gives him a violent, twisted growl.

“Count your fucking blessings that I have a job to do, you pussy. And sleep with one fucking eye open, because once this is over, I’m going to drown you in your own blood.”

Butcher gives him a mocking wink and turns to walk down the alley, leaving you scramble after him.

Before you’re fully out of the van, you turn and give Ben one last look. “No casualties.” You say, and almost against your will, your face draws into a look of and stay safe.

You don’t have time to read his face before you jog after Butcher, but the last thing you see of Ben is his arms still braced at his side, his eyes on yours with an almost feral look.

You catch up to Butcher right at the end of the ally, running face-first into his arm when he holds it out, halted before stepping onto the main street.

“Fucking ow, Butcher.” You rub your face where you’d collided, and over your fingers you barely have time to register the Noir baseball cap and jacket flying at your face, managing to catch them against your chest at the last second.

“Put them on.” Butcher says, and looking over the merchandise you see him leaning out the ally, watching the flowing crowds of pedestrians. People clad in red and blue Firecracker costumes and costume adjacect outfits, a few less in dark greens and Deep trademarked Love the Ocean like the Earth and Fish and Man are One shirts, and exactly one, a bouncing little girl with a tutu and big eyes, wearing a Homelander cape.

You look back down at the cap and jacket—which is a few sizes too big—and realize both were made by Uought International, and that Noir has been spelled as Noire. Looking up, you see that Butcher has pulled a Quen Maeve sweatshirt over his shirt, and is wearing green-tinted sunglasses that have little, blue Soldier Boy brand symbols along the frame.

“You shouldn’t wear those,” you point to your nose, mirroring where the sunglasses sit on Butcher’s face.

“Why, Love, you want them so you can feel close to Ben?” He mocks, and you roll your eyes.

“No, dumbass. Right now Soldier Boy is a dead American traitor who’s going to rise from the dead and commit an act of terrorism in like, seven minutes. It’s not smart to wear anything associated with him to ‘blend in’, especially if you’re pairing it with an off brand shirt of the woman who sacrificed herself to save the world from him.”

“You know just as bloody as well as me that Maeve is picking dandelions in California.”

“Yeah, and Soldier Boy isn’t dead, he’s in the van, probably trying to blackmail Hughie into buying him drugs. The internet is a liar sometimes.”

Butcher pulls off the sunglasses with a scowl and a dirty look in your direction before dropping them on your Noire jacket. “Put on your clothes so we can get a fucking move on. We wanna get outta here before Soldier Boy sees you and carries you back to the bloody van.”

You wrinkle your nose at him and pretend you don’t hear the questioning contempt of his voice, shoving the sunglasses into your back pocket before you pull on the jacket. You give Butcher a nod and step out into the current of the street.

The walk to Firecracker’s stage is silent, both you and Butcher angling your heads down from the crowd, down from the blue, cloudless sky and anyone who may be in it. The sun beats down a warmth that is only offset by the biting of the wind, and Firecracker’s voice, projected by speakers to carry over the horns and shouts of the city, starts to claw into your head.

“Patriots, are you ready to know the truth about Starlight and how she’s been kidnapping and trafficking your innocent babies?!” Her voice has the same southern drawl you’ve heard on TV, her bubbly tone in stark contrast to her words. “We’re lucky we have Homelander lookin out for us, keepin us safe, otherwise Starlight might try to take us too!”

You drop your head further, some fearful part of your brain telling you that Homelander might hear his name from the Tower and decide to make an appearance.

Fucking risky, Ben’s voice says in your head, and suddenly you can see him in your head, that strange, angered and piercing face watching you. What if fucking Homelander’s there, Sunshine? Then what? You’ll freeze up, and I won’t be there to help.

I’ll manage, you snap back at his voice, and can almost hear his scoff.

You’ll start crying and wish I was there. You wish I was there right now. You hate that you’re walking with Butcher, who’s probably going to try and kill you instead of me.

Butcher won’t kill me. He can’t.

Never stopped him from trying before. I wouldn’t let him, Sunshine.

I’m stronger than Butcher. I’m stronger than you. I’m stronger than fucking Homelander. I don’t need your help.

But you fucking want it.

“No, I don’t!” You hiss, and only realize you’ve spoken aloud when the words come out strained, caught on a lump that has formed in our throat.

You hear Butcher snort from your side. “Who the bloody hell are you talking to?”

“No one,” you mumble, feeling your face heat as you feel his disbelieving look.

“If you’re going to lose your damn mind and go all mental, you can wait until all this is done? Would be real bloody inconvenient to have to kill you ahead of schedule.”

“Not funny.” You mutter, and are saved from Butcher’s response by arriving at the crowd, stopping next to where MM watches the show in an A-Trane shirt.

“He behind you?” MM says by way of greeting, voice barely raised over the children’s choir rendition of God Bless the USA, complete with trumpet and string accompaniment.

“Should be,” Butcher looks over the heads of the audience, scanning for something that he doesn’t seem to find. “Frenchie gonna be ready when Soldier Boy gets here?”

“Kimiko got them up on a roof across the street, and Annie will get him the electricity he needs when it happens.”

You glance behind you, hoping that Hughie can manage to keep Ben in the van a few minutes more. “We should move,” you say, turning back to MM. “We don’t want to be anywhere near the path to the stage.”

MM nods and begins to lead you and Butcher deeper into the crowd, weaving through the frenzied cheers and whoops as the choir walks off the stage. You stop at the edge of the crowd, off to side enough to avoid any crossfire, but with Firecracker still in a clear line of sight.

She’s staring down the camera, her toothy and smug smile projected on a Jumbotron as she speaks. “I don’t know about y’all, but I think Starlight should come down here and tell us why! Why she won’t show us any proof of her claims that Homelander is a murderer! When, need I remind y’all, Homelander was found innocent! Has Starlight been found innocent?” You watch her cup her ear, listening for the crowds shouted responses.

“Jesus Christ, she has to know this is bullshit, right?” You mutter to yourself, and MM chuckles beside you.

“As far as I can tell, she really believes all the bullshit she’s saying.” He says with a shake of his head. “She got this job cause her head was up Homelander’s ass for free, she ain’t gonna pull it out now that Vought’s paying.”

You hum, looking up at the sky nervously. “MM, has Hughie texted that Ben-“

You’re cut off as screams sound from down the street, and your head shoots to where you had just stood, watching as the crowd beings to franticly part for something you can’t yet see. Butcher and MM are stiff beside you, Butcher’s gun already in his hand as MM’s lingers at his hip. Firecracker’s voice has faltered through the speakers, her eyes wide and face slack on the Jumbotron. The feeling in you, the ardor against your spine and clawing at your skin, begins, and you try not to watch the sky. The sun is bright and there are no city lights, the only thing you can hear is the terrified people, but Homelander’s not here, so you’ll be fine.

The feeling is in your blood and gut, but you’ll be fine.

You’ll be fine.

Are you sure about that? Ben’s voice says in your head.

Shut up. You tell it, just as Firecracker lets out a shrill sound that echos down the streets.

You look up and find Ben has gotten to the foot of the stage, only his side profile visible to you. Firecracker has a shaking finger pointing at him, her mouth agape as she watches him walk closer, closer, closer. You hadn’t been sure what to expect once it began. For Firecracker to scream, beg, cry, fight, run, or collapse once it became that her life was gone from her hands. Of all the scenarios you’d traced, all the outcomes with more blood, less blood, more scream or quick silence, you hadn’t thought she start to laugh. Doubled over, cackling glee, tears in her eyes visible on the Jumbotron.

“Well, look here, folks! No need to be afraid, it’s going to be just fine! Soldier Boy here’s a guest, and he’s going to tell us all about how Starlight tricked him and forced him to fake his death!”

You watch Ben freeze on stage, and the Jumbotron begins to broadcast his tight, angered face to the steadily regrouping audience.

“Fuck,” MM breathes out. “They’re going to flip him.”

Butcher says your name roughly. “You need to get there, get him in bloody line. We can’t have him running off with Vought.”

You need to move. Every part of you is screaming that you need to go, go, get there and remind Ben that you’re watching and keeping him in check. But you can’t, frozen as you watch his movements on the Jumbotron, trying to keep control when your blood has run cold, and every breath you take is caught against that lump in your throat. You can’t move, and all you can do is watch him on stage, eyes scanning the crowd as he watches them look at him in awe.

Then your falling forward, barely managing to catch your footing before your knees hit the pavement, turning to see MM on the phone speaking in a commanding, measured tone, and Butcher reaching forward to push you once more. You take another, smoother step back before he can, but you don’t wait for him to bark an order for you to go. You turn back to the crowd with the bass of the speakers barely drowning feeling, trying to weave without touching anyone as it grows and grows.

You’re at the base of the stage now, and before you can start to figure out a subtle way to alert him, his eyes lock with yours.

What the fuck is happening. His gaze asks at it runs through you, his body turned as though he may start to move in your direction, and Firecracker's voice rings the air.

“Lovely, you brought her too!” Both you and Ben turn to where she stands, smiling and looking at you. “Our very special guest, The Anomaly!”

Your blood isn’t cold. It’s burning, everything is burning inside of you, scraping to get out. But there are people moving around you now, people everywhere, and someone is nudging you forwards to the stage until a smiling face is pulling you up and moving you right next to Ben. It’s so bright, and you’re burning, and when you turn your head out to the crowd, you see yourself. Up on the Jumbotron. And there are cameras. Cameras everywhere. Cameras that are following your movements as Firecracker speaks.

“I know ya’ll don’t recognize her, she hasn’t been around for as long as this patriot!” Your eyes tear from the screen just in time to see Firecracker playfully slap Ben’s arm, to watch his whole body go rigid as she did. “But she’s a real good friend, and she and Homelander go way back!”

You’re cold again. Cold and angry and sharp. Everything is sharp again, the faces of the audience are clear, and Firecracker’s words are no longer miles away. No, she’s right in front of you with a wide smile of teeth, and you can hear drums.

Drums.

You look down, and your foot is bumped against Ben’s. His eyes aren’t watching you anymore, fixed on Firecracker, but everything sharp in him, in you, is pointed at her.

“If fact,” Firecracker has turned back to the crowd, hands placed over her heart with a simpering face. “She and Homelander? Well they were childhood sweethearts! Supes, raised together, only having each other. And when Homelander went off to become our great hero, she stepped away from the spotlight.” Firecracker takes a large step back, turning back to you. “She didn’t want the fame. She just wanted him!”

A chorus of sickly sweet awwws ripples through the crowd, and the feeling is behind your eyes.

“Homelander was, is, the love of her life. Which is why, when Starlight and her team of devil-worshippers came to kill her, The Anomaly fought with all she had to stop them.”

It’s under your nails.

“She wasn’t strong enough, though, and they dragged her away from where Homelander had been keeping her safe to let her bleed out, far away from the man she loved.”

It’s on your teeth.

“Love that kept her alive, love that made her find another who had been wronged, another who would do anything for Homelander-“

Firecracker makes a gesturing sweep to Ben, and the world begins to blur.

“Soldier Boy! And now they’re here, to reunite with their lover, their son, and have the happy endings they deserve!”

The feeling is everywhere. Ben is pressed closely against you, and the drums are in your ribs. Firecracker is still smiling and her teeth are so white. The crowd is cheering and whooping and you’re going to crack-

Something smashes off the stage, and Firecracker’s smile drops. You make yourself follow her gaze, the movement like moving through mud, and see smashed cameras at MM’s feet. Gunshots ring out, and something above you shatters as Butcher appears, gun raised.

Firecracker’s face has contorted, cheery persona vaporized and she starts to shout in a furious wail.

“No! My cameras! My show- Do you have any idea how hard that speech was to memorize?! I worked so hard, and you ruined it you fucking-“

She flys across the stage, Ben taking large, violent strides to where she lands with a crack. You can see her fear when she looks up to where he stops above her, the light growing in his chest.

“Help!” She screams, looking around at the stage audience and tech workers. “He’s- he’s fucking crazy, he’s going to kill me! Someone- someone fucking stop him!”

The stage audience.

The tech workers.

You’re running. Words aren’t fast enough, and Ben’s too far gone for them anyway. You are, though. You’re flying, tearing across the stage and throwing yourself against Ben. He falls to the ground, the light still building, and twists to try and throw you off of him, his eyes so deep into himself you don’t think he knows it’s you.

Pressed against him, you can only feel the drums, and you brace yourself as the light in him explodes.

It’s painful. A blinding and unforgiving pain that sears through your body. Numbness follows behind it though, fast and empty relief, and when your eyes can see once more Ben is watching you with horror across every feature.

He looks like he’s going to roar at you, tear into and across you. You can feel fury and something deep into his chest that’s screaming.

Firecracker lets out a breathy, sobbing laugh from somewhere to your side, and even if nothing in him wavers, it saves you from whatever Ben was going to say.

“Shit, you're both pathetic. You can’t even take out one person?” Firecracker starts to pull herself up to her feet. “I don’t know why Homelander was so worried about y’all. You’re weak.” She reaches down, grabbing the back of your tattered Noire jacket and pulling you off of Ben. “I mean, I expected more from at least you, Soldier Boy. He looks up to you still, you know. Was so hopeful you’d flip. But,” she shakes her head sadly. “What a disappointment.”

You’re not sure how it happens, let alone where the energy comes from, but you twist in Firecracker’s hold and punch her square in the face. She drops her hold, stumbling back as her nose starts to fill with blood. You never hit the floor though, Ben’s arm looping around your waist as he draws himself upwards.

Everything is sharp and hungry anger that is driving in you—in Ben—to Firecracker. The thing in his chest is still clawing at him, and you can feel your own glacial fervor, but nothing is as strong as the hungry anger.

Firecracker doesn’t feel it though, the storm that's brewing. And she doesn’t know when to quit.

“You worthless bitch.” She sneers through her fingers, trying to plug the blood. “You frigid little whore.”

“Watch it.” Ben growls, arm tensing around your waist.

“Oh, fuck off, you fossil! She’s tricking you, sinking her little claws into her like she did Homelander, with her stupid little songs and dances!”

“Shut up,” the words don’t come out in the firm command you wanted. Your voice sounds pathetic, weak against your ears.

“Do you have any idea how fucking exhausting you’ve been?” Firecracker whines. “Everything was amazing until you came back. He was starting to trust me! And then Sage comes back, accuses Homelander of lyin to her, and says you’re alive. And all of a sudden that’s all that fucking matters! He’s just angry and hurt and it’s so annoying.”

The world is less focused.

“I’ve heard Moon River so many fucking times this week, it makes my skin fucking crawl. I don’t even get it! What can you do that I can’t? I want him, you don’t even care to stick around-“

Nothing is in focus. It’s only Firecracker, her voice, and the feeling.

“I love him, I am perfect for him, I am blessed and chosen and you’re just a lonely little stuck up slut who didn’t even wait after leaving him and everything he did for you-“

Her teeth are so white and you don't think you can breathe.

“Everything he gave you-“

You can feel ghosts of the pain, see the bright light as they push the fire into you. Can feel it now, trying to get out.

“To turn around and spread your fucking whore legs!”

Something in you snaps. Cracks, echoes through your body, and explodes. You’re everywhere, the fire bleeding from you. You can’t see anything but the white room around you, and you have to get out. So you let everything go. It’s just you and the fire, cocooning around you and keeping you safe.

Just you and the fire and something else that is gripping around you. Something in your chest that is thrashing and trying to keep you close. It feels safe too, so you let it stay as everything else continues to burn.

A deep, roaring voice is calling your name. It sounds like the thing in your chest, and it reverberates through you as if it’s pressed against you. There are screams too, broken and raw screams, but you can’t see where they’re coming from, and they don’t feel safe like the voice.

The thing gripping around you feels heavier. It feels safer. There’s no city lights, you can’t even really remember what they might look like, but there’s music. Soft and deep in your ear, wrapping around you. Putting something out along your skin. You’re getting weak, and you feel cold.

You can’t stop. Something in your head tells you. You falter, and you’re back in the room.

But you’re so tired. The grip feels safe. And the music is settling into you and feels so good.

So when the world goes black, the last thing you feel is the thing in your chest reaching for you, and you could swear it breathes in relief.

————

He’d figured it out. The tapping. Firecracker had said Moon River, and he’d realized that was it. The rhythm of the verses matched that incessant tapping of Hers perfectly. He’d taken a fucking gamble, dragging the verses from somewhere deep in his brain as she’d been consumed by the fire, and it had paid off when She’d collapsed into him. The fire still lingered long after She closed her eyes, long after Ben stopped humming. Most of the stage was ash, from the hollowed, disgusting bodies of Firecracker and a few unfortunate audience members to the still flaming stage curtains.

Ben picked her up, and her eyes didn’t even flutter. Her body was still burning, and his hands protested in pain against her skin, but he bit down his pain with ease. Ben wasn’t a pussy, and he’d heal. This was more important.

A thought that had everything in him—except the feeling he’d been keeping in his gut that had somehow managed to crawl into his chest—very fucking irritated.

