Chapter 3 - You've Torn Your Dress
Series Masterlist
Author's Note: This one's the first of many doozies. I recommend you clock out now if you think the following will distress you: mentions of rape, but no scenes or explicit description. If not, read on! Chapter Title is from Rebel Rebel by David Bowie.
Word Count: 7.7k
Chapter Summary/Warnings: Your first mission is delivered, and it goes about as expected. Contains usual tags, emphasis on mention of rape/non-con.
Read on A03!
Chapter 2 - Chapter 4
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When your team stepped into the safe house, you could see the moment the smell hit their noses.
“Merde,” Frenchie was the first to speak, a poor omen within itself. “What the fuck am I smelling?”
“Uh, probably the milk and meat. They’re the strongest.”
Annie said your name carefully, watching your reaction as she spoke. “What happened.”
“He wouldn’t put away the groceries.” You said with a shrug. You were over it. It was like, ten bad things ago.
“So you just. Left them out?” Hughie said, seemingly baffled.
“Yeah.”
“Mallory said she delivered them on the first night.” Annie glanced between you and Hughie.
“She did.”
Hughie’s eyes widened further. “That was almost two weeks ago.” When you just nodded in agreement, he pushed further. “They’ve been out the whole time?”
You frowned. “He doesn’t get to win.”
“What are you, five?”
You just sighed, giving Hughie a pleading look. “Don’t tell MM.”
“What?” Butcher taunted from the back of the group. “That he was right, and you can’t handle Soldier Boy?”
“I thought you were on my side about this.”
“I’m on the side of the truth, Love.”
Both you, Annie, and Frenchie let out huffs of amusement at that claim, with Hughie looking sheepishly amused.
“You can’t possibly believe that.” Annie gave Butcher a pointed look. He only winked in response, leaving her to turn back to you with an eye roll.
“Has it been like this,” Hughie gestured vaguely around him. “The whole time?”
“Nah. Worse.”
Really, hell would be a better word for it. After the knife incident, there had been the toilet paper incident, which you had won, the coffee incident, also your victory, the laundry incident, point Soldier Boy, the TV incident, point you, and the Lord of the Rings incident, another point Soldier Boy. The Elton John, Jimmy Carter, and Rockefeller Center incidents had ended in stalemates akin to the Cold War, but should those fuses reignite, you were sure you could take them home. Overall, you’d burned him seven times, he’d thrown two chairs at you, you tossed shit in his face once and threatened castration on fifteen separate occasions, and he had offered to sleep with you thirty-one times.
“He hasn’t, he hasn’t hurt you. Right?” Hughie wasn’t fully looking at you when he asked, his voice soft and nervous.
“No. I mean, he’s tried. Not in… that way, but I’ve had a few things thrown at me. All the physical violence died out around the laundry incident, though. Now we’re using psychological warfare.”
“Laundry incident?” Hughie said at the same time that Frenchie said, “Psychological warfare?”
“Don’t ask.” Was your response to both. You’d avoid revisiting the laundry incident in your mind for the rest of your life if you could help it, and the actual practice of your warfare was more childish than you’d like to admit.
“Well, as lovely as a reunion this has been, we need to talk to you both. Where’s the cunt, anyway?" Butcher craned his neck to look down the hall.
“Probably moping around in his room.” You shrugged. “Let’s talk in the living room, standing at the door is weird.”
While the living room hadn’t taken even close to as much damage as the kitchen, it had not escaped you and Soldier Boy’s sparring unscathed. Books provided by the CIA, which were mostly stereotypical classics, had been upended from their shelves and strewn across the floor. The TV was still intact, as was the sofa, but the former was stuck on PBS, and the latter was, at this point, compromised of 70% trash.
“Holy shit,” Hughie muttered as he stepped over a copy of Catcher in the Rye. “You can’t plan on living like this the whole time?”
“Well, if America’s number one man-baby would stop moaning and bitching about his glory days, then maybe, yeah.”
Annie gave you a concerned look. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then I’ll castrate him.” Though the threat had now been made sixteen times, it never satisfied you less to say it.
“I’ve told you, Sunshine, if you did that, you would only be hurting yourself.”
Everyone in the room fell silent, their eyes trained over you with tense gazes. You turned to find Soldier Boy almost directly behind you. “I’ve told you, by definition, I’d only be hurting you.”
He gave a mocking pout. “Wouldn’t that plague your perfect little conscious?”
“I’d live.”
“Bitch.”
“Cunt.”
“Prude.”
“Manwhore.”
“Whiny Brat.”
“Waste of space.”
“Waste of good pussy.”
“Waste of government money.”
“Waste of Compound V.”
“Pathetic, assfaced Dickwad.”
“Stuck up, pretentious Ice Queen.”
“Geriatric, entitled, blue-balled G.I. Joe Fuckdoll”
The room had practically vanished around you as you and Soldier Boy fell into your now well-tread path of insults. Your blood was burning with that feeling, aching to burst across the room as both of you glared hard enough to, fingers crossed, kill the other.
“Jesus Christ,” Hughie said, breaking you out of your own spell.
“What are they doing here?” Soilder Boy asked, somehow having only just clocked their presence. “Do I finally get to do my job and leave?”
“No,” Annie answered. “We have no way of knowing how long you’ll be here at this point.”
“That’s what I said,” you muttered under your breath, turning back to your team.
“Yeah,” Soldier Boy said at full volume. “And I don’t fucking trust you.”
“Will you get off my ass about it now?”
“I think you like me on your ass, Sunshine. My offer never leaves the table.”
“Cunt.”
“Bitch.”
“Helpless man-child.”
“Prissy tease.”
“Glorified propaganda poster-“
“No,” Annie cut it. “We’re not doing that again.”
“Party pooper,” Butcher grumbled. “I was hoping they’d kill each other this time. Then we could just go home.”
“Well, did you at least bring me drugs?” Soldier Boy seemed to search the room, as if a pile of weed and coke would miraculously appear on the floor amongst the mess of wrappers and fluid-filled paper towels.
“We’re not buying you drugs with government money.” Annie said, giving you a look of apology. “As I’m sure you’ve been told.”