Ben turned, carrying Her off the stage to get her as far away from here as possible, only to find both MM and Butcher waiting, guns pointed right at his face.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He growled. They didn’t have any fucking time for these dramatics. As far as he fucking understood from Her explanations, all that shit show had just been broadcast through the fucking nation. Homelander was probably on his way, and Ben wouldn’t be able to do his fucking job and wipe the floor with that pussy if She was still unconscious and the stupid fucking thing in his chest was worried.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Gov.” Butcher jeered back. “We’re not letting you off that bloody easy.”

Ben glowered at him, and his desire to throw Butcher against the nearest concrete wall was only barely defeated by the godforsaken need to get Her somewhere safe. “We don’t have fucking time for this. Move out of my fucking way, or I’ll make you.”

“Take your best fucking shot, cunt.” Butcher taunted.

“Last fucking chance to get out of my way.” Ben could hear the hitch in both their hearts, uneven from the growing steadiness in Hers.

“We ain’t moving, Soldier Boy.” MM angled his gun higher. “And you’re not taking her.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you fucking pussies!” Ben roared, whatever patience he’d managed to hold onto vanished. “Homelander is probably on his fucking way, and unless you want him to take her, we need to fucking leave right fucking now!”

Both men blink, Ben’s words hanging in the air just long enough that he was starting to get ready to just fucking push through them. He’d deal with Her anger about it later, when she was awake and they were far fucking away from cages and boxes.

But MM lowered his gun, narrowing his eyes at Ben. “You’re going to let us take you back to the safe house?” His voice had a tone of disbelief that Ben didn’t fucking appreciate.

“Fucking hell, yes. Now fucking move your dumb fucking asses before I change my fucking mind!”

MM looked over at Butcher, whose gun was still aimed at Ben’s head. “The kid’s bringing the van round?”

“He bloody should be.“ Butcher grunted, but didn’t move. “But that don’t mean shit, I ain’t trusting this cunt to go quietly.”

“I’m certainly not going to go quietly if you keep a fucking gun in my face.” Ben sneered. “I might not do jackshit to me, but it’s goddamn rude when I’m trying to fucking help.”

“Why should we trust that?” MM asked coldly, glancing down at Her in Ben’s arms. “This is your ticket out. You’re probably just going to kill us in the van while she’s still out.”

Ben fucking knew that, he wasn’t an fucking idiot. He could hear Her heartbeat, fully steady as sleep held her under, could feel the scalding heat of her body almost fully faded. When he glanced down at her face, it painted into an empty ease. But when he blinked, it would flash back to just before she’d burst. Afraid. Only pure terror on Her face as Firecracker screamed about Homelander.

She wasn’t going back there.

“I guess you’re going to have to take a fucking gamble.” Ben held MM’s stare. “Because you have five seconds to fucking move before I kill both you pussies and leave with her.”

Some part of Ben still managed to be surprised when they exchanged one last, tense look, MM’s eyes flaring at Butcher, who dropped his gun with an angry huff. When MM started to walk away, likely to where Cocksucker waited with the van, and Butcher only said, “Breathe one wrong breath, Soldier Boy, and I’ll put you right back under.”

Ben wanted to. He wanted to step just far out enough of line that he’d be justified in bashing Butcher’s smug, pussy fucking head against the curb. But he didn’t, just keeping Her in place against him until they were back at the safe house, glaring at the whole sorry fucking lot of Her team as they watched Ben hold Her in the corner. Her heartbeat stayed steady, and it kept the drum in him from bursting, aided by the thing in his chest settling back into him the more distance grew between Her and the stage, Vought Tower, and Homelander.

When they reached the safe house, Ben didn’t bother to pause, waiting only for Butcher to open the door, before he was moving through the hall in tight, bounding steps. Up the stairs, shoving the door to Her room open, laying her on the bed above her sheets. She let out a little sigh as he let her go, and Ben hated how it made the thing in his chest wake up. He had to get himself under fucking control. She was safe, he’d done what he fucking needed to, and he wasn’t about to be a goddamn creep and watch her sleep.

The seconds were starting to stretch though, as he watched Her, listened to the steady sound of her heart. She looked so fucking peaceful, and it was calming the thing in his chest.

Fuck, he didn’t like how easy it felt. Especially as she let out another small sigh, rolling over with an arm stretching out, and he wanted to touch her upturned palm. That realization snapped him out of whatever stupid fucking trance he’d been dragged into, and he managed to turn, walking towards the door.

Before he left though—practically against his will—he turned back just in time to hear another sigh and see Her body curl into the mattress.

“Sleep well, Sunshine.” He muttered and tried to ignore the last sigh released from her chest, and how if ran through him.

When Ben got down to the kitchen, goddamn fucking Cocksucker and Starlight were waiting for him.

“What are you cum guzzlers still fucking doing here?” He grumbled, pushing past them to get to the pantry.

“Is she ok?” Cocksucker asked, and Ben shrugged, grabbing a bag of half-eaten jerky from the top shelf.

“She’ll fucking live.” He ignored the flash of Her fearful face in his head, and how his grip on the bag turned to steel. “One of you better answer my goddamn question.”

“We need to talk to her,” Starlight said softly.

“Don’t hold your fucking breath, she’s out cold.” Ben snapped.

Starlight sighed. “We’ll wait.”

“No, you won’t.” Ben turned around to face her. “She needs to fucking rest.”

“Cocksucker look between Starlight and Ben nervously. “We need to make sure-“

“She did you a fucking favor.” Ben growled. “Firecracker’s not a problem anymore, and her stupid plan fucking worked.”

“She killed four people.” Starlight said tightly. “And after Ashley, we need to know that she’s still with us.”

“With you?” Ben scoffed, saying Her name in the same exasperated tone. “Her? You think she’s going to turn against you fucking pussies?”

“She’s- she’s been weird.” Cocksucker stuttered. “And you’ve gotten closer than we thought-“

“Fuck off.” Ben snorted. “I haven’t turned her, if that’s what your dumb little pea-brains think.”

“We’re not who you have to convince, Soldier Boy.” Starlight watched Ben with a frown. “I trust her. Hughie trusts her.”

“Then what the fuck-“

“Butcher,” Cocksucker said softly. “MM. Mallory. They’re worried she’s going to be a liability.”

“Then they can come fucking tell me their fucking selves.” Ben hissed. “Now get the fuck out.”

Starlight looked like she was going to push back, and Ben was ready to throw her through the door himself, but Cocksucker placed his hand on her back, and something passed silently between them.

“Fine,” Starlight sighed, giving Ben one last, tired look. “If you promise to tell us when she’s awake, I can try and hold them off.” Her eyes narrowed. “For her.”

Ben grunted. “Deal.”

And they were gone, and Ben was alone in the kitchen.

She didn’t wake up for three full days. Three, long, insufferably quiet days where it was just Ben. Three days of pacing, of eating alone, of watching TV all through the damn night because he couldn’t sleep even if he fucking tried. Three days of the awful thing in his chest making up stupid excuse to open the door to her room and check to see if she had vanished. She never had, she would always be twisted on the bed, heart steady, face empty. At some point Ben moved Her under the covers, after he made up an excuse to touch her and found her not burning like he’d been checking for, but freezing cold. Three long days of wishing She was awake, reminding himself he didn’t fucking need Her awake, and the thing in his chest roaring that he did.

He tried to push it down, and almost succeeded, but at the end of the second day he walked downstairs from where he’d been standing outside her door for a disgustingly long time—finally managing to not push in and check on her—to find Butcher in the living room.

“She’s still out.” Ben had grunted, and Butcher had only shrugged.

“I ain’t here for her. We need to have a little chat.”

“I’m good.”

“I wasn’t bloody asking.”

Ben remembered wondering in the moment if he was already in enough hot water that killing Butcher wouldn’t really matter. “You’re playing a game you can’t fucking win.” He’d warned, and even Butcher’s heart hadn’t stuttered.

“I’ll be out of your hair in a flash, Gov. But not until you fucking listen.” Butcher managed to have more intelligence than Ben thought him capable of, and didn’t wait to hear Ben’s answer before he began. “Her plan, somehow, bloody worked. Most of the media coverage is sayin that Firecracker started panicking and lying to try and keep herself alive. You’re being label as a crazed lunatic, out for revenge.”

“Then what’s the fucking problem-“

“Her. Everyone’s buying the story about Her and Homelander, thinkin you kidnapped her after we tried to kill her.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t even make any fucking sense.”

“Don’t need to make sense. It’s the narrative Vought got, and they’re running with it. As far as the public knows, you’re back, out for bloody and evil revenge, and are holding her hostage to hurt Homelander.” Butcher narrowed his eyes at Ben. “And they’ve reached out. They want to meet with you.”

“They?” Ben paused, ready to grab Butcher’s tongue and make him stop talking in fucking riddles. “Who the fuck is they?”

“Vought.” Butcher said shortly. “Sage. Homelander.”

Ben snorted. “Fuck no. We’re not bringing her anywhere near that goddamn pussy and his conniving bitch.”

“Good thing they only want to talk to you, then, ain’t it.”

That made Ben pause, eyes narrowing at Butcher as suspicion had begun to build in his chest. “The fuck are you talking about.”

“One hour, a truce, just you, me, Starlight, Homelander, and Sage. At the old Starlight Fund building. Just talking.”

Ben snorted. “You dumb enough to believe that?”

“Nope. But you agree, it happens.”

Ben grunted. He didn’t trust any of it. He didn’t trust Homelander to have no ulterior motive. He didn’t trust Sage to not be plotting something. He didn’t trust Butcher to not have a fucking trick up his stupid fucking Hawaiian shirt. “And if don’t.”

Butcher shrugged. “Then this conversation never happened.”

Ben had said your name carefully, trying to feel out whatever it was he fucking knew Butcher was hiding. “What about her?”

“She’d stay here.”

Ben raised his brows at that. “You’d trust me without her?”

“Fucking hell, no. Not if hell bloody froze over. Don’t trust you with her. We’d set up something to make you go night-night if you get all nuclear. CIA got more than enough gas to put you under, they can spare some for our lovely uses.”

“How long does the offer stand?” Ben asked, pushing down the drum.

Butcher had shrugged. “Until you give an answer.”

“I’ll think about it.” Ben said. “Now get the fuck out.”

Butcher chuckled dryly. “Alright, Gov. Keep your damn pants on.” As Butcher walked, hands in pockets, down the hall, he paused as he passed Ben, and shoved something into his hands. “She dropped those on her way to the stage. Good luck when she wakes up, Mate. I’d keep her away from the telly.”

Ben had looked down at what Butcher had given him as the man walked away, brow furrowing at what he found.

Shitty, off-brand Soldier Boy sunglasses.

Ben had placed them in his room to give to Her later. But another full day had passed before she woke up, and Ben’s mind had not stilled the whole fucking time.

He hadn’t been lying. Ben thought about Butcher’s—Homelander’s—offer. Constantly. Starting with the fact that he didn’t have a goddamn thing to say to Homelander. The shock of their relation had long passed, fading into a numbness of just another fucking job for Ben to do, just another way in which he had to be alone. Then the numbness had been replaced by a blinding wrath. A disgust from what he had done. Ben wasn’t a saint, saints were weak, self-righteous whiners. But he wasn’t a fucking monster. He did what had to be done, and a little more to make sure he didn’t have to do it again. He didn’t take women and lock them in cages. He didn’t hurt people until the singular thought of him made them afraid. People fear Ben, yes. But just as much as they should.

Ben didn’t fear Homelander. She didn’t fear Ben. But She feared Homelander. A weak, fucking pathetic man who had needed to break someone stronger than him, someone worth more than him powerless, to feel big. She was worth so much more than Homelander that she wanted to help people. Worth so much more that she still somehow looked at the world and found it worth something. She found worth in fucking everything. Everything was amusing to Her, everything was beautiful, everything had value and meaning. Ben fucking hated it. It leaked into him, and felt fucking strange. Because he could hear Her in his head, saying Pretty Boy, this is an opportunity. Don’t be a petty baby and waste it.

And that was where the thoughts would loop. Ben didn’t want to talk to Homelander. Homelander had hurt Her and Ben never would. She’d find a way to use this, though, and She’d want him to go. But Ben didn’t want to talk to Homelander. Over and over until Ben heard Her heartbeat stutter, heard shuffling around in Her room, and had to fight the thing roaring in his chest to sprint up the stairs. He somehow managed to remain seated on the couch, everything in him fucking strained to stay in place as she tapped down the stairs and cleared her throat behind him.

Ben turned to find Her watching him with eyes still crusted from sleep. When She spoke, her voice was hoarse, and her words were quiet.

“How long was I out?”

“Few days.” Ben answered, trying to watch her passively, to pretend he wasn’t studying her every feature. He wasn’t even fucking sure what he was looking for himself.

“What-“ She took a deep breath. “What happened?”

Ben paused, finding her eyes again. Keep her away from the telly, Butcher had said, and Ben had immediately checked to see what the fuck he was talking about. He’d found the answer fast: photos of Firecracker’s scorched body, interviews with the families of the audience members who had met the same fate. Speculation about what Ben was doing to Her, fabricated “evidence” of Her and Homelander’s love. A complete, well-developed, entirely bullshit story about her life. Born in the same hometown as Homelander, happily giving up her life to support him, working instead behind the scenes in Vought marketing and cooking in her free time.

Homelander didn’t have a hometown, that pussies whole story was even more bullshit Vought propaganda than Ben’s was.

She wouldn’t “give up her life” to support anyone. And if she did, they’d have to hear her bitch about it until they fucking died.

Ben had once heard her call marketing “a plague upon human culture and societal development” during the third commercial break of one of his football games.

Everyone would know if She had tried to cook Homelander food, because it would’ve killed him.

Butcher had wanted Ben to lie. But Ben fucking knew She wouldn’t have lied to him. And he knew She would find out the truth somehow and be a real bitch about Ben lying to her.

“Three audience members and Firecracker died. You passed out. We got back here.”

“Oh,” she said softly, but didn’t look away, and Ben could see something fragile in her eyes fracture. Hear the taps of Moon River begin. “What are they saying?”

“They?”

“Vought.”

“Your plan worked.” Ben grunted, and the rhythm of Her heart told him she knew there was more. “But Firecracker’s bullshit stuck. I’m being painted as a revenge-blind maniac, and you’re being painted as my victim.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “If anything, you’re my victim.”

Ben felt his mouth twitch. “That’s what I keep fucking saying.”

She let out another, smaller huff of amusement before her face fell back into that soft state, her eyes still tired as she watched him. “That’s all?”

He nodded. “That’s all.”

She gave one last sigh, and it sounded so weak. He wanted to grab her and figure out a way to make her move. Get her to sit next to him and laugh so the fucking thing in his chest would let go of his lungs. Before he could, though, she turned and padded back up the stairs, her door closing behind her.

Another day passed before Ben even fucking saw her again. She’d slunk into the kitchen around dinner, hair tangled and eyes hollow, heating up a box-meal before placing it on a plate and carrying it back upstairs. The next day was the same, and Ben had tried to grab her and make her fucking talk to him, and she'd stared at him with a wide, empty gaze.

“We need to fucking talk.” He’d grunted.

“Please don’t.” Her voice had been so fucking quiet.

“Don’t what?” He’d growled. “Fucking talk to you? You’re just going to never fucking talk to me again?”

She’d given a small shake of her head. “I don’t want to talk. Please.”

“You’re being fucking weird.”

“Please.” She’d sounded desperate. “I can’t talk. Please.”

He’d never heard her say please so many times. He’d only seen her like this, a weak and fearful girl, once.

He’d hated it on the Neuman mission. He hated it now.

He hated she looked weaker now. Hopeless. He hated how he relented, let go of her, and she’d gone back upstairs and didn’t come back down. Two more days passed, and the only way Ben knew she was alive was the sounds of music coming from her room and the food that vanished from the kitchen overnight.

Ben was going to lose his fucking mind. The last time she’d avoided him this much had been the beginning, and, fuck, that had been better than this. She’s seen him and fought with him, tearing him to pieces as he did the same to her. Stood her fucking ground against him, a completely insufferable, violent, angry bitch of a woman. Even after they’d called truce on their war, she’d remained a powerfully wrathful, unrelenting pain in Ben’s ass. Now she wouldn’t stand in the same fucking room as him, and he was going to go fucking insane.

So, on the fifth day, Ben banged down her door, ready to demand she fucking tell him who to kill to fix this.

He found her curled in her bed, staring far ahead into nothing. Something hit his nose that he forced himself to ignore, and she didn’t even move as he pushed into the room.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked gruffly. She didn’t answer, so he said her name roughly. “What’s fucking wrong with you?”

“Why did you do it?” Her voice was light—frail—as she stared ahead.

“Do fucking what?”

She finally looked at him. “Why did you go back, with Sage, why did you fucking do that?”

“I saved your life, Sunshine. And you never even fucking thanked me.” Ben knew his words were cruel, shooting to hurt Her. But maybe she’d fucking fight him. Fucking do something that wasn’t just fucking sitting there.