“Many times,” you affirm under your breath. You’d had to hide the glue on day five, which had let to the toilet paper incident on day six. A day had not passed since where you didn’t catch him trying to turn a new household object into something to snort.
“I thought weed was fucking legal now.” Soldier Boy glared at you, as if you were personally responsible for the CIA not buying him blunts. “It’s a free fucking country. I should be able to smoke whenever I damn please.”
“Porn is legal,” you reply. “Doesn’t mean the federal government is going to bring you some.”
“If they brought me porn and weed, I’d be far more open to whatever shit you want from me.” He winked at you.
“We gave you that last time,” Hughie pointed out, shifting nervously. “It barely helped.”
“Will you be a good little supe if we come back with porn and weed? Because we can go and-“
“No, we need to do this now.” Annie spoke over Butcher, and you noticed a line of worry on her forehead, along with Hughie’s nervous fidgeting. Though Butcher didn’t seem plagued by an anxious tell, he relented to Annie faster than you’d ever seen, and alarm bells went off in your head.
“Annie,” you bit the bullet, asking softly. “What is the ‘this’ you need us for?”
She gave you an apologetic look. “Trial run.”
“Trial run?”
“We’re giving you a test, Love.” Butcher said with a smirk. “See if your little experiment is even viable. Maybe take out a player in the process. All depends on if you and him,” he jerked his head to Soldier Boy. “Do your jobs right.”
“I don’t need your little ‘test’ to know if I can do my job.” Soldier Boy snapped.
“Last time you failed,” Hughie muttered.
Frenchie nodded in agreement. “In a spectacular manner, yes.”
“Because that bitch and that pussy stopped me.” An angry scowl was thrown at Annie and Butcher, who returned it and grinned widely back respectively.
“You were going to kill a kid,” Annie said coldly.
“He shouldn’t have been in the line of fire.”
“The line of fire? Do you hear yourself? Do you really care about others so little that-“
“I’d do it again,” he snapped back, unbothered by Annie’s disgust. “You don’t get to ask me for help and get mad when I do.”
You gave Butcher a pointed look. “Aren’t you glad you listened to me?”
Though all you got in response was a grunt from Butcher, Soldier Boy’s eyes shot to you. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
You returned his glare, steeling your own eyes to match his interrogating gaze. “We’re removing the ‘kill a kid’ option from your choices. You want to know why we’re stuck here? Because you fucked it last time, and we won’t let you fuck up again.”
“You won’t let me?” He sneered, leering at you coldly. “You don’t let me do anything, Sunshine.”
If the “Sunshine” thing continued to stick, you might have to throw yourself off a roof. But you didn’t flinch, just tilting your head mockingly. “You wouldn’t need a shock collar if you hadn’t bit the hand.”
“I wouldn’t bite the hand if it hadn’t tried to kill me.”
“Nobody tried to kill you, Mate.” Butcher interjected. Soldier Boy’s anger switched back to him with fists curling at his side, but Butcher kept talking with a bored drawl. “You shouldn’t have bloody fucked up.”
“And, like I said,” you shrugged. “It won’t happen again.”
“If I see the shot, I’ll take it. Whether you like it or not.”
Looking into his eyes, you believed him. No doubt fogged your brain that, given the opportunity, Soldier Boy wouldn’t hesitate to take out Ryan Butcher with Homelander. Part of you, the angry and bitter part still trapped underground, understood that. But you’d see Ryan once, from afar, and he had looked so young. You didn’t have to imagine his fear or touch him to understand what it was like. For your life to change abruptly and without reason, to have to sprint to keep up with your new one. Soldier Boy had volunteered for this life. Ryan hadn’t. You hadn’t.
So, holding Soldier Boy’s gaze, you made your voice clear and steady. “You don’t get to take the shot until it’s clear. Ryan will be out of the picture before you even see Homelander.” You turned to Annie. “What’s the test?”
“Head-popper.” Butcher answered for Annie with an odd look at you. His voice carried the usual light and oddly joyful tone he used when discussing murdering supes, but his eyes on yours were quieter, with less manic vengeance than you’d seen before. If you didn’t know better, you’d call them thankful.
“Head-popper?”
Hughie jumped in at your confused frown. “Neuman.”
“Oh,” you paused, looking over Hughie’s worried face. “We’re going after Neuman?”
“Who the fuck is Neuman?” Soldier Boy asked with a reluctant grumble. You had picked up on his consistent annoyance with new things after you’d found him screaming at the microwave three days ago, and not knowing new people didn’t seem to be any different.
“She’s a supe who can pop people’s heads like balloons.” Frenchie gestured in imitation for effect. “It’s disgusting.”
“And she’s the VP elect, which would put an ally of Homelander in the White House, one step from the Oval Office.” Annie said pointedly, giving Frenchie a look. You offered him a small smile over her head. Though the demonstration hadn’t been helpful, watching his hands fly around mimicking Neuman’s powers was undeniably entertaining.
“She's dangerous,” Hughie added. “But she’s not a bad person. We don’t want to kill her, just remove her powers.”
“What do we need her for then?” You didn’t have to look to know Soldier Boy’s accusation was directed at you. You bit your tongue, trying to ignore the way the words seeped into your skin.
Because he’s right. A cruel whisper said into your ear, and the itch on your skin began to feel like a rash. You were saved from the plague of your thoughts—the urgent feeling to fall prompted by almost nothing—by Butcher.
“If you think you’re going anywhere without her, Governor, you’d better get used to being wrong. She’s there for the same reason she’s here. So you don’t go postal.”
Soldier Boy gave you an unreadable look as the rush of your heart in your chest slowed from Butcher’s words. You turned away from him, but you could almost feel his eyes through your skull as you looked at Butcher with a blank face.
“What’s the plan?” You asked, praying it would be simple, with as few people as possible around and, ideally, in the middle of a desert filled exclusively with fire extinguishers.
“MM and Kimiko are doing recon on one of Bob Singer’s rallies. Frenchie will create a distraction for the secret service, and Neuman’s personal detail is going to suddenly disappear-“
“Disappear?” You interrupted Butcher with raised eyebrows.