“You should’ve left me.” She whispered, Ben rolled his eyes, and her voice raised. Not to a scream, but a high-pitched, frantic tone of desperation. “You should’ve! You should’ve left me and run! You could’ve been free, why did you do that! Why! You should’ve just fucking left me!”

This was worse, Ben knew. So much fucking worse. “Why are you being so fucking dramatic-“

“You should’ve left me to die!” She screamed. “You should’ve just left me to die! Why didn’t you just let me fucking die?!”

Ben stared at Her as she started to cry, shaking on the bed, trying to push herself further back into its frame. She’d tucked her head into her arms, sobs wracking through her whole body as she held herself, fingers digging into her skin. No smoke was rising, no tapping or chewing, just Her tears falling as she let out another, broken scream. Ben was frozen, he didn’t know how to fucking deal with this. Fuck, he barely knew how to deal with Her when she wasn’t breaking down in front of him.

Through sobs, Ben heard Her say it again. “It would be better if you had just let me die.”

Ben didn’t need the thing in his chest to tell him to move. He crossed the room in two long steps, dropping on the bed next Her.

“Look at me.” She didn’t, so Ben grabbed her wrists and pulled them down. “Sunshine, fucking look at me.”

She glanced down at where he still held her and blinked, letting out a stuttered breath. Her voice was still so weak when she spoke, “What?”

“Fucking look at me.” He growled one last time, and she finally did, her eyes still so empty. “You’re being fucking stupid.”

She gaped at him, disbelief finally filling her expression. It wasn’t the amusement or rage Ben wanted back, but it was something.

“What?’

“You’re being a goddamn idiot. Things would…” The words vomited out of him. “Be a lot fucking worse if you were dead.”

She shook her head, the hopeless looking creeping back. “I killed four people, they’d still be alive-“

"Maybe.” Ben grunted. “Maybe not. But they, along with a few more, would still be dead if you hadn’t knocked me down. Which was even fucking stupider than you’re being now, but we’ll fix that later.”

“Fix that?” She gave him a sharp look, words still choked. “I thought we agreed not to fix each other.”

“You agreed not to fix me. I made no such fucking promises.”

There was a silence for a second before She spoke again. “I don’t want you to ‘fix me’. I want to care that I…” Her stuttered, and she took another shaky breath before pushing them out. “I hurt people.”

“That’s to job, Sunshine.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I didn’t even want the job anyway.”

Ben watched her, wrists still in his hands, face faraway, and eyes still lined with tears. An image flashed in front of him, of Her a few years younger, singing karaoke and crying about stupid, normal shit. Something Ben himself had never done, something Ben wouldn’t even know how to miss. The image lingered in his head, her smile carefree, singing loudly and off-key, no blood on her hands, and the thing in his chest was angry.

“Ben?” She said softly, and the image vanished. “I’m sorry.”

He scowled. “Why are you fucking apologizing to me?”

“You don’t want to deal with this, with me. It’s not- it’s not useful to cry over spilled milk-“

“Shut up,” he snapped. “No, it’s not useful. For me. For Butcher. For Homelander. You get to whine over it, because-“

“Because I’m a woman?” She asked dryly, and he glared at her.

“No, smartass. Because you’re not like us. You didn’t fucking choose this.”

“You didn’t choose that,” she nodded to his chest. “Do you get to cry?”

“I don’t cry.” He said firmly, and She tilted her head at him in a way he didn’t like. “But I get to be angry. You get to be angry. And if you need to have a little breakdown to be angry, then so fucking be it.”

“But I killed people-“

Ben rolled his eyes. “Three Homelander supporters and Firecracker. Real fucking contributors to society, I’m sure.”

“They were still people.” She pushed. “People who I killed. People who would be alive-”

“If you say ‘if you were dead’, I’ll kill you myself.” Ben snapped.

She stared at him in disbelief and something harsher flickered in Her eyes. Fucking finally.

“I’d like to see you fucking try, Pretty Boy.”

He huffed a laugh. “I’ll wipe the floor with your ass, Sunshine.”

“I’ll make you regret crawling out of your mother in the first place, cunt.” She taunted, and Ben felt a wide grin on his face.

“I’m sure you will, you bitch.” Ben gave her a sweeping look. Her matted hair, tear crusted and red eyes, the smell he’d been pushing down starting to feel fucking visible. “But you need to fucking shower first, you smell like the shit you’ve been wallowing in.”

She glared at him, and for a second Ben thought she’d keep fighting him, or worse, start crying again, but she just gave a light tug against where he still held her.

“Can’t fucking shower if you won’t let me move, Ben.” She said flatly, and Ben rolled his eyes as he let go.

“Fucking drama queen,” he muttered, and She gave him a sarcastic, toothy smile as she stood.

“Eat me.”

“I would if you’d let me, Sunshine.” He called after Her, and though she closed the door with a slam, Ben still heard her heart flutter.

He waited as the water ran and tried not to think about Her, naked, in just the other room. Tried not to think about the relief the thing in his chest had felt when she’d stopped crying, the satisfaction it felt when he’d gotten her to laugh, and the stupid fucking anger it had felt at everything when she’d broken in front of him. He didn’t let himself dwell on the way it made him sit here. Fucking waiting for her like a lost goddamn puppy. Wanting to make sure she was okay. She was fine, she wasn’t sobbing and screaming, so she was fucking fine.

But what if She’s not, you fucking ass? The thing growled. What if she’s just waiting for you to leave?

Ben fucking hated that it worked, and he stayed on the bed.

What if She needs you? It hissed. What if she wants you to stay?

Ben loathed that even more. Because it echoed in his brain, and made him listen intently for any sounds of distress over the water, made him sit rigid and alert until the door opened.

She walked out, a towel wrapped around her body. She blinked at him once, and Ben couldn’t fucking figure out if she was even surprised he was there.

“Clothes,” she mumbled, walking to her dresser. Ben grunted, and watched her return to the bathroom, the door closing behind her once more.

Maybe he should go now. It was late, it had been a weird, long fucking day. He should fucking go and put some distance between the thing in his stupid fucking chest and Her-

The door opened, and She walked over to drop back on the bed, a small smile on her face.

“You’re real shit at comforting people, Pretty Boy.”

Fine. He’d fucking stay.

“Good.” Ben grunted. “And it fucking worked on you. Didn’t even get a damn ‘thank you.’”

He felt Her hand on his arm, and looked at her face, soft and open. “Thank you.”

He grunted again, staring back at the wall, and she chuckled.

“I mean, it was still a shit job, but it was so shit it looped around into being remarkably effective.”

“Doesn’t count as a damn thank you, Sunshine, if you fucking insult me right after.”

She shrugged. “Then do a better fucking job next time, Pretty Boy.”

Ben snorted. “Don’t hold your damn breath.” She didn’t respond, and he turned to find Her watching him, lips in a thin frown with her brow gently wrinkled. “I can hear the fucking gears in your head, Sunshine.” He said. “Say what you’re fucking thinking.”

“I’m going to ask you something once. If your answer is no, you’re not allowed to talk about it again.”

Ben frowned. Every time she started a question with a phrase like that, it ended up being something fucking insane. “Okay.” He said shortly, morbid curiosity getting the better of him.

“If you want, you don’t have to, and I don’t expect you to-“

“Quit fucking edging and spit it out.”

She glared at him. “You can stay in here tonight.”

Ben stared at Her, the thing in his chest clawing against him. “What?”

“You can sit in my bed. If you want. I know you won’t sleep, and I won’t sleep well, and I’d probably end up sitting in your room at some point-“

“Why?” Ben cut off Her rambling, frowning.

She held his gaze, her uneven heart the only sign of her nerves. “I don’t-“ she sighed. “I don’t want to be alone. You’d just be sitting here, nothing else. But if you don’t-“

“Fine.” He answered, and the thing in his chest roared.

“Oh,” she paused, and Ben was pretty goddamn sure She’d expected him to say no. “Okay. Good.”

She pulled herself under the covers, looking up at Ben from her back. He didn’t like what that made him feel, and how easy it would be to just pull Her against him and keep her there.

“Thank you.” She said with a small smile. “No insults."

“Whatever,” Ben grumbled, leaning back in a pointless attempt to find a comfortable position. “Just saving you the fucking walk to my room.”

“You’re a saint,” she mumbled sarcastically, eyes drooping. “I’m sure this must have been very hard for you.”

“I’ll live.” He said, watching Her. “I need you functional, Sunshine. Small, stupid fucking price to pay.”

“You need me?” She breathed out, a sleepy smile on her face.

Ben rolled his eyes. “You burn, I burn.” He echoed the words she'd said before. “I’m not going to let you fucking burn. You don’t get away from me that easy.”

“How sweet.” She whispered, eyes fully closing. “I won’t let you burn either, Pretty Boy.”

Ben wanted to protest, and tell Her that he wasn’t sweet, just practical, and he—despite the protests of the thing in his chest—didn’t need her at all. But Her breathing became steady and even, fast asleep in seconds at his side, and he couldn’t fucking bring himself to wake her. So Ben just studied Her sleeping face, not empty, not twisted in pain, a soft smile playing on her lips. He should fucking go, She was asleep and that’s all She’d fucking needed from him. But he stayed in place, and watcher Her like a fucking creep. Her peaceful face, smooth heartbeat, and gentle breaths soothing the thing in his chest. Ben need to get himself under fucking control, he was being fucking pathetic.

But he stayed, all fucking night, unable to move and barely capable of looking away. And the more of the night that passed, the long he watched Her, the more he realized she was pretty. Really fucking pretty. He hadn’t been fucking blind, he’d known she was pretty before. Thought about it more than he’d ever fucking admit. But fuck, this was different. She was really, really goddamn pretty. And then She rolled over, settling so she was comfortably pressed against him, and he realized she was beautiful. Like one of those stupid, overpriced paintings art-pussies in the 70s had tried to sell him. But real. Fucking beautiful, in a way that made him unable to look away, that made him feel fucking stupid.

Beautiful in a way that made him stay at Her side the whole night, frozen on her bed with her body against him, all the way until the sun started to leak into the room.

[goodgirlfaith1]

Make Up Sex

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Female reader

Summary: after an argument, Klaus returns home with an apology, and a promise that you never thought he would make.

Warnings: angsty in the beginning, smut, hair pulling, slight praise kink, pet names, fluff

Word count: 3.1k

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“I’ll kill him,” Klaus muttered through clenched teeth as he charged towards the front door.

“No, you won’t,” you stepped in front of him, causing him to stop in his tracks. “Don’t you dare, Klaus,” you warned him.

You were the only person in the world who could talk to Klaus like that and live to see another day.

Klaus’s gaze flicked down to the necklace around your neck, his nostrils flaring as his jaw clenched.

Kol had given you the necklace about a year previous, when he first met you. You lost it when a witch stole it to use in a ritual. The necklace was sentimental, so Kol made it his mission to get it back, and he’d returned it to you earlier that day.

Kol nor Klaus never thought they would ever fall in love with a human, yet there they both were, absolutely consumed by their love for you. The difference was that you loved Klaus. You loved him with everything that you were, and you only ever saw Kol as a friend.

It killed him, especially because he was the one who introduced you to Klaus. He always wondered what could’ve happened if he had never introduced you two.

“It’s just a necklace, Klaus. Stop it,” you said in a warning tone.

“If it’s just a necklace then why do you care so much about it?” Klaus asked, his jaw clenched.

“Why do you care about it?” You yelled, irritated at how jealous he was being. “I’m with you, Klaus. Not Kol!”

“He’s in love with you, y/n!” Klaus shouted. “You might turn a blind eye to it darling, but everyone knows it!”

“You know what?” You yelled, ripping the necklace from your neck, snapping the chain. “Take it!” You threw the necklace at Klaus. “And get out!” You shouted over your shoulder as you turned around and walked away from him.

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11.30 p.m.

It had been a few hours since you kicked Klaus out of the house. Klaus knew that you love him, and you knew that he loved you, but there was nothing calm or peaceful about the love that you two shared. It was passionate and intense, and exciting. It was fun…most of the time. The downside was that with the burning passion, came jealousy, and bickering. But the best part was making up.

It became a cycle.

You knew Klaus would come home and that you would make up - it was part of the cycle. But this toxic cycle had been repeating its self for too long, and you were beginning to grow tired of it. It was draining, and it hurt you to fight with the man that you loved. Though, you felt it would hurt even more to let him go.

Klaus also knew that this cycle wasn’t healthy, but he was too selfish to let you go - he had told you that a million times. He loved you too much, and he did a good job of showing that he loved you most of the time, but still, when you found yourself sitting alone on the couch at nights after an argument, you found yourself feeling more lonely than loved.

The sound of the front door bursting open startled you, and you quickly stood up from the couch. Shit, you think to yourself. I must’ve forgotten to lock the door.

Though you didn’t know anyone stupid enough to try to hurt you, because Klaus would kill them - slowly and painfully - Klaus still had a lot of enemies, and you couldn’t help but panic. You ran towards the fireplace and raked your hands through the logs of wood, pulling out the wooden stake that Klaus hid there for you to use if you ever needed to.

Stake in hand, you cautiously tiptoed out of the living room and down the dimly lit hallway. You tried your best to keep your breathing quiet, but it was proving to be difficult because you were so worried it wasn’t Klaus. You could hear footsteps making their way down the hallway, and you held up the stake and took a deep breath in before you turned the corner to see who was there.

And there he was.

Klaus.

You both stopped in your tracks, and you let out a breath in relief. Klaus’s eyebrows raised as his gaze flicked to the stake in your hand before he met your gaze again.

“Hello, love,” he said with a small smile. “I hope you’re not planning on using that on me.” He nodded his head towards the stake.

You let out a breath and sat the stake down on the shelf to your left, next to a photo frame with a picture of you and Klaus in it. It was a picture Rebekah has taken of the two of you. Klaus was standing behind you with his arms wrapped around your front, smiling as he gazed at you, while you look at the camera.

“It wouldn’t kill you, anyway-” you sighed, tearing your gaze from the photo frame to look back to Klaus. “Unfortunately.”

Klaus let out a breath, and a smile tugged at his lips as he looked down at the ground, shaking his head. He flicked his gaze back up to meet yours, his smile fading when he saw the look on your face. You were just tired. You were so tired of arguing all the time, and he knew it.

A look of genuine regret was evident on Klaus’s face as his blue eyes flicked between yours. “I’m so sorry, y/n,” he took a step towards you. “I don’t ever want to be the reason for that look on your face.” Klaus’s eyes began to water as he takes your face in his hands. “I want to be be good,” he says. “I’m going to be a better man. Because of you. For you.”

You took a breath in as your eyes flicked between his. “Y/n I promise you, I will never walk out on you again. I don’t want to go on like this anymore. I-” he took a breath in. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t.” Klaus’s gaze ran over your face. “Please tell me I haven’t lost you,” he begged.

You took a breath in and let it out, gazing up at him. “You haven’t lost me,” you whispered. You couldn’t have let him go, even if you wanted to.

Klaus let out a breath in relief, and his body became visibly less tense than it had been before. Klaus crashed his lips against yours, keeping hold of your face. Your eyes fell closed as Klaus’s arms wrapped around your waist, and you placed your hands on either side of Klaus’s face. You could feel the stubble along his sharp jawline on your fingertips as your lips moved with his.

“I love you,” Klaus breathed out into the kiss. “I love you so much.”

“Shhh,” you broke the kiss, placing your finger over his lips to shush him. “I need you,” you whispered, feeling yourself aching for him. You didn’t care how needy you sounded.

Klaus wrapped his hand around your neck and applied a little pressure. “Tell me you love me,” he pulled you a little closer.

A smile pulled on your lips at his neediness, which only wound Klaus up even more. “I love you, baby,” you said, gazing up at him.

“Good girl,” Klaus said lowly, a devilish grin pulling on his lips. He kept his firm grip around your neck as he slowly leaned his head downwards, closer towards yours. His lips ghosted just above yours, and he lingered there. He was so close, but not close enough, and he knew it would drive you crazy.

“Don’t tease me, Klaus,” you warned him, desperate for him to press his lips against yours.

Klaus nudged his nose against yours, “I thought you like it when I tease you.”

You flicked your gaze down to his lips, letting it linger there for just a couple of seconds. You looked back up to meet Klaus’s gaze as you ran your fingertips up his forearm until your hand reached his. With your hand on top of his around your neck, you applied a little pressure, a smile growing on your face. You knew that would shut him up. was resting on top of his, wrapped around your neck.

“Harder,” you whispered.

Klaus’s gaze darkened and his lips parted as he tightened his hold around your neck, making you feel a little light headed. The sensation only turned you on more, and Klaus could tell. He smiled as he crashed his lips against yours, backing you up against the wall.

The kiss soon became feverish. It was urgent, and passionate, and you parted your lips as Klaus kissed you hard. He slipped his tongue into your mouth as you tugged at his shirt, whimpering into the kiss, which pulled a groan from the back of Klaus’s throat. The sound turned you on even more. You could feel yourself getting soaked for him.

“Off,” you breathed out into the kiss as you tugged on his shirt. “I need this off.”

Klaus broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily as you pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor. Klaus crashed his lips against yours and you ran your hands up his biceps, letting them come to rest at the back of his neck.