“Keep your panties on, they’ve been bribed. Once she’s isolated, Soldier Boy’ll blast her, and we can all go home confident in your little gambit.”
You hesitated, trying to imagine the last political rally you’d seen. Group of people in tight groups, electrical wiring for microphones, speakers, and lights. Gates and closed doors, hallways leading out onto streets. “How are we going to isolate her?”
“Me and Butcher will work on that,” Annie said, almost reaching for you with a reassuring pat, but thinking better and jerking her arm back. She opened her mouth, an apology certainly on her, but you raised your hand to cut her off.
“How long until we leave?” You asked. Maybe they’d say ‘three hours’ and you’d get to talk to someone who didn’t think swing music was sonically viable for a bit.
Hughie checked his watch. “Ten minutes ago.”
“Ago?” Your eyes widened.
He gave you a sheepish look. “We thought it would take less time to get you.” He turned to Soldier Boy. “Your suit’s in the van. I can bring it out-“
“I can change on the way.” Soldier Boy grumbled, ignoring Hughie’s start of sputtering protests. “Let’s get this over with.”
———-
Much to his annoyance, they had forgotten Ben’s shield, and nobody would let him change in the van. He tried several times, only to be met by a chorus of groans, shouting, and swearing. He had listened to their complaints only because she had started giving him a look he recognized as a flag for a storm of uncontrolled fire. No hot disgust or sparks of rage, only a cold and quiet, almost glassy-eyed stare. Her heart steady but her breathing too fucking controlled to be natural, measured so equally that it sounded mechanical. So, because he figured she would only become more bitchy to live with if she incinerated her alleged “friends”, Ben stopped trying to pull his shirt over his head.
Once he did, the van fell insufferably silent. The edged pleasantries and conversation he’d overheard during Butcher and his band of Assholes arrival had ceased save for tense questions and hushed conversations. Ben didn’t fail to notice all the spineless avoidance and careful words directed at them both. She, even after the foggy look faded, remained curled into a corner, trading small and toothless smiles with her team. More timid than he’d seen her before, almost like a scolded child as she looked around the van nervously. Her eyes watched the shadows as though Homelander himself might jump from them, the chew of her lip giving Ben a headache. The only words she spoke were a jab at Ben when he’d said something about political rallies post-election being fucking pathetic—giving him a lecture about American politics now heavily depending on something called “going viral”—only to fall silent once more after. Her team looked at her like a glass bomb, as if she was a delicate statue looming over their heads and not the vulgar, violent woman who slept down the hall from him. That woman infuriated him, testing his patience every time she opened her mouth, but this paranoid, skittish pussy of a girl was so much worse. So when the van halted and Butcher’s team began to filter out, he called her name. When she ignored him, he reached out and grabbed her arm.
“What the fuck!” She pulled herself out of his grip in a second, staring at him with anger. She glanced down at her arms, a look he didn’t understand crossing her face, before returning her attention to him. “Do not touch me.”
“I barely touched you,” he glowered, annoyance quickly flooding him. He had only brushed skin, with a light grip she had thrown off, there was no need to be so dramatic. “When I touch you for real, you’ll fucking know, Sunshine. And you’ll fucking beg for it. I needed to make you listen, you were fucking ignoring me.”
Her brows knit, and he heard the chew of her teeth on her tongue. “I’m not going to beg for anything, and I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“I said your name, and you kept fucking walking.”
“I didn’t hear you.” She snapped, but didn’t relent. “Speak up next time.”
She knew just as well as Ben did that they were both far from quiet, pussy-voiced fuckers. And while he definitely hadn’t yelled for her attention, it shouldn’t have fucking mattered. He’d seen her pick up his grumbled insults and mocking comments just fine over the past two weeks. “Bitch.”
“What do you want?” She asked with a sigh, ignoring his jab and looking at him as if he exhausted her just by breathing. “We have to go, and you still need to change.”
“You shouldn’t let them treat you like that.” He said, not hiding the contempt from his voice. He wasn’t going to skirt around his thoughts, lining them gently to help her fucking feelings.
Her body tensed, her limbs looking as if they’d locked into place. “Like what?” Ben heard her swallow as she answered, her voice not lost enough to make her sound clueless to his words.
“Like you’re a child they have to coddle. A problem they have to deal with.”
She stared at him, her glassy-eyes returning. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, cunt-face.”
Ben snorted. “They don’t treat you like the bitch you are. They always use that sweet, pussy voice, like they’re talking to a fucking puppy, when they say something to you. They’re always all fucking pouty when they look at you, pussyfooting around so they don’t make you sad.” He gave her a mocking grin, hoping the next words landed like a bullet. “They treat you like me.”
It had clearly worked, as the van had grown hot, and her eyes were clearing as her heart began to pick up. Ben felt an odd feeling cover him as he heard it, almost familiar and sparking pride in his chest. She wasn’t a jittery shell anymore, she was going to try and kill him. It made his grin grow genuine, and the van grew only more heated, the air waving around them.
Her mouth opened, and Ben hoped whatever came out of it would be vile and crude.
“Hey!” She turned her head and clenched her jaw as someone called her name from outside, the van rattling as a fist banged against it. “We need to go!”
The door opened to reveal the Cocksucker, whose face grew quickly red, a bead of sweat falling from his hairline, as he was blasted with a quickly dying wave of heat.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, turning from Ben as the heat dropped further. “Coming.”
Cocksucker gave her a worried look, his gaze flying quickly to Ben, but just nodded and stood aside for her to move past.
As the door closed and Ben began to change, he listened for their soft, tense words.
“Are you okay? Did he do anything to you?” Cocksucker’s voice was nervous and gentle, like being suffocated by one of those fucking fluffy blankets Ben had seen in the empty bedroom of the safe house.
“No, he just grabbed me to talk. And you don’t have to keep asking me that. I’m fine, and it’s not as helpful as you think it is.” Ben frowned at her voice, the malice from it drained entirely in only a few seconds, replaced with only a tired hollowness.
“Grabbed you?! Like, he touched you?”
Having anticipated Cocksucker being more interested in the “talk” part of her sentence, or the shit that sounded like it was about feelings, Ben's brain rattled over Cocksucker’s word, his tone of panic looping in Ben’s head. He spoke of Ben’s touch as though it were a plague, and not something many people would kill to feel. Ben almost burst out of the van to say just that, but froze when he heard her answer.
“It was fast, I didn’t feel much. Even if I did, it doesn’t matter. I can’t go the rest of my life without touching people.” Her voice had a finality to it, and Ben could almost picture her downturned lips and wrinkled brow.
“You touch us when you heal us.” Even Cocksucker’s voice didn’t sound sure of his response.
“It’s not the same, and you know that.”
There was a momentary stall in their words, and Ben took the opportunity to emerge, securing his belt as he walked to the door. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see, but Cocksucker looking pathetically around, anywhere but the woman as she curved into herself, wasn’t it. She held a white-knuckle grip on the sleeves of her jacket, her thumb running up and down in small movements. They both turned to him as the door banged open, and Ben caught the empty look behind her eyes before her indifference slipped back into place.
“Did you hurry me just to sit around like pussies, or are we going to start fucking moving?” He asked, the air feeling too uncomfortable to sit in.
Cocksucker blinked, glancing at his watch. “We have a few minutes until they arrive, but I guess it can’t hurt to be vigilant-“
“Arrive?” The woman’s eyes widened, and Ben saw smoke curl from her hold on her jacket. “They’re coming here?”
Cocksucker nodded. “It’s a high-security escape exit-“
“It’s a fucking street, Hughie.”
“That’s used as a high-security escape exit.” After a moment of searching the area, Cocksucker pointed a few yards down, at a large door set against brick. “Neuman will come right out of there, and her guards will close her out here, where Soldier Boy will blast her.” He paused, glancing at Ben, before looking back at the door and taking small, cowardly steps away from his spot between them.
“It’s a public area, anyone could walk past! What the fuck were you thinking?!” Her voice was hushed and agitated, and Ben had never seen her face lose color at that speed before, had never heard her heart stutter and jump as if trying to escape her body.
“It’ll be fine,” Cocksucker’s voice wavered, giving them both a nervous look. “It should be fine. MM said it would be fine.”
“You heard him, Sunshine,” Ben gave her a wink, adding a half-cocked smile when she didn’t even return him with a dirty look. “MM said it would be fine. And have some fucking faith in me, I’m not a fucking monster. I won’t blast any running pussies except for this head-popper broad.”
“You don’t even know what she looks like.” Her tone wasn’t quite the vicious mockery he was used to, but it was better than the apathetic, empty voice she’d been using. She was rolling on the balls of her feet, speaking without looking at him, her eyes moving restlessly from the door to the end of the street. “And I don’t believe you.”
Ben just shrugged, allowing the silence to hang. The wind was picking up, whistling through the chill of winter air, making the heat around them, emitting from both Ben and the woman, all the more obvious. Despite the biting cold, Cocksucker had taken off his stupid puffy jacket, even stepping back further from where they stood, with Ben in the center of the street and the woman off to the left. Despite her slowly stepping further and further back, her back now almost against the wall, Ben could feel her watching him, hear her heart continue its new and erratic beat.
“How long now, Hughie?” Her voice was raised to carry over the wind, though it hadn’t lost that stupid fucking weakness. Cocksucker, thank fuck, didn’t get a chance to respond with pathetically comforting words, as only one skipping heartbeat after she spoke a shrill fire alarm sounded.
“I’m assuming that’s your stupid French fuck's plan?” Ben asked dryly. “Start a fucking fire? I thought you pussies were all about minimal damage.”
“He probably just pulled the alarm.” The Cocksucker’s answer lacked any confident assurance. “And I think we’re just against needless murder.”
Ben almost started to rant about their so-called needless murder being a mighty high horse for a group of people who had manipulated him just as much as Vought, who’d been willing to help him kill all those backstabbing pussies from Payback so he’d help them. About how their stupid fucking moral purity complex seemed to adjust perfectly to aid them, and maybe he wasn’t a fucking angel, but he was strong and powerful—something they fucking needed—man, and he wasn’t a pussyfaced liar about what he was, what he did. The words died on his tongue, though, as hundreds of frenzied footsteps reached his ears.
“Fuck!” he growled, turning around and pointing at Cocksucker. “You fucking pussy.”
Cocksucker gave him an idiotically confused stare. “Dude, uncalled for.”
“She,” Ben pointed to the woman, whose heart was beating impossibly fast and looking on with a bloodless face. “Was fucking right. This is a stupid plan, because unless your head-popper walks like a human centipede, it’s not going to be just her that I fucking hit when that door opens.”
Cocksucker only gaped at him like a fish as the footsteps grew louder, annoyingly unsure stutters escaping him, and just as Ben decided it might be good to slap the idiot out of his daze, the woman stepped forward.
“We need to move, Hughie. Now.” Her voice wasn’t steady, her whole body was tensed and hyper, but it held a determination Ben almost admired. “We can’t be here.”
“He- he could be fucking lying, or wrong-“
“That’s not a risk we can afford to take.” She cut off Cocksucker’s doubts, and Ben found himself surprised at her defense of him, even if it could barely be called that. Her hands were smoking once more, but she had firmly planted herself in the middle of the road, eyes turning sharply to Ben. “If people see you, any element of surprise over Homelander would be lost. We need to fucking move, you need to get in the fucking van now-“
The door banged open, and the streets flooded as hoards of people in star and stripe-themed outfits flooded the road. Everything became so loud, and that rapt, snapping sound in Ben’s head started to spread through him, spurring the drum in his chest. They were finding rhythm so fast, everything fading as Ben tried to slow it. But there were screams and shouts, and everything was getting further and further away from him while carving into him all the same, so though Ben could hear the sounds of metal clanging and shouts of his supe name, he couldn’t think anything past the beat beat beat, until he lost it all at once.