The sound of heavy breathing filled the hallway as Klaus began to leave a trail of kisses along your jaw. You let your eyes fall closed as the back of your head fell to rest against the wall behind you. You tilted your head to the side for him as his kisses trailed along your neck, causing your breathing to pick up. Your fingers soon found themselves through Klaus’s hair, pulling on his locks as he feverishly kissed your neck.

Klaus’s hands snaked down your body, stopping when he reached your ass. “Jump,” he whispered. You did, and Klaus picked you up with his hands on your ass. You wrapped your arms around his neck as you pressed your lips against his

Klaus carried you to the bedroom and you landed on your back when he tossed you onto the bed. He climbed on top of you, leaning his weight on his forearms at either side of your head. He quickly crashed his lips against yours in an urgent kiss and you ran your fingertips down his chest and over his defined abs. You reached the waistband of his jeans and your fingers fumbled to unbuckle his belt.

You suddenly broke the kiss at the sound of your shirt being torn open. Your eyes widened as you looked up to meet Klaus’s gaze. “Klaus!” You scold him. You’d lost count of how many times Klaus had ruined your shirts by tearing them open.

“I’ll buy you a hundred of them,” Klaus said before he crashes his lips against yours once again. His tongue moved with yours as you pulled his jeans down, freeing his erection. You breathed heavily into the kiss as Klaus pulled your trousers off and tossed them onto the floor.

You both smiled as your lips met, while Klaus lined himself up with your entrance. He broke the kiss but he didn’t pull back, letting his lips ghost over yours as he pushed his hips forward.

Your lips parted as you took a sharp breath in, gazing up into Klaus’s blue eyes. He took hold of your jaw and crashed his lips against yours in a passionate kiss as he drew his hips back and pushed them forward again.

You breathed out a moan into the kiss as Klaus continued his pace, pulling moans and whimpers from you with every thrust of his hips. The pleasure soon almost became too much, and you knew you weren’t going to last long, so you broke the kiss and pushed Klaus back with your hands on his shoulders until he was lying on his back as you straddled him.

A devilish grin pulled on Klaus’s lips as he gazed up at you, in awe of your beauty. Klaus loved when you tried to dominate him. Your lips hovered just above Klaus’s as you began to roll your hips, eliciting a moan from the back of your throat.

“That’s it, love,” Klaus said lowly. “Let me hear you.”

You breathed heavily as you rolled your hips again, adopting a rhythm as you pulled back to sit upwards. Klaus moved to sit up too, but you quickly wrapped your hand around his neck and forced him back down. A smile pulled on Klaus’s lips as his chest visibly rose and fell with each breath he took. You kept your hand around his neck as you rolled your hips, your moans becoming louder and louder. You couldn’t help it, you could feel him hitting your g-spot with every roll of your hips.

“Fuck,” you threw your head back in pleasure as you rolled your hips. “Klaus,” you breathed out through a moan. Your breathing was heavy as you looked down to meet Klaus’s gaze. He breathed heavily through parted lips as he gazed up at you. “You’re so deep,” you breathed out, looking into his eyes.

Klaus clenched his jaw, and in a flash, you found yourself lying on your back, Klaus on top of you. You never really got used to how fast Klaus could move, since he was a hybrid.

“You drive me crazy,” he whispered as he pounded into you, hitting your g-spot with each thrust of his hips. You cried out for him as you felt your orgasm building in your lower stomach. You squeezed your eyes shut in pleasure as your jaw went slack and you dug your fingernails into the skin on the back of his neck.

“Look at me,” Klaus said lowly, taking hold of your jaw. You opened your eyes, gazing up at him as you tried your best to hold off your orgasm. You were on the brink of letting go.

“There she is,” Klaus breathed out through a groan as he continued to pound into you. “That’s a good girl. Always take me so well, love.”

His words only pushed you closer towards the edge. He always knew exactly how to get you there. You laced your fingers through Klaus’s hair as he continued his vigorous pace.

“Klaus,” you cried out, pulling on his hair.

“I know, darling,” Klaus breathed out. “Let go for me, love.”

And with a few more thrust of his hips, you felt the knot in your lower stomach come undone. Klaus dropped his forehead to rest against yours as he reached his high at the same time. Your jaw went slack as you cried out for him while he continued his pace, riding out your high.

“That’s it, love,” Klaus cooed. “That’s a good girl.”

The sound of your heavy breathing filled the bedroom as you came down from your high, and your eyes fell closed as Klaus stilled inside of you. You felt him press a gentle kiss onto your forehead as you tried to catch your breath.

Klaus laid down right beside you and pulled you close. “Feel okay, love?” Klaus asked as you nuzzled your face into his neck.

“Mhm,” you hummed, feeling tiredness taking over as Klaus began gently playing with your hair.

“Y/n, I want you to know that I meant everything I said earlier,” Klaus says. You opened your eyes and looked up to meet his gaze. “I thought you deserved better than me, I still do,” Klaus began. “But I’m too selfish to let you go.” He took a sharp breath in, looking away in thought as he clenched his jaw. “The thought of you with someone else, I-”

“I know,” you interrupted him, pulling his gaze back to meet yours when you placed your hand on the side of his face.

Klaus let out a breath, his blue eyes flicking between yours. “What I’m trying to say is…from now on, I’m going to be what you deserve. I’m going to be better for you. I want to be better.”

You nodded, a soft smile pulling on your lips. “I love you, Klaus.” You drew your thumb gently back and forth against the skin of his cheek.

“I love you, y/n,” he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you.”

“Well, you’re not completely off the hook yet,” you smiled. Klaus’s eyebrows raised and he tilted his head to the side a little as he waited for you to finish your sentence.

“You still owe me a shirt,” you shrugged.

Klaus smiled, breathing out a laugh through his nose. “I’ll take you shopping tomorrow.” He smiled a kiss onto the top of your head. “I have something for you.”

You lifted your head from his chest, a crease forming between your brows as your eyes flicked between his. “What is it?”

Klaus reached for his jeans lying on the floor and dug his hand into the pocket, pulling out a small, green box. He handed it to you with a soft smile and you removed the lid, finding your necklace inside. Your eyebrows raised and your lips parted in surprise as you looked to Klaus. “But you-”

“I was jealous,” Klaus interrupted you. “I shouldn’t have let my insecurities get in the way. I’m sorry, love.”

You smiled as you pulled the necklace out of the box, finding the chain intact. Your eyebrows knitted together and you looked to Klaus. “How did you?” you trailed off.

“A little compulsion,” Klaus smiled softly.

You shook your head, smiling as you looked back down at your necklace in the palm of your hand. You closed your fist and smiled a kiss onto Klaus’s lips. “I love you,” you whispered.

Klaus smiled into the kiss. “I love you,” he whispered against your lips, making you smile. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

[mournings-stars]

Hello hello! I’d like to request some platonic into romantic headcannons on an Alastor x fallen ex-exorcist/exterminator reader please :>

Small background: Reader fell for whatever reason and maybe a few days to a week (or even months-) afterward they end up striking a deal with Alastor, where they’ll be under his protection (because as skilled as they are it wouldn’t matter much with the entirety of hell on their ass) but he gets a pretty good portion of their power in return or maybe something else that you think Alastor would take.

Gender neutral reader pls

I’ve only read one fic or two with this concept and I am on my hands and knees for more lol

If you prefer a different writing format or feel this is too specific or OC-ish please please please feel free to change anything! I’m not very picky ^^

Thank you for your time and have a good day/night!

okay i LOVE this concept — i think it be the slowest fucking burn in the world tho like

you were never one of adam’s favorites, as you had the tendency to spare demons who seem harmless, but covered it nearly everytime

during this last extermination, however, he was trying to catch you fucking up the plan, so the minute you skipped over someone, he had lute launch her weapon at you

i doubt he’d let her kill you or anything, but he definitely just left you there for the demons to finish off, probably pinned to the ground with lute’s spear in your wing or something before he called all the other exorcists back (and he made sure to leave your halo so even if you did change clothes people knew what you were)

luckily (not really) you’d be in cannibal town, so before anyone could get to you, alastor’s probably just walking around like nothings happening (LMAO) and sees you

i doubt he’d make it known he saw you, like he’d definitely keep humming merrily down the street until he saw you struggling to get away from him as quickly as possible and tearing your wing even more

“my, my, let’s calm down, shall we?” he’d laugh and take the spear out of your wing. “isn’t that better, little bird?” but he’d say that while literally pointing the spear at you so don’t feel too safe

you’d definitely get defensive and shoot into the air with your weapon, ready to kill, and i think after seeing you still attempting to fly with that damaged of a wing (like its fucked up), he’d be impressed enough to drop the spear he had with a very big grin

“you’d better hide, little bird”

and you’d take his warning to fly off, quickly snatching lute’s weapon with yours in case you needed to defend yourself

he would literally just smile and watch you leave before continuing to hum and walk down the street

it’d probably be like a solid three days of hiding and having to fight for your life before the damage to your wing really messed with you and you had to force yourself to find a good hiding place

maybe you see charlie on the news and notice that no one seems to want to go to her hotel, so you force yourself to fly all the way there like a week after her horrible interview (ep 1) and practically collapse at the front door

of course you recognize vaggie and of course you practically run over and hug her despite the spear pointed at you… and of course that means vaggie either may or may not have to confess depending on if you pick up that no one knows or not (off the concept but im sparing chaggie heartbreak)

“who the fuck is this?” would be the first thing you hear from a spider demon and you’d have to explain what you were and hope they didn’t kill you — which, duh, charlie wouldn’t that let happen

“hello again, little bird,” would make everyone shut up because… how does alastor know you??? of course, he doesn’t answer their questions, just says hello and moves on like it’s all normal

your first day would totally be catching up with vaggie, probably breaking down because you needed to get back to heaven and had no way there

i think exorcists probably have a little bit of angelic power, but they probably can’t create portals without that power being given to them or something which means you have no way home and no where to go

vaggie and charlie of course tell you to stay, but once anyone shows up they’ll know you’re here and all of hell would be coming to the hotel to try and get to you — and you didn’t want to ruin what they had going (even if it was small you thought it was a great idea) so they probably give you a change of clothes, something more hellish, and tell you to stay until you have somewhere else to go

that would probably give alastor the perfect opportunity to talk to you privately and offer his protection

you wouldn’t take his offer at first, but once pentious shows up and the overlords somehow find out that charlie is hiding an angel in her hotel (vox and his stupid drones) you dont really have a choice

i dont think he’d ask for any power in return, but i do think you’d owe him a favor each time he has to protect you

vox would probably give subtle hints in all the programs he runs, so alastor would have to protect you very often

that meant if he ordered you to get rid of someone, you did it — whether that meant by the snap of your fingers with holy light (which they could potentially survive or respawn from) or killing them with your exorcist weapon was totally up to him sometimes, he just asked that you create a bouquet of flowers for his room

usually the people he had you “take care of” were repulsive enough, and you never minded creating things with your abilities, so you agreed to what he asked with ease

it’d be a little time before who he instructed you to “take care of” slowly shifted to anyone who wronged you

of course, he’d still protect you, but if he didn’t own their soul and he didnt have an angelic weapon, he couldn’t ensure that they wouldn’t come back, so he asked you, “do you think they’ll come back for you, little bird?” if you were unsure, or knew it was likely they’d come back for the person that ended up being the reason they had to go through the painful process of respawning, he’d tell you to just kill them

it’d probably come to a point where he stopped asking for favors, made sure you were alright, and told you to focus on what you needed to do while he “did his job”

i think eventually you’d find a place you think could be safe and once your wing is totally healed up and alright you’d say your goodbyes even though you weren’t that close with anyone but vaggie (also i feel like niffty would be down to talk to u about her bug battles or some shit)

anyway, when you go to say bye to alastor, he definitely cashes in his favor with a simple “hmm, no” cus he sees no reason for you to leave??? like so what everyone else’s lives are in danger by you being here… you’re safer here

so you’d stay, and it’d definitely make charlie happy because if she can get an angel back to heaven that’d prove she could actually do this

you’d be pissed at alastor for a while, but slowly, it seemed like demons understood that by coming for you, they were fucking with the radio demon (and we all know how that goes) so after a few months you were finally left alone

in that time you’d totally help spruce up the hotel while slowly forgetting why you wanted to go back

but every once in a while you’d have a very prolonged sadness about the situation… heaven was your home after all, and even if you liked the hotel, you could never leave because the minute you stepped outside, there was a line for your head — you were trapped there (like a bird in a cage — hence the nickname)

i think even though everyone likes having you there, vaggie would eventually bring up lucifer (like he can literally open a portal…)

but immediately alastor is not fucking having it and he cashes in another one of his pent up favors, saying that getting back to heaven through a fallen angel was the dumbest thing you could do if you wanted it to look like you were the one wronged in this situation (he has a point i fear)

i think this is where you kind of accept that you’re not going home and maybe just give up because 1. you can’t go to the heaven embassy since you’d just be met with adam and 2. the only person that could get you contact wasn’t a good option

i think now would be when alastor recognizes how much you want to go home and finds himself feeling bad?? for keeping you, but he just wants you to get home safely and surely

still, once he sees that you literally wont leave your room and have contemplated taking your own halo he compromises to let you try going to the heaven embassy to see if you could get a meeting with anyone but adam

you said it wasn’t possible, but he insisted “i can’t have you looking so upset all the time, birdie” he’d say while using his hand to squish your cheeks into a smile just to make you laugh

so you’d go — i think you’d totally get there safely but once demons see an exorcist angel coming out of the heaven embassy, you have to fight the minute you step out of the building

you can 100% see holy light from the hotel, so the minute alastor sees a golden beam he’s out the door

you can handle your own, so you fought them off, but i’d imagine you get injured and that’s what really makes alastor realize he’s falling for you cus he’s seething

even just a minuscule amount of golden blood on you had him tearing apart any demon who even looked like they’d been near you

i hate to say it but i don’t think this would be a happy ending — reader loves heaven even though they hate being an exorcist and alastor knows that so he’d definitely keep his feelings hidden and if you showed any signs of feelings for him he’d be terrified because an angel falling, literally falling because thats what would happen to you, for someone like him would never get you back home

obviously it’d come to a point where he doesn’t want you to leave, but at the same time, he’d never keep you

if i did end up writing an actual fic of this it’d probably end on a bit of a cliffhanger ex. reader getting accepted back and being hesitant with alastor’s last favor just him saying, “if you want to stay for anyone, don’t,” and letting you decide whether or not to go back

OR reader being accepted back but still having to be an exorcist, so the next time they see alastor is the finale where adam would 100% put them against him

[lets-try-some-writing]

A Brother In Need

A gift for @nova--spark and a partial continuation of this post by her (ft. my fic blurb for it).

Sometimes, when things are dire, the Matrix can tear through the very walls between worlds. It can call out to others, summoning Primes to aid a brother in need.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Optimus grunted as another shot scorched his armor. The upgrades he’d received were doing nothing against the raging force of nature that was Megatron. A jetpack was useless against a forged flyer. The Magnus hammer, which he’d not so quietly borrowed, was doing slag all do deter his foe.

Being taken prisoner had done nothing to calm Megatron or make him less of a deadly opponent. With Ultra Magnus out of commission, all Optimus could do was try to buy time while the Autobots got themselves organized. The battle had already raged for almost five minutes, a near eternity for Optimus, who, as much as he hated to admit it, was certainly not built for war. He could only hold off for so long, and with no allies en route, he was essentially a sitting duck.

Every dodged attack slowed him down. Each hit he managed to land seemed to bounce right off of the warlord. Even with the Allspark resting within its casing around his neck, providing him with energy he sorely needed, he was still losing. Bit by bit, he was pushed back closer toward civilian regions. It had never gotten this bad, not even on Earth.

“Foolish Prime. You will learn the meaning of suffering for daring to put me in chains.” Megatron flew at him yet again, and all Optimus could do was struggle to keep his frame from overheating as he forced himself to dodge. Unfortunately, Megatron was faster, hitting his jetpack with a well timed strike and finally sending him careening toward the ground. Optimus adjusted mid-fall, slowing his descent and landing on his pedes. However, as he attempted to get back into the skies in the hopes that it would limit civilian casualties, his jetpack failed to function. It puttered uselessly against his back, reminding Optimus again of just how dire things really were.

“I’m not going down without taking you with me!” He taunted his foe, running as far away from housing districts as possible. The Allspark weighed heavily around his neck, thrumming with strange energy he did not understand. It did little to aid him, but its glow reminded Optimus of what he was fighting for. 

Megatron could not win. Not while Optimus still functioned.

“I will strip you of your armor, one plate at a time!” Megatron roared in outrage, landing with a thunderous crash that left Optimus reeling. He clutched the Magnus hammer, not letting himself focus on the faint tremor of his digits as he raised the weapon high. He checked his comms, frantically letting his optics flicker around the area in hopes that someone, anyone, would come to his aid.

He saw and heard nothing. No one was coming. He was alone.