As his vision grew clear with his head, Ben expected to see shattered bodies and bloody walls. Instead, all he saw was the woman and fire. Her face was flushed red, her eyes crazed, and her clothes had become charred with holes as the fire surged from her into a barrier, cutting them off from the crowd. Cocksucker was yelling her name, urging them both to return to the van and leave, but as Ben moved, he glanced back to see the woman frozen and heard her heart as if it were his own. The wall was growing wider and shooting high, Cocksucker wouldn’t shut the fuck up about moving, but her eyes had squeezed shut, unresponsive to anything but the growing flames.
“We need to fucking go, now!” Ben turned to see a large man he vaguely recognized barreling down their side of the street, his face twisted in anger. Butcher, Starlight, a small woman he remembered fighting, and that French prick followed him, all loading into the van as the large man stopped beside Cocksucker.
“I told you he’d fucking blow it,” the man said, giving Ben a disgusted look, so flawlessly revolted Ben wouldn’t be surprised if he’d fucking practiced in the mirror.
“Hey, I didn’t fucking blow it, you pussy-“
“You said that Neuman would come out of here, that it would just be her!” Cocksucker, much to Ben’s shock, cut him with a high voice and a wave at the wall of fire. “That’s way more than just her! Is she even there?!”
“No,” the man said gruffly. “Neuman saw Butcher and figured out something was up. She’s long gone.”
“Fuck!” Cocksucker yelled, running a hand through his hair.
“Oi, we can go over how MM fucked up later,” Butcher leaned out from the van. “We need to go before she sends Homelander.”
“How I fucked up? You’re the one who disobeyed me and blew our cover-“
“What’s wrong with Madame Anomaly?” The French Prick appeared at Butcher's side.
Cocksucker glanced at the woman, calling her name before turning to the large man Butcher had called MM. “She absorbed Soldier Boy’s blast. I think it got her stuck.”
“We don’t have time for this. Get Soldier Boy in the van, I’ll take care of the Anomaly.” MM repeated the French Prick’s words, and Ben realized they were, for the first time, using the woman’s supe name.
“You heard him, Gov. Get in the bloody van.” Butcher’s words were clearly directed at Ben, but as he climbed into the van Ben saw Butcher’s attention locked on the woman.
MM had moved closer to the woman, a move Ben deemed more fucking stupid than brave. If she had “absorbed his blast,” as Cocksucker said, he wouldn’t recommend any non-supe be anywhere near her. MM seemed to realize this himself at the last possible second, taking a pathetic, stumbling step back with a pause. He and Cocksucker exchanged a look, something passing between them that Ben didn’t understand, before Cocksucker leaned down to grab a pebble from the road. Ben watched as he shakily shook out his arms, wound up, and tossed the pebble at the woman.
It was a terrible fucking idea, Ben didn’t have to be Einstein to know that, but the chain reaction that played out still managed to go worse than he might have guessed.
The woman whirled around, her eyes blazing, with a roar sounding from her chest. Fire shot from the wall directly at Cocksucker. In almost slow motion, Ben watched her face become painted with horror as she recognized her target, a different, fearful sound leaving her. She reached an arm out, her heart seeming to falter, and barely redirected the flames before they hit Cocksucker in the chest. The blaze just grazed Cocksucker’s arm, passed the van clear of anyone else, and hit the building with a boom.
The moment the bricks caught fire and the ground began to shake as the building crumbled, the woman's wall of fire fell. The woman herself remained upright, but only barely as MM shouted her name and she started to stumble to the van. Cocksucker was hauled in by Starlight and the French Prick, the former fussing over his burnt arm—Ben had seen worse at Herogasm and nobody whined about it—and Cocksucker waved her off. The woman pulled herself in, ignoring Butcher’s outstretched hand, and the door closed behind her. MM appeared in the driver’s seat, and as the engine started everyone fell into a heavy-breathed silence.
Through the ride, Ben watched the woman open and close her mouth a million times, returned to her fetal position in the corner but watching Cocksucker with a strained face. Her hands tapped against her still-smoking jacket, reaching out hesitantly before she pulled them back into herself. No words were spoken, not even the anxious whispers of the ride there. Ben felt relief as the van stopped, MM climbing out and opening the doors to reveal the exterior of the safe house, grateful for any excuse to leave these stupid, sniffing pussies to wallow in their failure.
MM led Ben and the woman to the doors, opened them by leaning oddly at the doorbell, and gestured for them to walk through. The man followed them in, shutting the doors behind him with a rough push.
“If we failed the test, I am not doing that fucking shit again.” Ben grumbled as MM turned around from the now-shut entrance.
“Butcher told me about the fucking mess you and him made in here.” MM ignored Ben entirely, speaking to the woman as if he wasn’t even there. “A team cleaned it up while you were gone, and Mallory will send more groceries tomorrow night. I saw a picture, it was fucking gross. I’m only doing it once, because I don’t want a new disease to develop in here. You’re an adult, you should take care of this place by your goddamn self.”
The woman looked at her feet, humming a small acknowledgment. She didn’t look up as she spoke. “Is Hughie going to be okay?”
MM sighed. “The kid will live. I’ll look at him when we get back.”
“I could help-“
MM cut her off with her name. “He’ll be fine. We’ll make sure of it.”
She gave another nervous hum, and Ben jumped in.
“Can you answer my fucking question-“
“We’ll let you know what our next steps are after we talk to Mallory and Singer. This wasn’t good, but it’s not the end of the damn world.” Once again, MM ignored Ben. It was starting to feel personal. Before Ben could push further, MM reached a hand out to rest on the woman’s shoulder, right over a hole in her sleeve. Her head shot up with her heart, but the panic in her seemed to evaporate just as soon as it appeared. Her name was gentle as MM spoke it, eyes locked with hers. “You didn’t fuck up. You did your job.” She nodded slowly. “It’ll be fine.” With those last words, he exited the building, leaving Ben and the woman in the hall.
“What’s his fucking problem?” Ben grunted, half directed at the woman, half to just say it.
She gave him a flat look. “You killed his family.” Before he could come up with a clever response, honest or dodging the annoying feeling of guilt forming in his throat, the woman turned from him and walked away.
———-
You were so tired. Your bones ached, oddly cold in a way you hadn’t felt in a while, your skin crawled with feverish chills, and when you closed your eyes, you could see the flames graze Hughie and the building turn to dust. As MM’s lingering calm he’d offered you faded, all you felt was tired. Worthless. A liability. You had fucked up, just as much as Soldier Boy. Maybe more so, because he had PTSD, even if he would deny being a “hung-up pussy”. He had lost control because he’d been tortured by Russians, you’d almost killed your friend and definitely destroyed a rec center because you’d been startled. You just wanted to sleep, to deal with the inevitable fight about groceries in the morning, running on more than quickly expiring adrenaline and caffeine pills stuck in your throat.
You made it to your room, changing into one of the pajama sets folded in your drawers, hoping someone mentioned that the allegedly fire-proof wardrobe you’d been given apparently wasn’t strong enough for the full force of your fire combined with Soldier Boy’s nuclear explosions. A shame, you’d liked the pants you’d chosen for the mission. You’d live without the jacket, though. You’d hardly pulled the shirt over your head when the door ripped open, a still suit-clad Soldier Boy standing at your door.
“What fucking happened to you?” His question was blunt and confusing as he entered your room, remaining near the door but over the threshold.
Your body was too heavy to fight with him right now. There was no tense prickling on the bridge of your nose, only the throbbing stab of a headache. “Go away, Soldier Boy.”
“All of you have a fucking thing. A weird, sad reason to whine around and pretend you’re better than me.” He didn’t budge, but rather leaned forward. “What’s yours.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You said I killed MM’s family. Butcher’s always pussying around about Homelander stealing his girl. Cocksucker mentioned something about that fast asshole doing something as well. I’m not sure what the French Prick bitches about, but I’m sure it’s something.”
“First of all, you did kill MM’s family.” You really don’t want to do this right now, but maybe he’ll give up and fuck off. A fruitless wish, a small part of you knows, but you have nothing left to push back with. “And Homelander didn’t ‘steal Butcher’s wife’, he raped her.”
“Right.” Soldier Boy watched you, his expression unreadable in the shadowy room. “Those are all fucking things. So tell me what yours is.”
“I don’t have one,” even as you speak the insistence, it sounded fake and hollow.
He takes another step forward. “Yes, you do. I saw how you froze, nobody without a thing locks up like that. I heard Cocksucker ask you if I ‘hurt you’. Just for the record, Sunshine, I may not be a Boy Scout, but I’m no fucking rapist.”
“You’ve tried to sleep with me thirty-three times.”
“And I’ll blow your mind when you realize how much you’d love it, no sooner. What’s your fucking thing.”
You stare at him, the intensity in his voice throwing you off. He’s insistent, comfortable in your room but standing at his full height, attention fixed entirely on you. That impression of dissection has returned—the feeling as if he’s trying to pick you apart for him to play with. “Why do you even care?”
“Because maybe if you tell me, I can kill what supe fucked up your pretty little head and you’ll be less of a bitch.”
You can’t stop the snort that escapes you. “What a selfish fucking cunt reason.”
He shrugged in something that could’ve been an agreement. “Maybe.” He falls silent, but doesn't leave.
You collapse to sit on the edge of your bed, staring ahead as you rub your temple. “Please just go.”
“No.”
You look at him, not caring if he sees the desperation in your eyes. “Can this not wait six hours for the morning?”
“No.”
“Do you know any words but no?” You mutter under your breath.
You didn’t miss his annoyed humph. “Oh, just fucking tell me.”
“No.” It was your turn to snap. Your exhaustion was becoming lined with bitter childishness, and you didn’t care enough to try and suppress your urge to sneer at him.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re an idiotic, self-absorbed, sadist asshat who wouldn’t know empathy if it started sucking his dick.” You mocked.
He grinned. “Ok, now name my bad qualities.”
“I’m not telling you.”
“I’ll start guessing,” he took another step forward, now almost directly before you. “Did that red-headed lesbian steal your puppy?
You frowned up at him. “Maeve was bisexual.”
“Did Noir take credit for a college project?” He ignored your comment, leaning down with a mocking smirk.
“Trust me, I got all my dues in college.”
“Did that gay-for-Jesus blond steal your boyfriend? Did the fast asshole that stole Cocksucker’s girl break up with you? Did water-boy eat your goldfish?”
“I’ve never met Ezekiel, A-Train actually murdered Hughie’s girlfriend, and The Deep famously doesn’t eat seafood, he fucks it. But by all means, keep going.”
Soldier Boy blinked. “He fucks it?”
“Yep. It’s gross.” You shrug. “Are you done?”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
You give a toothless smile. “Not until you get all your guesses out.”
“Oh?” There was unquestionable surprise in his voice at your relent, only making your fake cheer grow and your immature anger fully overtake you.
“I want you to feel like a real fucking asshole when I tell you.”
His face split open with a grin. “Well then, did the Twins kick you out of Herogasm? Did that bitch, Crimson Countess, overshadow your big debut? Did a Z-lister get more attention than you from the Vought pussies?”
You just raised your eyebrows, crossing your arms as Soldier Boy continued until the list of supes ran dry. As the last jeer left his mouth, he mirrored your face of cold amusement.
“Well?”
You leaned back, watching him closely as you spoke. “Homelander kidnapped me, kept me in a dungeon, raped me in an attempt to make more mini-Homelanders, and, after you returned, started experimenting on me to try and recreate the V used on you.”
A small shock rushed through you after you spoke. You hadn’t said any of that out loud, not fully, since you’d escaped. You danced around it with Butcher and his team, with Mallory and the CIA leaders, always picking and choosing parts to omit so nobody would look at you with pity and fear. It hadn’t worked, they did anyway, but there had still been control over it. Up until this moment, nobody had known why Homelander had done all those things to you. Everyone had seemed happy to chalk it up to him being a fucking psychopath, not anything deeper. Certainly not attempting to create a small army of additional Ryan Butchers. Small things were still yours, flashes of hunger and warped sounds remaining in your head, but everything else you had just told him.
Why did you do that? A voice hissed as the high from your petulance faded. Why did you let him win? Why did you give him a weapon to use that could hurt you?