“I’d like to see you try.” He could sense the stress warnings for his servos running across his vision, but Optimus dismissed them. He needed to keep fighting, to buy more time for Sentinel to get things in order as acting Magnus. He doubted his former friend would actually aid him, but if Optimus could do something to give the Autobots a chance, then he would gladly put his life on the line yet again.

He took a deep vent, the world slowing around him as Megatron unsheathed his blade and leapt forward. Optimus distinctly recalled wondering if there would be anything left of his frame once the battle was done as the warlord’s blade met his hammer. 

The shock rattled his entire frame, knocking his shoulder from its socket. He didn’t have time to cry out in pain before he was forced to try and block another hit, then another, and another. He tried to fight back, but every time he tried to land an attack, Megatron’s blade cut through his armor like it was made of tinfoil. He was covered in gashes, each burning as they bled. He stumbled, trying to keep his balance as Megatron smiled, stalking forward and pushing Optimus up against a wall. 

“This is what happens when you play soldier, Optimus Prime. Now, you will die like the disposable pawn you are.” Optimus spit up energon, coughing as he clutched a particularly deep wound with one servo. The Magnus hammer was held weakly up in front of him, his entire arm shaking from the effort as he prepared to block. Part of him hoped that his team would arrive and save his sorry aft. The rest of him was praying for a decently quick and honorable end, perhaps a blaster shot to the spark.

Unfortunately for him, Megatron had other plans.

The warlord swung his blade, sending the Magnus hammer flying away from Optimus’s grasp. He cursed, getting into a combat position despite how battered and tired he was. His vents were flared wide, his fans running on their highest setting as he panted and tried to play hero. Everything ached and burned, his vision flickering from energon loss. But he was not given a chance to even try to preserve his honor as the hilt of Megatron’s blade collided with his helm, knocking him to the ground.

He cried out in pain, no longer able to stifle the agony of his failing frame. He heard Megatron laugh as a kick landed on his abdomen, sending Optimus flying against the wall behind him and leaving him to purge what little he had in his tanks before coughing up energon that had to have come from something internal being ruptured. 

He shook in terror that he could no longer mask as the warlord loomed above him, his towering frame now no longer anything close to the storybook villain Optimus had come to know. He prayed for salvation as Megatron took his time, hitting him again and again and kicking him around like some sort of training dummy. Every hit broke something else, shattering plating or snapping components that were likely vital. 

Optimus tried to be brave. He tried to keep being snarky, if only to buy time. But as he lay utterly beaten amidst the rubble of their battleground, he could only cry while pulling himself into a sitting position. There was nothing he could do now except try to die with a small iota of dignity. 

“Ratchet, Bulkhead, Bumblebee, Sari… I’m sorry I won’t be coming back to all of you.” A choked sob broke through his tortured venting. As Megatron cackled, Optimus touched the container the Allspark still sat within. He prayed in silence, hoping that the phenomenon that gave him life would heed his quiet plea. 

He wasn’t religious. He had no god to worship as the humans did. But he still hoped… that maybe, somehow, the thing that made him would have mercy on his spark.

“Goodbye, Prime.” Megatron’s blaster powered on, sickening purple and flooding Optimus’s vision as he raised his helm in one final act of defiance. If he were to fall, he was going to do so, looking death in the optic. He would not cower, not even in his final moments.

He stared down the blaster barrel, uncaring of how it made his optics flicker due to the brightness. But as he watched his death come closer, he felt warmth emanate from the container around his neck. He dared not look away from Megatron, but as blue light began to drown out the purple, Optimus could only gasp in awe at what occurred mere nano-kliks later.

A shot fired, but it was not Megatron’s blaster putting Optimus six feet under. Instead, bright blue energy impacted Megatron’s armor, scorching his seemingly untouchable plating and earning a cry from the warlord. Optimus gawked, his agony momentarily forgotten as he followed the source of the shot, his optics setting on a figure that towered over even Megatron.

A faint blue figure flickered in and out of existence, becoming more solid with every passing moment. Optimus’s optics widened as the mech stepped forward, his frame setting into reality as he held his arm up, the limb having transformed into a blaster without so much as a klik of hesitation. He stood proudly, his armor battered and scarred but still strong. His shoulders were sharp, and an autobot badge stood out clearly amidst the scratches and dents. His legs were long and built for combat; his waist was thin but his torso was heavily armored. A crack ran along his windshields, but it seemed to mean nothing for the mech who stood so powerfully on the battlefield.

Optimus watched in complete awe as the mech stalked forward, a battlemask firmly in place on his face as he fired shot after shot at Megatron. With grace that Optimus had never seen in anyone before, the mech strode forward, breaking into a steady run as his arms turned from guns to blades. In an instant, the mech, who looked so much like Optimus in color and overall design, met Megatron in combat. Their blades sparked, their grunts of exertion echoed across the battlefield.

Megatron tried to push back, but the mech was swift with his blades, cutting through Megatron’s defenses and slashing his armor clean open with rapid movements. Megatron stumbled back, screaming a curse in a language Optimus did not know. The mech, his counterpart, responded in kind with a quick kick to the chassis, sending the warlord sprawling after a pitifully short fight. It seemed that despite his failure to bring down his foe, Optimus had indeed tired him enough so that his counterpart had little issue bringing him to his knees.

A smug part of his spark flared in glee at the revelation.

“Serves you right, you glitch.” He raised a middle finger in Megatron’s direction as Autobots finally appeared in the distance. His counterpart knocked Megatron upside the helm, forcing the Decepticon leader into temporary recharge. Then, without a second thought, he came to kneel before Optimus, his battlemask slipping away.

“I apologize for failing to assist you sooner, little brother. The call of the Matrix can be slow at times.” Optimus carefully reset his optics, but the scene did not change as his counterpart tenderly picked him up as if he were but a newbuild. The Allspark pulsed against his chassis in response.

“It seems your reality has different rules than mine, but you need not fear. We are one and the same, merely separated by time and a barrier between worlds.” The other mech, the other Optimus, smiled in a soft manner before holding Optimus close. He coughed weakly, the pain slowly overwhelming his senses as his counterpart held him close. He wanted to speak, to ask who this mech really was.

But he found his questions answered as the other Optimus carried him to his team, passing him off to a very worried Ratchet. He stared, still in shock, as the other Prime began to flicker and fade, his existence starting to vanish like smoke.

“Rest well, young Prime. May Primus light your path.” With those final words, the other Prime disappeared as if he’d never been there in the first place. Megatron was bound and carted off, Ratchet strapped him to a gurney and rushed to get him hooked up to an IV. All the while, Optimus stared up at the sky uselessly.

He didn’t know how or why, but through the thing that hung around his neck, Optimus had been saved by another version of himself. A mech who carried his name, his burden, and his rank.

He’d had his life preserved by a brother.

[kcsplace]

Steve gets started attending Community College,but he doesn't tell anyone, embarrassed that he might fail, that they'll tease him, that they'll be embarrassed by him.  Nancy is going to go off and change the world, Jonathan's photography talent is gonna get him into art school somewhere, Robin is having colleges trip over themselves to offer her scholarships and Eddie's band is starting to draw crowds that aren't just about "checking out the maybe-possible-kinda-murderer-dude". 

Why would any of them want to hang out with a loser like Steve?

Steve, madly desperately and stupidly in love with Eddie even if he hasn’t said anything thinks that means he can't have kids now, but he knows he's good with them.  He also knows what its like to go from hero to zero and just how easy it is to be a shit in school and how important it is to change.  So he thinks he could be a good guidance counsellor.  He thinks he could help those kids out.  Kids like Max and Eddie that don’t have all the things he had growing up, kids like himself who didn’t have positive role models, kids like Will and Robin that are a little different.

His father shat all over that dream, told him he'd be shit at it, just like everything else he tried - he can’t even win a championship in four years of trying -, and so he's not paying for it.  As a result, sure in his decision, Steve's been working to pay for college (much easier in the 80s admittedly and at CC) but he's burning the candle at both ends, especially working for the credits to transfer as a junior into a four year college. 

Eddie finds him asleep in his car outside his latest job, all his textbooks on the seat next to him.  He lets himself into the car, wakes Steve up, all the textbooks in his lap, flipping through their pages in the dim illumination provided by the dome light.  Steve thinks Eddie's gonna mock him, tell him he's gonna be bad at it, he won’t be able to hack community college let alone a four-year, and even if he could, what school would hire a loser like him to help kids? He’s waiting to hear all about how stupid Steve is to think that just because he kept a couple kids alive, he thinks he can guide them during their most vulnerable times.  Steve tries to steer it off, starts blathering out that its nothing, just y'know, Robin tells him all thetime its good for the brain to learn and his dad’s been riding him to grow up and shit and that it was just an available course, but Eddie isn't actually dumb.

He starts dropping off notebooks to Steve's work, new stationery, he likes the feeling that his gifts help Steve get his grades, that Steve's working toward his future with the pens that Eddie gave him.  Its stupid little shit but seeing the pens that Eddie gave him shoved behind Steve's ear or him chewing on them while he studies...it gives Eddie the warm and fuzzies OKAY? he doesn't wanna talk about it

Seriously, Robin, he doesn’t wanna talk about spending a quarter of his legally obtained paycheck (fuck you so much, Sheriff) on shit from Ink Spot and he isn’t gonna.

after six months of keeping Steve’s secret, Eddie heads over to the Harrington house for some movies and weed - its not a school night after all - only to see Steve’s textbooks sticking out the trash.  He finds a dejected Steve sitting by the pool, and drops them all in his lap.  Turns out, after weeks of work and research, Steve had gotten a C on an important essay. 

“So you just quit?”

“Why not? I clearly can’t handle it.”

“Y’know, maye you should.”

“’Scuse you?”

“The kids deserve better than some iidiot that just quits the moment shit gets tough.”

“Glad you agree.”

“Or, you could let me help you.”

“You. the guy that took three goes to graduate?”

“Just proves I stick to shit until it’s done. And I’m gonna make sure yu do the same.”

One year, countless study sessions, one immense blowout fight over the Oxford comma, and a loyalty card to the Ink Spot later, Steve turns up on Eddie’s doorstep with an envelope that he thrusts at Eddie.  Tearing into the envelope like a gremlin, Eddie stares at the words in front of him.

“Well????!”

“Dear Mister Harrington, we are delighted to inform hmpffff-”

Eddie might not have been prepared for Steve to kiss him, but he got on board real quick.  Literally.  Dropping the letter and its promise of a place at Purdue for Steve to transfer to complete his degree, Eddie wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck, hopped and wrapped his legs around the man’s hips.

“Never made out with a college boy, before.”

[bungoustraydogsimagines]

On Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others?

Nakahara Chuuya:

Chuuya is obvious because he doesn’t attempt to hide his feelings, even if he does hide the extent of them. He might be ready to burn the world down just to earn your favor but he couldn’t all his cards be put out on the table right away. There’s still a part of him that’s wary to let a person in so close, past the natural barrier that rises when you’ve lost too many people you’ve cared for in the best. He still saw you as different, as someone he’d enjoy sharing a vintage glass of wine with, who he could laugh with even if your teasing was a little too on point with the things he was serious about. He wanted to shower you in all things that were good, keeping you safe and protected despite his job being in detriment to that ideal.

Nakajima Atsushi:

Atsushi acts differently before and after he figured out he had feelings for you. Beforehand it might not be too obvious, as he was a naturally kind person and was easily flustered overall when anyone flirted with him. But you’re the first person he thinks of when given a choice on who to do a mission with, and if he had a free day where it’s completely up to him, his mind goes straight to you. After his crush is fully crystalized into his reality he can feel all the symptoms of it, his heart tightening in his chest, his sweat glands overworking, his face constantly burning when you’re around; it’s a much harder existence but knowing how he felt meant being able to plan his next steps, even if he might not know what those are.

Dazai Osamu:

Dazai is impossible to tell, even if you’re the person he’s dating and supposedly in love with. There had been a little red feathered birdy in your ear who had told you more than once that Dazai was a heart-breaker, and it was true that even during the ‘courting’ period he blatantly flirted with women in front of you. Yet there’s a side to him behind closed doors that showed you a tender love even he never knew he was capable of. He thought that even if he saw no future in this world, he struggled with both the thought of leaving you in it without him and leaving it without you. It might not ultimately change his mind but he does regard you as a gift that life gave him to show he made the right choice.

Edogawa Ranpo:

Ranpo is obvious purely because he makes it known that you’re taken by him, and has no care for proper etiquette when others are present. If he wants to be kissed or held then he’s going to make it known, even when you’re in the middle of a conversation or doing other tasks. You’ve learned to work around him at this point, one arm wrapped around him as he hugged into your side and the other continuing to write or dial a number or talk to who you needed to. In dangerous situations he’s a little more wary but he does have utter trust in you to do what’s right and, if you’re the fighting type, to have his back and keep him safe should things take a turn in a direction he didn’t foresee (which was a rarity).

Edgar Allan Poe:

Poe hoped he wasn’t obvious, but he was a little obvious. He tried to go out of his way to impress you; if you weren’t into mystery novels then he might have to take a side quest into figuring out a different type of gift to give, but he had confidence he could find something to get you connected. He talked about you a decent amount in his personal life, which is mostly to Ranpo as he didn’t casually talk to many others, but he doesn’t count the detective’s opinion for obvious reasons (and also it was brutal to be told his interest in you was almost to a pathetic level). He simply wanted to be around you as much as he could, in a peaceful environment where you could enjoy each other’s company and talk until the sun rose and fell again.

Sigma:

Sigma has at least an outward handle on his emotions, able to keep it together when he was around you but always overanalyzing your interactions once he was alone. He had even made a shorthand list of your known likes and dislikes before deciding that was an odd thing to do, though he could still recite some things you had told him from memory if prompted. He doesn’t know what it would be like to actually date you, if the things he’s dreaming off are just some foolish fairy tales or if life can really feel that much sweeter walking side-by-side with a person you loved. Sigma had decided long ago that he would take the risk, even if he couldn’t predict the outcome.

[turbulentscrawl]

could you write a headcanons for andrew and naib if they’re S/O went missing for a few days

And so the Bun sayeth, Let There Be Angst! I decided to leave it a bit open-ended, so you all can decide how or why you vanished 😉

Naib

-He knows something serious happened to you. It must have. He knows all the hiding places in this manor, all the stupid little hidden doors and rooms that Orpheus and Alice think no one else his privy to, and he’s scoured every corner of this place for any trace of you.

-And he trusts you to not willingly disappear without warning him—you know how he worries, how paranoid he his. And this is why.

-Naib even tries to interrogate the hunters when given half a chance. He could be tied to a rocket chair and he’d still be screaming questions at Ann as she lumbers away from him with a pitying frown and no answers at her tongue.

-He gets as much sleep as answers while you’re gone. That is to say: none. He’s restless without you, wondering what in the world could have happened. And a tired Naib is a cranky, paranoid Niab.

-When you finally come back, he’s nearly to the point of pointing accusing fingers at everyone else. But then you’re just there. Safe and sound in your room, and he’s all over you. He clings to you, desperate for any answers you can provide. You can’t leave your bed for another day, let alone your room, because he’s not in his right mind until you’ve made him sleep—something he’s only willing to do if you’re there. And still, he wakes every hour with a terrified jolt to make sure you’re still with him.

Andrew

-His anger is still there, burning, simmering, but anxiety has wormed its way into the mix. It’s odd. He’s used to worrying about himself, his own hurts and injustices…but you’re the one who’s missing and he doesn’t know what that means. This is one of the few times he’ll swallow his pride and outright ask for help. Luca, Victor, Aesop, Norton, anyone he has a modicum of trust in.

-No one knows what to do. But everyone does know Andrew must be terrified to reach out like that, so they try to help. Andrew just about resorts to digging up the whole manor gardens, paranoid you’ve been buried alive as a punishment for his own sins.

-A whole group of survivors search high and low for you and turn nothing up. The academic sorts have their own theories about what happened to you, but those are all bleak and no one has the heart to share them with Andrew yet.

-When you return, Andrew is stunned…and then a wreck. He’s a strong man, and the hug he gives is crushing—like he’s trying to fuse your body to his permanently. He does not shed tears easily, but Andrew falls to tearful pieces with you back in his arms, choking, hiccupping out desperate pleas for you to tell him what happened, where you went, were you okay?

-Like Naib, he steals you away. You spend a long while in the darkness of his bedroom, letting Andrew cry out all the stress he’d built up in your absence. Unlike Niab, he won’t fight to keep you in that room, but he will be your unwavering shadow for some time to come.

[dottores]

MIND OVER MATTER | TARTAGLIA

pairing: tartaglia x fem!reader

summary: after the events at liyue, your boyfriend finally comes back to snezhnaya--it was always a gamble guessing which side of him would be coming home to you, but this time the reunion didn't go as you expected either way.

warnings: tartaglia/ajax treated as two separate personas of childe, blood, finger sucking, choking, biting, rough unprotected sex, manhandling (he carries you), little-to-no prep, brief thigh-fucking, bit of angst in the beginning

notes/taglist: i simply wanted to explore the dichotomy of tartaglia n ajax, i had a lot of fun w this fic, i didn't realize how much i missed ajax sobs, i wrote this with my whole heart. rbs for boost always appreciated @tweris @hanmas @dxlucs @mxnjiros @dynalite @nimbixan @alucrds @niicevibe @7rkx @manjiroscum @albedophoria @tokyometronetwork

wordcount: 5.2k

Tartaglia was a lot of things. Bloodthirsty, prideful, aggressive. He was always raring to fight, ruthless to enemies of the Fatui, and he hunted down anyone that dared to speak out against the Tsaritsa. Tartaglia’s name was infamous on the battlefield and off, a weapon of war that fought in the name of Her Majesty. He burned but he burned so hot that it felt cold to the touch--he needed no one but himself and valued strength above all else. 

Ajax was also a lot of things. Gentle, affectionate, protective. He dedicated himself to those he loves completely and he cared so deeply that sometimes it scared him because he’s not around as often as he’d like to be. Ajax was not an infamous name, it was a name that was only known by those closest to Tartaglia, a part of himself that he kept hidden from the rest of the world. Ajax also burned, but it was a comfortable burn like that of a soft blaze on the hearth, like home--he was a pillar for his siblings, and you were a pillar for him, there was nothing he valued more than you and them. 

It was hard for you to figure out whether or not you should consider Tartaglia and Ajax as one and the same. Ajax liked to keep the two sides of himself separate--he was always careful to not bring “Tartaglia” home to you or his siblings, and to some extent, you supposed that they were separate. Tartaglia was a persona born to shield Ajax from the horrors of the Abyss, against the harsh winter of Snezhnaya; he was a mask that ensured his younger siblings would never know of things that had been done to him, and the things he had to do to others. It was very clear when he was in the mindset of Ajax or Tartaglia: Tartaglia’s eyes were always cold and empty, Ajax’s were full of warmth and love. 

But at the same time, you could so clearly see Ajax in Tartaglia whenever he was caught off guard by something, as rare an occasion that might be; and you could even more clearly see Tartaglia in Ajax whenever Ajax woke up from a nightmare, getting icy and stiff and not wanting your comfort when it was offered. 

You supposed it didn’t really matter--you loved him all the same whether he was in the mindset of Tartaglia or Ajax, it didn’t bother you when he needed hours, or days, to himself when he was struggling with understanding and accepting emotions and it didn’t bother you when his words were sharp and his eyes were void of any sort of emotion. You knew he would be back in your arms, and you knew he’d be running his lips across every inch of exposed skin to convey how sorry he was without even having to say it.

You had a feeling that this time would be particularly bad. He had been in Liyue for almost two full months now, and from what you heard through the other Harbingers, things hadn’t gone well for him there. Tartaglia wasn’t one to handle failure well, and he was especially not one to handle being made a fool well--and Pantalone’s comments had been rather quip when he mentioned that Signora had used him as a distraction to get the Geo Archon’s gnosis easier. 

The fact that you knew he had been back in Snezhnaya for nearly a week through Pantalone, and he had yet to come see you or his family, did not bode well. 

You let out a shaky breath, cupping the mug in both of your hands as you sipped at the hot cocoa, staring at the fireplace crackling against the wall. It didn’t bother you, you tried to convince yourself, warming your hands over the sides of the mug as your gaze dropped to the floor. 

But it got lonely. It really wasn’t something you could deny--it was lonely, the winter was cold, and dark, and the cabin that Ajax had bought for the two of you was small and cozy like you had wanted, but it felt obscenely large and empty whenever he wasn’t around. The halls stretched for miles, the rooms felt like voids. You tried to not let it bother you because you knew that he hated being apart from you just as much as you hated being apart from him, but sometimes you would go days without seeing people. His family would come by at least two times a week, and every now and then Pantalone would drop in to have coffee and pastries, you were familiar enough with most of the Harbingers through Ajax but you were the closest to him--you were the only one that could follow his absurd theories half of the time. 

So as much as you liked to claim it didn’t bother you, you supposed it did. In fact, it bothered you more and more with every passing day. You swore the cabin was getting bigger, or maybe you just felt smaller, anxious and alone without Ajax around. Your eyes drew up to the clock resting against the wall to the side of you, broken and pulled apart because you couldn’t stand the ticking sound it made as each second passed. 

Just as you were about to rise to your feet and turn in for sleep, forcing yourself to lay in the bed that barely even smelled of your lover anymore, the front door slammed open. You jumped, eyes wide and panicked as you whirled around, trying to figure out if the wind was just that bad--Pantalone had mentioned a bad storm was going to pass through, and it was only going to get worse over the next few days--but your mouth dried when you caught sight of a familiar figure standing in the doorframe.

Your hands trembled as you placed the mug down, taking a step forward, ignoring how bitter the cold was against your skin. 

“Ajax?” you asked quietly, eyes tracing over his body. You felt sick at the dubious amounts of blood staining his clothes, causing his shirt to cling to him like a second skin--you couldn’t tell if it was his or someone else’s. You forced your gaze to rise to his face, tracing over the cut that dug deep into his cheek before your eyes met his. 

Cold. Empty. 

Not Ajax, Tartaglia. 

You swallowed thickly and you tried so hard to push away the disappointment. He was back, but he wasn’t really back. He probably wouldn’t fully be back for a few days. You didn’t like how he was staring at you. Tartaglia rarely acknowledged you, much less looked at you this intensely. 

“Is the blood yours?” you asked quietly. 

“Some of it, yeah,” Tartaglia responded off-handedly, eyes not drawing from you once as he kicked the door shut behind him, walking closer to you. You took a few steps back, nervous, unused to attention when he was like this, but you found your back pressed against the wall next to the fireplace, and Tartaglia standing directly in front of you before you knew it. You tilted your head up to look at him, eyes searching his for any sign of Ajax only to be met with vacancy. “Are you scared of me?”

“No,” your response was instant, and genuine--Tartaglia or Ajax, you knew he would never hurt you. You could never be scared of him. 

“They were going to kill you,” Tartaglia said, voice so devoid of emotion that it had your skin crawling, “so I killed them first. Hunted them down. All of them.”

“What?” you breathed out. “What are you talking about? Who was going to kill me?”

Your throat felt tight at the knowledge, realizing you had been in danger and hadn’t even known it. You wondered if that had been part of the reason why Pantalone had stopped by so often this week, usually he only popped in every other week, once a week if you were lucky, but he had come the past two or three days in a row. 

But it was hard for you to focus with Tartaglia standing so close to you--he reeked of blood and sweat, and a very faint, familiar scent of cinnamon, chest brushing yours and head leaned down so close that if you moved just a bit closer, you’d be able to press your lips against his. Up this close, you could see the faded, yellowed bruise around his right eye and you could see the way his bottom lip was split. Your hands twitched at your side, stopping yourself from reaching up to cup his cheek, from running your fingers along his bottom lip.

“It doesn’t matter now. They can’t hurt you anymore,” Tartaglia told you, and your eyes widened as he lifted his hand to hold your chin, fingers pressing into your skin just a bit too deep to be considered gentle. It took you off guard because Tartaglia was usually one to isolate himself until Ajax fought his way out of the mindset he had buried himself into. Tartaglia caught the shift of expression, head tilting to the side as he observed you. “You are scared.”

“I’m not,” you told him, keeping your voice steady, trying to stop yourself from leaning into his touch. You missed him--his touch was familiar and foreign at the same time, you had gone months without feeling his skin against yours and you wanted more. You missed his warmth, you missed the feeling of his body wrapped around yours, you missed the intimacy and you missed him.

Tartaglia’s thumb brushed over your bottom lip, you could taste the iron, “Your breath is shaky.”

“It’s not fear,” you said, eyes fluttering shut just for a moment as Tartaglia’s thumb paused over your bottom lip. He was watching you, considering you, his thumb tapped gently against your lip at a steady pace and you weren’t quite sure what he was thinking--Tartaglia was always impossible to read.

“Oh,” he finally said, and you watched as his lips quirked up into a familiar, lopsided smile that would have had you blushing had the smile met his eyes. “I see.”

And he said, tone low as he dipped down, lips brushing yours, hand sliding to cup the side of your neck, “You were lonely without me, weren’t you?” and you knew the implications of what he was asking--and though he phrased it as a question, you knew it wasn’t really one. 

“I’m always lonely without you,” you murmured--not something you had ever admitted to him before but you couldn’t quite stop yourself from letting it slip out this time. For a second, just a second, something shifted in Tartaglia’s eyes, a flash of guilt, regret, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the blankness you were used to when he was like this.

“Yeah?” Tartaglia asked. “I should do something about that then, shouldn’t I? It’s what a good partner would do, hm?” 

“Aja-” you tried to say but the grip on your neck tightened, albeit only enough to be a warning--that’s right, Tartaglia didn’t like being reminded of the ‘weaker’ side of him that he tried to hide. He didn’t give you the chance to speak up again, instead, he leaned down to capture your lips with his.

Kissing him was always an experience--you never knew whether or not you’d get soft and sweet and careful, whenever he was feeling particularly emotional about something and trying to distract himself by loving on you; or the sloppy, wet kisses that had your blood running hot, when he had just gotten finished training and was eager to fuck out the rest of the adrenaline rushing through him; or the rarer, more aggressive kisses, that led to teeth accidentally clashing and blood being drawn as he pinned you against the nearest surface, tugging down your pants just enough so that he could bend you over and take you wherever the two of you were standing.

This kiss was different and you couldn’t really place how. His kisses were more intense, suffocating, even. His grip on your neck tightened just enough to make you gasp, giving him the opportunity he needed to push his tongue into your mouth, pressing down on yours. 

He tasted like blood, you noted distantly, eyes fluttering shut as Tartaglia’s tongue dragged against your inner lip, as his free hand dropped to your thigh. 

Your feet were off the ground and your nails were digging into his biceps, he lifted you so that you could wrap them around his waist and as soon as you did, he was moving. He barely gave you time to think as his other hand dropped from your neck, large palms slipping beneath your nightgown and wrapping around your thighs. His fingers pressed hard into your skin, to the point where you were certain it would be bruised by morning.

He was making his way down the hall, and a whimper tugged at your chest as Tartaglia’s lips left yours, hot and wet and messy as he kissed across your jaw, behind your ear, down your neck. Your body was sensitive, too reactive to his touch, your legs were tightening around his waist, hips instinctively grinding against his.

His teeth dug into your skin as he bit down suddenly, right at the crook of your neck, and you couldn’t hold back the yelp that escaped your lips, squirming in your arms, evidently the reaction he was hoping for if the way that you could feel his lips curl up into a smirk against your skin had anything to say about it. 

You were on your back on top of your shared bed in no time, and you were still reeling, head spinning from his kisses. Your arms shook as you tried to prop yourself up on your elbows to look up at him, eyes wide and chest heaving, but he had paused, standing at the foot of the bed, eyes trained on something behind you. 

You followed his gaze, face hot when you realized he was staring at the shirt you had pulled from his dresser to sleep with at night. You opened your mouth to explain, turning back to look at him, but yet again, you were not given the chance to speak.

You inhaled sharply, the words dying in your throat as you felt Tartaglia’s hands wrap around your waist, flipping you over onto your stomach and positioning you on your hands and knees rather roughly. Your mouth was dry as he pushed your nightgown over your hips, letting it fall up your body and bunch up around your chest.

“Tartaglia,” the name was foreign on your lips, a shaky whisper as you felt his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties, one easy tug and the cloth was ripped, falling from your body to the bed below. Your eyes fluttered shut when you felt him shift to kneel on the bed behind you, when you felt his palm smooth against your lower back, sliding up your spine. They were cold and warm at the same time--the skin itself freezing from traveling through the storm but warm and sticky with what could only be blood smearing against your skin. You shivered at the feeling, lips parting and a gasp ripping from them as his fingers fisted your hair, pulling the upper half of your body off of the bed.

You could feel him lean down over you, bare chest flush against your back--you wondered when he had undressed, you didn’t even notice hearing the shuffling of clothes--lips brushing your ear, “Is this what you want?”

A question, one you could barely even make out with the feeling his hips pressed against your ass, his cock sliding between your thighs, you could feel the stickiness of his precum against your skin, you could feel the warmth pooling in your lower stomach. For a moment, you were surprised that he was already this turned on but you supposed you shouldn’t be--Ajax was always eager and ready to go after training or a battle, barely even making it into your house before he was tugging down your panties, why would Tartaglia be any different? Your arms shook against the bed and his words went in one ear out the other.

“Hm?” he prodded when you didn’t respond. He must have realized that it hadn’t registered. “I asked if this is what you wanted.” 

You nodded as best as you could with his fingers intertwined so tightly with your hair. You winced when his grip tightened. “Say it,” he said, voice low, teeth nipping at the lobe of your ear.

“I want this,” you breathed out in response, hating how shaky your voice was as Tartaglia’s other hand smoothed over the side of your ass, as he drew his hips back just enough to rock them forward, cock sliding against your skin, fucking your thighs at a slow, leisurely pace.

“You want what?” Tartaglia pressed, and your face burned as his free hand dropped beneath your thighs; long, lithe fingers dipped between your pussy lips, spreading them open just enough to glide along the inside, gathering up all of the wetness. 

Your body trembled, “I want you,” you said softly, a quiet noise escaping your lips as he let go of your hair, hand circling your neck again as his lips dragged down from your ear to the nape of your neck, as the tip of his cock slid between your folds. He didn’t make any move to push inside of you, and your thighs were tense with anticipation, nails ripping into the bedsheets--Ajax would have taken you already. 

“Please, please, I want you, I want you,” you tried, the words slipping from your lips in a desperate gasp. Months, you had gone months without him and you were dizzy with the thought of finally having him with you again, having his body pressed to yours, having his cock-

Your train of thought was silence, eyes shooting open, choking over a half-cry, half-moan as Tartaglia’s hips snapped forward, suddenly--too suddenly--fat tip pushing inside your entrance, cock stretching you out until his hips were flush against your ass again, this time with his cock buried deep inside you. And it hurt, tears stung at your eyes, spilling over your cheeks. Ajax had taken you with little prep before but never when he had been gone for months at a time--the burn was intense, numbing and blinding, you could feel every inch of him stretching out your walls, every groove and vein molding their place inside of you as it had before he had left for Liyue.

Tartaglia grunted against your skin, cock twitching inside of you, “So fuckin’ tight,” he hissed, but your head was spinning, one of your hands coming up to grab his arm, nails dragging against the skin of his wrist as you tried to pry it off your neck when his grip instinctively tightened. 

Your vision was blurry, body shivering and shaking beneath his as your walls spasmed around his cock, trying to readjust to the familiar size, “S-s’too big,” you were already slurring over your words. “S’too big, s’too-”

You choked, not because of the hand on your neck, but instead because of his free hand, which slid up your body so that he could stuff two of his fingers into your mouth--you could taste yourself on them, and the faint taste of iron, your eyes rolled back as he pressed down on your tongue, as the hand on your neck dropped to your hip, fingers digging into the plush flesh as he rolled his hips slowly. 

It still burned but not as severely, but you couldn’t quite say it was a pleasurable burn yet but the distraction of his fingers stuffing your mouth, of the hand gripping your hip, was enough to take away from the pain. Your breath was heavy around his fingers, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Messy and sloppy, he was so messy and sloppy--drool pooled on the bed beneath you, bubbling around his fingers, you could feel the blood on his chest smearing against your back, your slick and his precum dripping down your thighs, he had barely even done anything, the pain had barely even begun to shift into pleasure and you were already on the verge of cumming. 

But could you really blame yourself? It’d been so long, so long since you’d been touched like this, since you’d been touched at all. Your fingers were never enough when Ajax was gone, you’d lay in bed sobbing, trying your best to mimic his touch but it just wasn’t the same. It was never the same.

“That’s it,” Tartaglia groaned, teeth grazing your skin, “Takin’ me so good.”

“‘m’nna,” you tried to speak but your voice was garbled around his fingers, not understandable. His thrusts were slow and shallow, barely pulling his hips back at all before he pushed himself back deep inside of you, the tip of his cock constantly nudging up against that soft spot inside of you. 

And it still burned, it still burned, but you couldn’t focus on it with the way his hips were grinding against you, the way your walls fluttered around his cock. Your head felt light and dizzy, you couldn’t hold your eyes open--the feeling of his body pressed against yours and his cock stretching you out was enough to push you over the edge.

Tartaglia grunted as he felt your walls spasm against you--a laugh, a sharp and wild and mocking one escaped his lips when he realized you had cum and he had barely even done anything yet, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, choking around his fingers, tears streaming down your face, thighs tense and trembling, and mind numb.

“Aja-” the near-sob of your lover’s name slipped out before you could realize it was not what he wanted to be called right now, too fucked and lows in the troughs of pleasure to catch yourself before it was too late. Tartaglia, on the other hand, was hyperaware. His hand slipped from your mouth in an instant, fisting your hair again and shoving your face down into the mattress. 

You couldn’t see anything, and you couldn’t get any air to your lungs, the sudden movement had you reeling, hands pressing against the mattress to try to push yourself up but Tartaglia was strong, stronger than you, and he held you down with ease. 