But looking at him, he didn’t appear to be a portait of self-satisfaction and heartless triumph. He was staring at you, scanning you as though the scars Homelander left would be visible on your bare legs and arms. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t weak or coddling, but angry.
“He kept you locked up?”
You nod, part of you getting ready to fight him over something.
“He hurt you? To try and recreate me?” Your repeated nodding only seemed to inflate whatever was happening. “Did it hurt?”
Your arms and face started at that, an uncertain feeling spreading through you. There had been no reverent tone as Soldier Boy had asked the last question, no sadistic for affirmation. But you didn’t know what he wanted to hear. Why he even wanted to know. But an involuntarily honest answer escaped you. “Yes.”
He stared at you for another second before he opened his mouth, only to close it without making any sound. Abruptly, he whipped around and began to leave, giving you only one more indecipherable look as he closed the door behind him, leaving you on the edge of your bed, alone in your room.
You lay down slowly, half expecting him to storm back in at any moment, but minutes passed, quickly turning into a half hour, and your body sat at the edge of collapse once more. Soon it was unbearable, and you lay down, your racing mind being forced to a halt as sleep pulled you under.
Your sleep, as had been the case for a while now, was haunted by nightmares of blue eyes and yellow, fluorescent lights. You woke up in a cold sweat, and took a long, needlessly warm shower before forcing yourself to leave your room around 9:30. Despite your lingering fatigue, no part of you wasn’t restless as you walked down the stairs. Your body tense and ready to run, your head spinning with hypotheticals and lining up words you may need—that feeling under your skin creeping up your spine and fluttering in your gut. But Soldier Boy wasn’t in the living room or the hall. You poked your head in the dining room, hoping to avoid the minefield of the kitchen, but it was empty, the plastic chandelier lights off, the table occupied only by a vase of wilted flowers. You moved to the kitchen, ringing growing in your ears, but he wasn’t there. You turned to walk away, continue your search, but double-back as it hit you.
Nothing was in the kitchen. It was empty. Of Soldier Boy, and of the groceries MM said would be delivered.
You wandered in slowly, watching the counters as if they might start to glitch and flicker, revealing hidden produce and dirty dishes. But, leaning over the sink, there was a single plate, soaking in water that was dotted with crumbs. Slowly, you moved to the refrigerator, slowly opening it as you glanced around the room. Your eyes widened at the sight inside. Milk, drinks, and produce had been placed inside, disorganized and haphazardly. There was a jar of mayonnaise in the fresh drawer, along with a box of pasta on a side shelf, but the fridge was full. You moved quickly to the pantry, which had been sorted in a similar fashion, but filled. And when you opened the last cabinet, you saw a piece of paper stuck under a jar of peanut butter.
I know I did a shit job. Clean up if it bothers you, but don't bitch to me about it. And tell Mallory to get smooth peanut butter next time, or I’m not doing anything for her but killing Homelander - Ben
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Astarion x Tav || Anxiety Attack
gonna be right by your side (no matter what)
synopsis: he's never seen her look so frightened before. she trembles slightly, keeping her hands close to her body. she doesn’t even meet astarion’s gaze. it’s as if she's still focused on the creature, even though it's no longer within her line of sight. her breaths begin to come in starts, and his senses can hear her pulse skyrocketing.
an excerpt of “’cause my love (is mine, all mine)”
word count: 1739
pairing: astarion/tav
other tags: f!reader, bard!tav, hurt/comfort, light angst, non-sexual intimacy, romantic tension, friends to lovers, panic attack comfort, magically induced anxiety attack, song inspo: No Matter What by Zach Callison and Michaela Dietz
ao3: here
concept: panic attack comfort
After hours of traversing the dangerous depths of the Underdark, it finally dawns on Tav that the subterranean caves aren’t exactly suitable for a two-person adventuring party consisting of a bard and her dashing rogue companion. In the process, Tav has expended all her spell slots, save for two level one spells, and has endured not only physical damage, but psychological damage from the amount of whining that Astarion is putting her through.
“Gods, I truly hate it down here. Darling, let’s set a goal to live in a nice, lavish palace full of pointless luxuries.” Astarion insists, and almost enjoys the implication of living with each other in the future enough to forgive his incessant complaints. Almost.
She bites her tongue, because she figures it’s hard enough to give up life in the sun for a darkness he doesn’t truly care for. She’ll pester him about it later, but she knows the wound is still fresh for him right now.
It’s late into—well, it’s rather difficult to tell what the time is. Tav considers taking one more short rest, but she knows that they’re almost there.
“You know, I’ve actually never been to this place.” He says, now that they’re near enough to look for the entrance. Cazador’s entrance to the Underdark lead to some old vampire’s keep, located just to the east of Baldur’s Gate, auspiciously under the Fields of the Dead. “I wonder what wonders could be inside—hm?”
He stops when he notices Tav isn’t moving and narrows his eyes to try to see what she’s looking at. Though Astarion possesses keen night vision, the initial sight is somewhat obscure. At first, it appears as a mere silhouette, and in the Underdark, it's impossible to be wary of every peculiar shadow. Yet, after a moment, he discerns distinct horned features, and the shadowy form takes on the semblance of a horned humanoid, its eyes oozing pure horror, and it points a finger at them.
“Hells.” Astarion mutters, instinctively switching to disengage stealthily. He ducks behind the last corner they came from, and expects Tav to follow—before he turns to see her still rooted firmly in place.
“What are you doing? Get over here, quickly!” He hisses at her, but rather uncharacteristically, she doesn’t respond. He’s used to her fearless antics, and this does look like something she’d be rather interested in, but there’s only so much stupidity he’s able to take. Out of options, he grabs the back of her cloak and pulls, successfully tugging her behind the corner. “Are you insane?” He snaps, but the second he turns his attention away from the creature and towards Tav, he immediately freezes.
He's never seen her look so frightened before. She trembles slightly, keeping her hands close to her body. She doesn’t even meet Astarion’s gaze. It’s as if she's still focused on the creature, even though it's no longer within her line of sight. Her breaths begin to come in starts, and his senses can hear her pulse skyrocketing.