Now that you had finished once, evidently, Tartaglia had no more restraints--his cock slid out of you easily, no pushback from the tightness of your walls squeezing around him. One shift, his hand leaving your hair to press down between your shoulder blades, his fingers tightening around your hip and then his hips were snapping into yours; hard, fast, a brutal pace that had what little air left in your lungs being forced out with each thrust. 

The drag of his cock against your slippery walls, a sloppy, squelching sound on top of the slapping of his hips against your ass, the low groans as he focused on fucking himself to release--lewd and loud, you couldn’t think, you couldn’t even breathe, your lungs were burning but he was holding you down and you couldn’t lift your head to get even a shallow breath of air in. 

The tip of his cock bullied that spot deep, deep inside of you, over and over and over again. He fucked you at a pace that he’d never taken you at before, had your eyes rolling back and your nails digging into the sheets, your lower stomach was hot and tight and you couldn’t tell if you were cumming again, you couldn’t tell if you had stopped to begin with. 

Your body was laying limp against the bed, his to use as he pleased--he knocked your legs apart just a bit more, his grip on your hip tightening as he dragged your body back to meet his every thrust, fucking you impossibly deeper, heavy ruts that had you unable to think straight.

Everything sounded buzzed and muted, your mind felt blank, all you could focus on was his cock fucking in and out of you, his skin pressed against yours, the heat in your lower stomach that somehow kept getting more and more and more intense to the point that you swore you were on the verge of passing out, everything felt fuzzy and prickly and spotty. Tartaglia’s groans were becoming louder, the snaps of his hips becoming more erratic. 

He was close, you distantly realized but you were more focused on keeping yourself conscious because you swore that you were barely hanging on by a thread, you could barely even feel the sheets beneath you, you managed to turn your head to the side as Tartaglia’s hand left your hair to use both of his hands to grab your hips, to pull you back harder.

The air to your lungs was more dizzying than not being able to breathe at all, your vision spotty and blurry and the rush of relief had you choking over the air, pushing you over the edge so suddenly that you were cumming around his cock again--again? You still weren’t even sure if you had ever stopped, your body was numb with pleasure, you couldn’t feel your hands, you couldn’t feel your feet, you could only feel Tartaglia, you could only think Tartaglia. His name running on repeat in your head over and over and over again as he let out a choked moan, hips stilling against you as he finished deep inside you.

You felt full, too full and too hot, you could feel his cum dripping out of you, down your thighs onto the bed as Tartaglia pulled out of you with a low grunt before he rolled off of you onto the bed next to you, letting you fall limp to the bed. For a moment, you could only lay there, shaking, trying to regain some semblance of control over your own body.

You tried to push yourself up, but your arms were too shaky, breath ragged from the intense orgasms. Finally, you managed to force yourself to a sitting position, intent on getting to the bathroom to clean the mess off of you. You could hear Tartaglia grunt, and then a softer noise as his hand wrapped around your wrist. You looked down, eyes meeting a familiar murky blue.

Warm, adoring. 

Ajax.

You smiled slightly, bringing a hand up to his face, cupping his cheek. He brought his hand to cover yours, eyes sliding shut, lashes brushing his cheek as he leaned into your touch.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and you ran your thumb over his cheekbone, letting out a questioning hum as you waited for him to explain what he was apologizing for. “I’m not around enough… leave you in this house all alone… in danger. If I had been a day later-”

You hushed him, leaning down to press your lips against his forehead, he quieted at the action, mellowing under your gentleness, blue eyes flickering back open to meet yours. “It’s okay, Ajax,” you said softly. “I know you’ll always come home. I knew what I was getting into.”

And something changed in his eyes at your words--a sort of guilt, or fear, that you couldn’t quite understand where it was coming from. You brushed it off, but in the back of your head you couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of a day where he might not come home. Your eyes drifted down his body, to the dark bruises littering his abdomen, a pattern long-familiar to you by now, evidence that he had used the technique in battle that you had begged him to put aside because each use brought him closer and closer to death. 

He was more hurt than you had initially realized--you hadn’t known he had used the Foul Legacy transformation, and recently at that if the marks on his body had anything to say about it… and then on top of hunting down the people that had been targeting you… the past… however long he had spent with you. Had he even given his body the shortest chance to rest?

“It’s not worth it,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re a target because of me, I can’t even be here to protect you half of the time-”

“It is worth it, Ajax,” you said, grip tightening on his face just enough to force him to look at you and stop talking. “Every moment I get to spend with you makes it worth it. You are worth it.”

The expression on his face was indecipherable, a mixture of longing and fondness that you couldn’t place. Eventually, he brushed it off with a smile that didn’t meet his eyes and joke that didn’t land: “Keep talking like that and I’m gonna fuck you again,” it was light-hearted and teasing but you frowned and his smile dropped.

You pinched his cheek hard after a moment and Ajax yelped, slapping at your hand, “What-”

“Stop that,” you didn’t have to explain for him to know what you were referring to. His gaze dropped, you pressed your lips to his forehead again. “Let’s take a bath, I’m covered in blood.”

“You look beautiful in blood,” he said it so adoringly that it took a moment for it to register in your head. When it did, you rolled your eyes as you looked down at him, catching the hearts in his eyes as his eyes trailed over your body blatantly.

“Of course, you would think that,” you muttered, ignoring the mock offense that spread across his face. “You will be cleaning the sheets, Ajax.”

“I hate cleaning the sheets,” was the only protest you got as he rose from the bed, a grimace spreading across his face at the pain but you knew better than to try to help him. 

Instead, you made your way into the bathroom, kneeling next to the tub to get the warm water running so the two of you could soak in it. 

“I know,” you called after a moment, smiling to yourself and rising to your feet when you heard him enter the bathroom. “That is precisely why you’ll be doing it.”

He wrapped his arms loosely around your waist from behind, kissing the nape of your neck once, and then the top of your head. 

“So cruel,” he murmured. 

I love you, he was really saying.

“The cruelest,” you agreed.

I love you too. 

[niichanism]

wanted to put this fic Somewhere lol it’s uhhhh that “what if ace got sold into slavery in Marie Geoise instead of being executed except long lost brother Sabo is (somehow) in deep cover as a CD there and impulsively pilfers money from the revolution funds to buy and protect his brother” logistically i run into problems w this concept but i do think like. childhood friends fake dating except it’s high stakes fake master/slave is like. 1. potential funny 2. hot 3. compelling in that acesabo are living in their own actual personal hells together shfhdd

tw: mob character/ace attempted SA, non-graphic maiming of dick, ace honorable suicide ideation ig, sabo…… just poor sabo lol, the cd slave brand thing soRRY ACE idk the usual “i don’t like spoilering much so if you’re sensitive don’t read this it’s borderline dead dove”

————-

In the span of a week, Ace had gone from being Blackbeard’s captive to the World Government's prize, and finally, unexpectedly, into the greasy hands of professional slavers. 

That was a twist he hadn't expected. He couldn’t quite get his head around it. 

Ace much preferred the rough touch of pirates or marines to this sickening cushiness, treated with care while strung up like meat. They bathed him in sea water. He was so nauseous he could barely twitch his limbs. His skin only recoiled wherever they washed away dirt or tended to wounds from the fight. He was scrubbed pink, patched, or soothed where every blemish would be. His ribs were still broken. Almost good as new, the lackey had reported to her overseers.

As confusing as it was infuriating. Then, somehow, reading the lusterless eyes of the other captives, he understood. They were gagged like Ace was. They had the faint, forlorn expressions of long-term prisoners. But how neat and tidy they were– their hair, skin, and even what little clothes they had were as well-kept as the circumstances allowed. Again, Ace’s body thrummed with a knock-out combo of adrenaline and disgust. He recalled Sabo saying that nobles don't care about anything but appearances. If it can’t improve their status, it's worthless to them. 

Ace would rather die than be some dolled up or dressed down status symbol for the rich. He'd rather jump and let the ocean take him. He’d rather have fallen in battle to a scumbag like Teach or even met his end on the navy’s chopping block, flipping Garp the bird one last time. 

Then, the silver lining— he’d see Sabo again, at least. There was always the chance that he’d find an opening once they hit landfall. If he could, he’d burn this place to a crisp and take all these poor folks to far greener pastures, one way or another. He just had to keep his wits together. No matter what, he wasn’t going to let anyone buy him. 

Or if they did get that far, he’d make sure they regretted it. For now, the issue was that all the adrenaline and disgust had nowhere to go. He kept his ears open for any hints as to when they’d finally reach this mystery destination, because the boredom was beginning to gnaw at him like rats. Eventually one of the trader lackeys came swaggering up to him. Ace had a really good fucking sense for when someone was looking to pick a fight. The guy had a bit of a beer belly and the seediest possible leer, two beady eyes on pallid sailor skin. 

“So this is really him…” he said, gruff and low. “Not bad at all.”

The man tipped his face up at the chin. Ace tossed it out of his hold, ignoring him otherwise. The man chuckled. The only other slaver in the room glanced over and growled. “Careful with the merchandise–”

“Relax,” said the first man, annoyed. “I’m not gonna do anything to damage him– if he behaves, that is. I’m just gonna feed him something.” Gag. It was worse because he was hungry. Ace set his jaw as best he could around the ball gag. If he thought of all the scumbags he’d dealt with up to now, he felt like he could crush anything between his teeth. 

The man wrenched a hand into his hair and jerked him forward. Manacles and chains trapped Ace’s knees on the floor of a cage. The man stood just outside the bars with a taunting look.  “Y’see, Fire Fist, I work hard, and so I’ve got this little game,” he explained, as if Ace gave a shit. “I get a kick out of testing the goods before we get to Marie Geoise. I get a little spin before even the Celestial Dragons get their hands on ‘em.” First, that the trader was already palming his crotch was disgusting, but secondly– Ace closed in on one particular detail. Marie Geoise? For a moment his mouth went slack, saliva pooling beneath the gag. The trader’s grip tightened in Ace’s bath-damp waves, threatening to rip hair from his scalp. His mind was still spinning: Marie Geoise. Celestial Dragons. The last puzzle pieces falling into place. If that was what they were doing, then… “Man, I could talk about it for years if Gold Roger’s son sucked my cock,” the slaver chuckled, letting go of Ace’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

Fuuuuuck. His bounty had always seemed a bit suspect, shooting up when he’d done nothing of note to earn it. In the back of his mind, he’d sometimes wonder if the marines knew. 

 There was a clinking and rustling as the man popped his fly open and lowered his trousers.

 It was so outrageous, so beyond what anyone would have fucking dared to do to him, that Ace only felt a numb sort of shock first. He didn’t want to look at the filthy thing, already hard and eager. Marie Geoise. Celestial Dragons. Gold Roger’s son. The man shuffled closer to the bars, then manhandled Ace’s head low so he could smear the tip on his cheek. Ace’s eyes went wide. The rage hit him right after. “Yeah, a pretty thing like you will need the practice,” the trader drawled. “If the dragons don’t tear you to shreds first. Nasty fucks, them.”  Everyone knew the Celestial Dragons were self-righteous, inhumane sacks of crap who treated anyone else like dirt. Everyone knew that their slaves had it worst of all, beaten and broken with a snowball’s chance in hell of escaping. And it seemed that soon, everyone would know that Ace was Gol D. Roger’s last remaining flesh and blood. “You’re shaking, sweetheart,” the slaver jeered. “A big, bad pirate–? Hilarious. Not so scary without your devil fruit power, are ya?”

Off came the ball gag. The first thing Ace did was spit. A thick, leathery thumb pried into his mouth. Ace sputtered, fought, then bit down– fuck, he was hungry. The man’s glove prevented the drawing of blood, though he did make a small grunt of discomfort and tore his hand away.

 “Don’t need my devil fruit to fuck you up,” Ace hissed. He glared at the dick half a foot away from his face. Ace had sucked a lot of cock in his time. Bigger ones, smaller ones. Sometimes drunk, sometimes as a penalty for losing a bet– fair was fair– but this was something else. The man hunched over to indicate the heavy metal collar around Ace’s neck. Ace felt his spine chill. He missed a few hours ago when he was content to wonder things like when do we get there and where did my necklace go, aw. Marie Geoise meant that the game had changed somewhat.“You know about this? I’m sure someone explained it to you,” he said roughly. His hard, flinty eyes sparkled with glee. “Try to take it off, or even touch it a certain way, and it’ll explode. Splatters your fuckin’ brains on the wall. I’ve seen it before– gruesome stuff. Real shite way to go.” Ace ran his tongue over his teeth, glaring daggers. Not much to look at, though, so he checked around with some choice words in his throat. A few other gagged folks were either watching with bated breath or pointedly looking away. The only other free man in the room was halfway out the door, glancing back like this foul display was only worth an exasperated shake of the head. 

“I see,” Ace said, eyes flicking back. “Brains on the wall, huh.”

“There’s just me and you right now, Ace. Could always say it was an unfortunate accident,” the slaver said. “If you get what I’m saying, then open wide.” Ace resisted as best he could with that steel grip in his hair again. The power of the seastone cuffs had long seeped into his veins, making him sleepy. Gritting his teeth was the most force he could exert– eventually he locked his jaw and stopped struggling. “It’d be easy,” the slaver pressed. He touched anywhere he wanted, hair, lips, freckled cheeks.  Ace hadn’t felt clean to begin with, but now… now he wanted to vomit on this guy’s shoes. “Just one press of a button, one tug of that collar, and boom. World keeps spinning. I can’t imagine anyone would miss scum like you.”

A rough squeeze on either side of his jaw finally forced Ace’s mouth open. With one last grimace, he gave up. Let his tongue hang out. The man’s brutish face softened with satisfaction. Ace loathed allowing even that much.  “That’s more like it, baby,” the slaver crooned, grabbing his cock and jerking it. “Yeah. You play my little game nice, and we’ll keep your head on your shoulders. How’s that sound?” Ace scowled, but he was so visibly tired. This gave way to a slow, slow nod, a sigh– and then his stomach vaulting as he opened his mouth. Again, not the first time he’d had a dick in there. Though there was the chance it’d be his last. The trader moved with concentration, hot flesh sliding past Ace’s open lips. There was a groan, and both meaty hands pawed at Ace’s head. Ace didn’t wait a second. He didn’t suck for an instant. He moved his tongue out of the way and then bit down as hard as he possibly could. The scream was delightful. Nobody could look away after that. 

That beer belly wrenched away from his teeth as quickly as possible, whole body toppling back onto the dirty ship floor. The big idiot shrieked, holding his groin and rolling. 

 Ace had to laugh, then grin again with blood on his teeth. He raised his voice enough to be heard over those wails of pain. 

“Hey, go on and do it, you think I give a shit?” he said, then spat out the taste of iron. He tilted his head back, offering his own capital punishment with brazen ease. “I’ve got my pride. I’d rather die a man than a coward.” 

He got a lively string of expletives in response. Didn’t do the guy much good, since he seemed unable to get off the ground just yet. Ace’s head was still very much attached to his shoulders, for better or worse. 

The screaming was pretty entertaining, or at least Ace’s fellow would-be slaves seemed to think so– he searched for eye contact in the dim light and found a few sure smiles. And a few very worried looks. Well, Ace hadn’t really calculated his odds on this one. 

Morbidly curious, he leaned over to check the damage. From what glimpses he could see– yikes. “Damn, that thing’ll never work again!” he hollered in a pitying, cheerful voice. “Go on, waste me for it. Unless you don’t have the– the balls?” That seemed pretty funny to him at the moment, and he burst out laughing. 

“Should’ve bought me dinner first, asshole!” 

“I’ll fucking kill you–”

“Do it,” Ace goaded. It was impossible to stop himself. Self-preservation had never been a strong point for him. At least, he thought, he’d go out with a good laugh, doing something he loved— picking a fight. With all that blood rushing in his ears, he wanted to believe that he was content with that. 

Better to go down as a free man, without troubling anyone, and before facing a whole world that would know exactly how and why to hate him. 

With a howl of rage, the dickless wonder tried to maneuver onto his knees, get closer to the bars of the cage. Fever-brained, Ace imagined that he’d only have to yank at the collar a certain way to spark whatever demonic mechanism ended in explosions. Truly a shite way to go– not because of the gore, but the injustice. It made him angry. Maybe he’d bite this asshole again. Light cascaded into the darkness from the door. Two other slavers arrived, no doubt summoned by the screaming. The man from before walked over, surveying that Ace was still chained down– he very much was– then he tsk’d at the mess. He nudged the fallen with his boot, cross with disgust and sympathy pain. “I told you this would happen someday,” he said. “Why stick your dick in the bitey part of the pirate?” Ace laughed, breathless. His mouth was so dry that it hurt. The blood hadn’t helped.  Predictably, there was another slew of vicious threats, and Ace was beginning to realize that he’d mentally prepared himself for nothing. Nobody was getting any closer to that kill switch on his collar. 