“Breathe, darling.” He instructs, but she isn’t listening to him—more importantly, she still isn’t moving. It’s not that he doesn’t want to comfort her, but he’s pretty sure the monster, whatever it is, is still slowly stalking towards them.
Quickly, as a last-ditch effort, he hoists her onto his back. She’s still heavy, and she’s slowing him down. Even if it might be faster to hide her and look for the entrance himself, when she stutters, “’Starion?” In that quiet, uncharacteristically weak voice, he knows he can’t leave her.
“Right here, my sweet, right here.” He reassures quietly, still looking for the entrance while trying to keep out of the creature’s sight. At the very least, it didn’t seem very perceptive.
Eventually, he sees a crack of firelight in the wall—just enough to reveal concrete slabs behind the layers of rock, and enough to illuminate the edges of a wooden door. He quickly dashes towards it and pries the door open, entering and putting her down before closing the door behind him. He looks through the iron keyhole to see if the monster will pass, but a voice breaks his concentration.
“Astarion,” Dalyria says, sounding relieved.
“Shh.” He dismisses. “There’s something outside.”
Dalyria stays silent for a moment before recognition tinges her voice. “Ah. You mean the Nightwalker. It’s okay, it hasn’t bothered any of us. It seems if we stay out of its way, it won’t go out of its way to hurt us. It’s been a bit of a relief if anything.” She tells him, but Astarion isn’t reassured quite yet. They had stayed well out of its way, and it seemed to target them still.
Still, seeing that the creature has at least stopped chasing them down, Astarion finally ducks down towards Tav, seeing her state once again. He knows something is wrong with her, and not something natural. She was normally fearless—and while he knew that wasn’t entirely true, it was too sudden for her to completely cower at some unknown, shadowy figure when she had faced devils and shades more fearsome than the creature they encountered. He knows it must have done something to her, but now that they are in relative safety, he just needs her to breathe, gods damn it.
“Is she alright?” Dalyria asks, trying to peer over Astarion’s shoulder to see Tav. His first instinct is to bristle, but he knows that out of all his siblings, Dalyria is probably the best to take a look at her.
A little reluctantly, he steps aside. Dalyria observes her for a moment, and takes her hand, but Tav immediately withdraws as though burned. She still can’t speak, but Dalyria discerns, “I wonder if this is its effect on the living.”
“And? Your verdict? What are we supposed to do?” He snaps, but he can’t stand to look at her shivering form anymore, so he turns away.
“You may just have to wait it out,” Dalyria accepts. “I could attempt to heal a physical ailment, but this seems mostly mental. If it’s magically induced, though, it shouldn’t last very long once it’s out of her sight.”
Astarion curses under his breath. He ducks down, and peers at Tav again. Her face is pressed into her hands, and her knees are tucked in. It seems to be more grounding behaviour than anything else. He takes her side.
“Where is everyone else?” He asks Dal, but he doesn’t take his gaze off Tav.
“They’re trying to calm the other spawn. It’s turmoil out there. So many of them… they haven’t been free in forever. Trying to reel them all in feels impossible.” She sighs. “I only came to check in on you. Should I… leave you, for a moment?” She asks, looking at his companion again.
He heaves a hefty sigh. They had finally come all this way, but… “For now.” He reassures, partially to himself. He glances over his shoulder. “We’ve prepared supplies, but we weren’t able to carry all of it here. The rest should be at the entrance to Cazador’s castle. You can use them as rations for now.”
Dalyria nods in understanding. “I’ll tell the others,” she assures him. “Then, once everyone has fed… please come to us then. We’ll be waiting in the dining room. All of us.”
He doesn’t respond, even as she shuts the door. Instead, he turns his attention back to Tav. He’s glad he can speak freely without revealing too much of themselves. He sighs dramatically. “Come now, love, this doesn’t suit you at all. Stop this, you’re being ridiculous.”
He’s hoping to provoke her into responding, but it seems the magically-induced fright is not something that can just be taunted away. It’s difficult, because he knows if he were under such an effect, she would be able to ward it off immediately. In fact, it was one of her special skills to divert charms and fears with her own.
“What’s that song you normally sing? The song about Heroism, with some drivel less about heroes and more about some saccharine ‘love and friendship’ and whatnot?” He asks, hoping to trigger her memory. She stirs, but it looks more like she’s withdrawing further into herself.
As a last ditch effort, Astarion begins to hum what he knows of the melody. It’s terrible and off-key, and he’s not even sure he’s remembering more than the chorus. To grab her attention, he drums his fingers on the top of her head playfully, approximately to the rhythm of the song that he remembers.
He continues humming, stopping ever so often to prompt her to continue. Eventually, in a shaky, unsupported, quiet mutter, she sings the lyrics to the song as a call-and-response.
Encouragingly, he perks up immediately. He continues his humming, and as they continue, she switches from call-and-response to providing the actual lyrics to the section he hums. She finally raises her head—ever so slightly—to meet his eyes.
When she continues, she continues with the melody, a little more confidently. She takes the opportunity to hold his hands, gripping both his hands with hers. He lets her continue the song on her own, and her fear seems to be dissipating. She garnishes her performance with pretty runs and vibratos, but then she looks at him expectantly—this time, she wants him to follow her lead, and she seems to be expecting more than humming.
Softly, she switches to a quiet new verse of the song, “With all that you were,” she sings.
“With all that you were,” he responds, though it’s more of him talking with a lilt than singing.
“With all that you’ll be,” she adds.
“With all that you’ll be,”
“With all that you’ve won and lost,”
He thinks he understands what she’s singing about. “With all that you’ve won and lost,”
“You will always have me.” She ends the song.
“You will always have me.” He replies, and he sounds fond, though he isn’t sure whether she’s trying to find reassurance in him or give reassurance to him.
At the end, she hangs her head to stabilize herself once more. He opens his mouth to let out a quip, but she speaks first.
“I’m sorry, Star, I just need a second—"
“As cute as you are all teary and needy, you’re absurd if you’re apologizing to me.” He clicks his tongue in disapproval. Then, more comfortingly, adds, “I’ve got you. We’ve got each other."
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