There wasn’t any relief in that. Just dread, doubled when one of the other slavers spoke again. “Moron, we’re on strict orders to deliver that one to the World Nobles. That’s a done deal– you should’ve known you couldn’t touch–”

Eugh. The stomach ache was back. Ace dipped his head, not wanting to look at any of that anymore. There was some struggling. Whether someone approached the kill switch or not, Ace couldn’t bring himself to care. “You can’t lay a hand on him!” He squeezed his eyes shut. He had been untouchable for a hundred different reasons before all this. And after this, probably, not so much. Marie Geoise. He remembered the rage welling up in him the one or two times he’d seen the deadened-red slave brand on a survivor. Sure, he reminded himself, there were survivors. 

Self-preservation had never been a strong point of his. “Fire Fist, no rations ‘til you’re on death’s fucking door,” came a harsh voice. Ace spat again.  The door slammed shut, leaving the ship’s human cargo in the sparse light of one hanging lamp. Ace breathed out. “Whew. Fuck.” A few good-humored huffs later, he noticed something:

In all the commotion, the slave traders failed to gag him again. Little blessings. Ace breathed– slightly– more easy. 

“Sorry for all the noise, everyone,” he said. In other cages, in other chains, they blinked back at him. He was winding down, but he laughed again, near croaking. “Damn, I hope they’re all stupid enough to try that.” 

Maybe he could take out a few World Nobles that way. Justice for Sabo. He’d probably think that was pretty funny. 

—

It was incredible what you could do by shouting increasingly high numbers.

That was the kind of senseless world the Celestial Dragons inhabited. From his despicable place in the audience and with dread heavy in his gut, Sabo watched the guards yank Ace to his feet and drag him away. Sabo didn’t sit down. The auctioneer’s voice rang in his head: We have a winning bid! Gold Roger’s son, Portgas D. Ace, to Saint Robspierre! Hearing that esteemed name was like a ripple in a pond, a jerk of a trigger. It always took that extra split second for Sabo to remember that that was him, and it had never haunted him quite as much as it did just then. Currents of relief and distress canceled each other out. Sabo felt numb, heart pounding in his ears, knees locked up where he stood. On either side of him, World Nobles lifted their heads to survey him with open disdain. “Congratulations, Saint Robspierre,” a beady-eyed woman simpered, accompanied by her nodding, useless husband. “How fun for you.” “Thank you,” Sabo replied with mechanical ease, a glass smile. He couldn’t be in this space a minute longer. “I think I’ll go look at him.” The perfect balance of civility and entitlement. It was a surprise that this quaint, simple rudeness was more the norm here than not, but he’d adjusted. He felt dozens and dozens of eyes on him as he reached the staircase aisles. He ignored them, shoulders rolled back and head held high. Guards fell into line behind him. Another irritating norm.

He didn’t want an entourage if he was going to meet his brother under circumstances like these. Still, he had to go. For a thousand reasons, he needed to see Ace as soon as possible. That wasn’t slave auction protocol, but he could do whatever he wanted here. Anything except the right thing. * Keeping his face neutral when faced with his long-lost brother was more difficult than he’d thought it would be. He always hated this iciness he had to let in. At the moment even his blood was frozen solid. Of course the World Nobles’ auction house had a room for branding people. Sabo knew this was coming, but his vision was blurring anyway. He didn’t think it would be so soon. He thought he’d have more time. 

Ace was still completely naked with his back to the room. Under grease-shiny dark waves of hair, there was the clear buckled leather of the gag pulled tight. Those seastone cuffs strung him up near spread-eagle. It looked torturous. The painful part hadn’t even started yet. 

Like so many times before, all of Sabo’s fury channeled into his fists. Now, it all felt like too much for mortal knuckles and palms, even with gloves dulling the sensation. It was like his bones creaked. He couldn’t focus on anything but the pain, the red in his vision, Whitebeard’s jolly roger splayed and trembling across his brother’s broad back. He could use Dragon Claw and kill everyone else there. He searched the room for the key to Ace’s cuffs. Maybe he could break them? Even in deep cover, it wasn’t like he’d forgotten how to use armament haki. Escape the auction hall with Ace, and then– Sabo squeezed his eyes shut. And then what? Get the godforsaken “holy” land shut down, with a thousand marines and admirals on their ass? Ace probably wasn’t in the best shape to be thrown into a mess like that. And it would be a mess. His starting plan was less reckless, sure, but there was an increasing chance that it was going to make him throw up, crack open, crack something. 

The branding irons were lined up on the wall. The fire was stoked. The three or so men in the room stiffened up at the sight of him, and lowered their heads in immediate deference. It made Sabo violently ill this time. “You’re going to brand him?” he asked. One of the men lifted his head in a rush. “Saint Robspierre, thank you for the honor of your business–” “Are you going to brand him?” Sabo asked again. It astounded him how out of control he sounded.  But it was nothing worth worrying about when the men ducked their heads again. “No, Sir– of course– he will be branded, but we understand our esteemed clientele like to participate– we were waiting– but of course we can begin at your leisure—”

Infuriating. Sabo glanced over at Ace just to watch the soft heave of his back, the rise and fall that felt like his last tether to sanity. “Quiet,” Sabo said. He needed to think. It often worked to his advantage that people weren’t used to questioning Celestial Dragons on anything. So far removed from humans, indeed. He walked closer to Ace with a knot in his throat, head pounding. His approaching footsteps made Ace struggle again anew, little grunts of protest slipping past the gag. Sabo paused at his side, looking for injuries, half-afraid to look at his face. One glimpse of freckles was enough. Any more and he wasn’t sure his act would hold up. He could question the need for a slave brand, play it like he wanted his new toy just the way it was. Marking Celestial Dragon property was a law, yet laws could be overturned at a whim. The issue was not the rules but the unspoken, sick, crazed rot of this place.

 Mercy was weakness. Empathy was below them. Any significant deviance from the status quo was unacceptable. Any sign of anything abnormal hit the rumor mill and rattled it for days, down a grapevine so tense and maddening that Sabo understood it’d bite him in the ass within hours. 

If he asked to skip the branding, that would only warrant enough unwanted attention to make everything else harder. It was already going to be a tough ask to lay low with the pirate king’s son on a leash– because that was how they’d advertised it, of course, making the Celestial Dragons froth at the mouth with interest. It’d been even worse when they saw him, too, because he was– the wanted posters didn’t do him justice. No, they wanted as little attention as possible.

Sabo turned around. “I’ll do it,” he said simply, carelessly.

“Of course, Sir– if it’s no trouble to you–” He crossed the room, gliding his gloved hand down the pole of black iron with that hateful symbol at the end. Was he really going to do this? It was no question that Ace could handle the pain, Sabo thought. And if it was up to him, he could at least ensure a light touch, a lack of unchecked sadism. It made sense. Unfortunately, it made sense. He’d make it up to Ace no matter what. Beg if he needed to. Ace would understand. Ace would understand, right? “If it pleases this Celestial Dragon,” one of the auction house men said, “you’ll want to hold it over the coals until it is bright red. Press evenly over the skin– just beneath the shoulder blades is customary, Sir.” Sabo searched for the smallest possible brand and took the iron off the wall. It was much lighter than a pipe, yet it felt a thousand times harder to hold. 

“This is your first purchased slave, is it not, Saint Robspierre?” Sabo looked up to tell one of these low-class bastards to fuck off with the small talk, only to freeze in his tense, neutral expression at the joyful look on Saint Martine’s face. Three Celestial Dragons stood in the doorway. Right, Sabo could do anything he wanted under this cover only because all of these soulless elites could do the same. Ace jostled his chains at every end. Sabo even couldn’t imagine how pissed off he was if Sabo was this pissed just breathing the same air as them. Why was this suddenly a party? It seemed much more likely in that moment that he really would kill someone rather than lay a fucking finger on Ace.

This smug-faced World Noble fancied himself on speaking terms with Sabo because of the time they’d spent together. Time that had turned into deals. Deals that had turned into laundering money back to the Revolutionary Army– how smug Sabo had felt when his targets were providing information and resources toward their own downfall. 

It couldn’t come soon enough. “Yes,” Sabo replied. It was like the muscles of his face had a mind of their own: he even managed to smile again. “I couldn’t pass up the chance.”

“I don’t blame you,” one of the nobles chuckled. 

“As long as you share,” sneered another. Her nose wrinkled. “That one deserves every punishment we can think of. I can’t believe they even allowed Roger’s devil spawn to live that long. What was the navy thinking?” 

“Incompetents. Naturally, it falls to us to rid the world of that criminal’s blood.”

“Just sharing air with it is vile, really,” said the old man. The ignorant, cold disgust on their faces made Sabo nearly tremble with rage. “Vermin like that need to pay for every breath it takes until it’s begging for death–” “It would be a waste to rip him to pieces just yet,” Sabo cut in, his voice like steel. He circled haki away from his hands and let his hatred for the Celestial Dragons color his voice. “I’ll be training him first. Trash like this must be made to understand their place.” Sorry, Ace, he thought vehemently. Just a little longer, then you’ll never have to see these fucking people again. In that regard, at least, Ace was the lucky one. The trio laughed. “Of course, Robspierre. With your tastes… I’m surprised you didn’t indulge sooner. But there are finer specimen with… less abhorrent blood.”

Sabo’s blood boiled. He turned. The sight of Ace suffering was tantamount to setting his eyes on fire, but he just focused on that rise and fall. That was what mattered. These rotten bastards could yap all they want, the coddled little dogs that they were, but they weren’t going to so much as touch his brother. 

“But I indulge plenty,” Sabo replied, offering one last tight-lipped smile. He was fairly certain he understood what he was being lobbied for. “When I get bored of him, I’ll keep you all in mind, of course. It’s hardly fair of me to have all of the fun.”   Their mouths curled up. Good. They’d scurry back to their equally rotten friends and maintain Sabo’s reputation. Stay out of his hair for a while until he could figure out how to best ship Ace out of his place.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was about to …” With a heavy exhale, Sabo wandered towards the fire, dull branding iron in hand. “Ooh!” shrilled the woman. “I want to do it.” “He’s mine,” Sabo said icily, stabbing the brand into the coals with a little too much strength. He watched scorching light engulf the metal and wildly lick at the sides of the pit. He imagined the whole of Marie Geoise inside that fire. “Now, now. Sometimes watching is just as rewarding as doing the work,” Saint Martine conversationally told his friends. “And it is Robspierre’s very first time, no?” At this point, it was better to ignore them. He didn’t want this moment to have an audience. He didn’t want it to happen at all. But according to his plan, this was the single big obstacle before he could shelter Ace deep in his assigned estate. Better to get it over with, even with those invasive, beady eyes on him. He was going to throw up if this went on any longer than it had to. He checked that Ace’s gag was still on, that he’d have something to bite into. He quickly surveyed the toned canvas of Ace’s back, taken up so wholly by that skull and bones. Sabo had a lot of curiosity about that– about his brothers in general. Just learning about them would be the privilege of his life if Ace ever opened up to him again. 

  Sabo hadn’t been so nauseated and dizzy in years. The brand was about the size of his fist. Deciding the placement for Ace’s sake was difficult. The chest would hurt. Limbs were too far removed from tradition; it’d be pointless. The jolly roger must’ve been important to Ace, so he had to leave it untarnished. On the shoulders, it’d be painful and harder to hide. 

The chains jangled. He was panting, horribly tense. Sabo winced. That was going to make it hurt worse. 

Get it over with. Sabo squeezed his eyes shut. Ace, I’m sorry. 

It lasted two seconds and felt like an eternity. He had a steady touch. The sound and smell of sizzling flesh repulsed him. His chest throbbed. Knowing that this was a brand meant to imprison the body and soul beyond help, that this was Ace being so crudely violated– it felt like the worst thing Sabo had ever done in his life. 

Ace didn’t scream. At most, there was a deep, clipped groan, almost like a throaty sigh. Sabo quickly removed the iron, frantic eyes scanning over his work. He’d at least succeeded in leaving a lighter touch– the geometric dragon’s claw was a marred light pink on the firm flesh just above his ass and below the small of his back. With any hope, it’d be barely noticeable once it healed.

 Sabo sighed, too. “You can’t be done already,” one of the World Nobles gasped behind him, dripping with sincere disbelief. Celestial Dragons were not just heartless; they were also so petty, having nothing but sick tradition to cling to. “You have to make him scream, Robspierre.” “While we’re at it, melt that filthy pirate insignia off his back–” “Delightful idea– we could also carve it up!” “Why, that mark’s far too light–” “As I said,” Sabo bit out, eyes blazing, “it would be a waste to maim his body before using it. And why darken the mark? Everyone ought to already know he’s a slave. He’s never leaving this place.” 

His throat was near painfully dry. Everyone looked at him with bated breath, shocked by the tension. He’d let his haki slip half on accident. It cramped the room, intimidating every other inhabitant who only had the barest subconscious awareness of it. “When I’m done with him, do as you please,” Sabo said. “But I’ll appreciate complete privacy to better inspect my—“ His voice went too tight; he started again. “You wouldn’t want to miss the rest of the auction, would you?” 

[crazerk]

This demo has lived rent free in my brain for the last 24 hours bestie !!! All the origins are so fun! I’m particularly drawn to the noble tho 👀And as for a basic question: can we please get some fun facts about the ROs ? TY <333

This comment made my day! I’m glad these characters aren’t tormenting only me now lol.

Fun facts under the cut!

Kaz

As a child he pretended to be afraid of the dark for years because his mother would comfort him with stories from her homeland. She still thinks he is and asks the servants to keep some candles burning at night, even though they annoy him. He considers this karma for the lies.

He has a massive sweet tooth. He might project the image of a stoic, serious emperor but that man loves sweets. He doesn’t indulge too often in public though. He’d rather sneak into the kitchens at night and once frightened a poor cook half to death when he stumbled upon his sovereign eating honey straight from a jar at like 2 am.

He’s a remarkable artist. He draws a lot. Really into architecture too.

He fidgets with his signet ring when he’s nervous. He does this unconsciously most of the time, and those who aren’t familiar with his mannerisms might assume he’s just deep in thought. But really his mind is spamming the panic button.

I’m not sure if this is a “fun” fact but he enjoys bloodsport. His father’s reign was criticized for this and his friendship with Fang has given him a different perspective on how slaves in the fighting pits are treated so he’s distanced himself from it. But it bothers him a bit, how much like his father he can be.

Fang

He has talent for juggling and often uses it to entertain children in the marketplace.

He’s quite the pirate fanboy. He wants to be a pirate so bad and dreams of owning a ship and just sailing around the world someday. Fang once won a drinking contest against a notorious pirate captain, earning him a place on the crew if he ever felt inclined. Fang thinks about that offer everyday.

He learned how to read and write from his master and has a hidden stash of romantic poetry that he's written over the years, inspired by his various crushes and lovers. He's never shared these poems with anyone, as he fears they might ruin his roguish reputation.

He doesn’t have a home. He has enough gold stockpiled from his fighting days to live comfortably and Khazunef has made it clear that he’s welcome at the palace but he prefers to just… wander around. He claims it’s because he likes not knowing where he’ll end up, and that every day is a new adventure. But really it’s because when he thinks of home he remembers a time long ago when he was a boy, before the raiders, before the slavery and before the fighting, when his mother would cradle him by a warm hearth and sing a lullaby. He can’t recreate that feeling. He’s terrified even trying to.

Persa

She loves to play pranks. Her favorite involves sneaking into rooms while their occupants are away and rearranging their furniture just slightly, enough to make them question their own sanity when they return.

She has a photographic memory, which comes in handy for her favorite pastime: gambling. Do not under any circumstances challenge her to any games of chance, as she can easily remember cards played or patterns in a game. Several guards have lost months wages in this manner.

Shes the definition of having a green thumb. She has a fondness for winter roses, a flower that grows in the snowy peaks of her native land. She managed to cultivate them in the desert. Persa tends a small garden of these roses in the palace as a reminder of home. She’s skilled herbalist and often disappears into the palace gardens for hours at a time, gathering plants and herbs for her potions and remedies.

Persa is a gifted singer, but she only sings when she thinks no one is listening. Her voice is hauntingly beautiful, and it's said that even the birds fall silent to listen it. Something she finds herself humming tunes of the songs from her home, but she can never quite remember the words.

Ignasia

She absolutely detests spicy foods. Yes she knows, it’s ironic that a fire priestess can’t stand the heat. You can only make that joke once. Do it again and she might curse you.

Despite her serious demeanor, Ignasia has a wicked sense of humor. She loves to tell jokes with a straight face, leaving others unsure whether to laugh or not.

She has a talent for mimicry and can do impressions of almost anyone including fellow priestess, imperial courtiers and advisors. She won’t confirm or deny if she’s used this skill for dubious purposes.

She pretends leaving her noble family behind to become a priestess was a great sacrifice. In truth it was her greatest pleasure.

Sometimes, she tells people that she sees things in the flames that aren’t there. She tells herself it’s for the greater good. To give hope to the man who asked if his daughter’s sickness was fatal, to prevent a young lad who asked if the gods will protect him if he sought out his sister’s murderer from getting killed or simply because the truth was too heavy. She tells herself it’s for the best, and the flames wouldn’t mind. Right?