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zepskies · 11 months

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Break Me Down - Part 14

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: Stick around at the end for a special note — new SB fic dropping soon!

Word Count: 6,000 Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! We return to the smut! Plus a healthy dose of fluff, angst, action, moral quandaries, and feels.

Part 14: Safe House

Jon lied in his hospital bed, frowning hard at a computer screen. His arm and collarbone were broken, along with a few ribs. He had a private room, at least, courtesy of Vought.

Stan Edgar strode in following a quick knock on the door.

“Hello, Jonathan. I meant to visit you earlier,” said Stan. Jon stared at his boss, silently simmering. On his laptop played footage of the destruction wrought on the Lower West Side by a major car chase.

“How are you feeling?” Stan asked.

“Why was Black Noir set loose on my wife and daughters?” he seethed through gritted teeth. Damn how the effort of keeping still was almost as painful as moving.

“Ex-wife, isn’t it?” Stan said, raising a brow.

Jon was not amused.

“I gave the order, yes,” Stan acknowledged. “On your eldest daughter.”

Jon was incensed. If he could get out of this bed, he’d very well contemplate strangling the other man. Stan seemed to know it, but considering his personal security guards were standing near the back wall of the hospital room, he also didn’t look worried.

“Why?” Jon asked, genuinely surprised and dismayed. “She’s not a threat.”

“Soldier Boy kept her for a reason,” Stan pointed out. “She brought him to our doorstep, with the intention of helping him assassinate me…eliminating her was a calculated risk.”

Jon shook his head.

“But since Noir has failed, we will have to prepare accordingly,” Stan said.

Jon glared back at him. “You think I’m going to help you?”

“I think you have a job to do,” Stan returned. “It didn’t stop you from breaking your daughter’s ribs, and very nearly her neck.”

Jon faltered, a brief regret weighing his frown.

“That wasn’t…that was to teach her a lesson.”

Perhaps he’d gone a bit too far, but he’d only been trying to subdue you. To get you to listen to him. But you’d always been stubborn.

Stan broke him from his thoughts.

“I am not being attacked, Jon,” he said. “We are. Your daughter is a part of it.”

“Marie and Luisa are not. Leave them out of this!”

Stan merely rose a brow. He folded his hands behind his back and withdrew. He was flanked by his bodyguards as he left the room.

“Rest up, Jonathan,” he said. “I’ll need you soon enough.”

The master bed was actually pretty comfortable, as you and Ben found out.

You clung onto his shoulders after both of you were spent. You panted for breath as he held you to him with his solid arms wrapped around your waist. You two were both kneeling, technically, in the middle of the bed.

Your thighs were molded to his hips, and he was still buried deep inside you. But as of yet, you had no reason to move. You were enjoying your vantage point above him, watching him collect himself with closed eyes.

The simple truth of it was, you’d missed him.

Even when he was being a stubborn pain in the ass, you hated every moment you had to watch him caged, watching him start to think he may never get out.

Your hands slid around to his back. It allowed you to hold him in more of an embrace as you caught your breath.

When his eyes opened, you met him with a smile. You slipped your fingers through his sweaty hair. Holding your free hand at the nape of his neck, you pressed your lips above his brow. Then another kiss to his scratchy cheek. His beard had gotten overgrown.

“You need a trim,” you said, letting out a breathy laugh. You kissed his cheek again. Slow, and with purpose.

Ben let out a sigh through his nose. His eyes closed again at your gentler kisses, your touch. Maybe he reveled in this—being able to hold you back. It felt right.

If he was honest with himself (and this time, he was), you were somehow able to ease the frayed edges of his mind. Edges that had been starting to unravel in that cell.

And there were other things too, that he was beginning to realize, but not yet willing to cement in his mind.

So you reluctantly detangled from one another, but remained in bed. The problem was, for whatever closeness you two had just shared…you weren’t quite sure what to do now.

You hesitated to ask him just what the two of you were doing. Mostly because you didn’t want to ruin whatever this was by labeling it.

So instead, you relaxed against his chest and pulled the blankets over you both. Ben didn’t just tolerate it; he settled a heavy arm across your lower back and over your hip. It made you smile.

“Ben…what do you want from the rest of your life?” you asked.

You didn’t know what possessed you to ask, but you had to wonder what the end goal was for him, after the issue of Vought was settled. After he presumably kept his end of the deal and retired to South America, or Europe, or wherever he wanted to go, really.

His hand came up to pet your hair. “I just got some of it.”

You huffed a laugh, hiding your face into his chest for a moment. You couldn’t see it, but Ben grinned at how easy it was to embarrass you, for how wanton he knew you could be.

“Come on, seriously,” you said.

“Seriously?” he teased.

“Yes,” you said, despite a giggle.

He let out something of a sigh. Meanwhile, his hand drew lazy patterns up and down your naked back.

“I always thought I had time,” he confessed. “To settle down. Have a family…I actually thought it would be Tess.”

That thought was accompanied by a bitter chuckle. Your brows furrowed in question.

“Crimson Countess,” he explained.

“Ah.” You nodded and rested a hand across his lower abs, playing with the thin trail of hair there that led south. He found it strangely soothing, if a hint arousing.

“Was it difficult killing Homelander?” you asked.

Ben scoffed. “Just chock full of questions tonight, aren’t you?”

You sat up and propped an elbow on his shoulder, so he had to look at you.

“Not physically. Emotionally,” you said. God forbid you ask him about his man feelings, but you really were curious.

Ben eyed you with a raised brow.

“I know he wasn’t really your son,” you said. “He was a raging psychopath and needed to go down, but was there a part of you that…was it hard for you?”

Ben’s mood dimmed as his lips pulled into a frown. “He was a true disappointment. Barely a man.”

That didn’t quite answer your question, but you thought you could read some of his true feelings on the matter. You didn’t think he regretted killing Homelander. But maybe he mourned the connection he could’ve had with a son. From what he’d said about Crimson Countess, you knew he wanted a real family.

That softened you. You brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes with delicate fingers.

“He was told he was a god his entire life. That’s what happens,” you said.

Ben scoffed at that, his gaze cutting away from you. You didn’t know what that meant exactly.

“And you?” he asked, turning back to you. “What do you want from all this?”

“Besides my family safe?” you retorted. But then, you considered his words. “I don’t know. I thought I knew who I was before I met you. Now I’m realizing that I can’t control anything in my life.”

Ben raised your chin, and therefore your face up to him.

“You can control you. You’ve been doing that since I met you.” His thumb swiped against your lower lip. “Especially this fucking mouth.”

You smiled. “But you like that though.”

His lips pulled at amusement, huffing in response.

“Come on,” you teased. You moved, slipping a leg over to straddle his lap. You delved into his hair with both hands, and he let you tug his head back as he now looked up at you.

“Admit it,” you said cheekily. “You like my mouth. Talking back to you…on you…and getting you off.”

All while you spoke, you brushed your lips across his cheek, down his jawline, pressed a nipping kiss along his neck, below his ear. Then you returned to his lips. But you also ground down into his lap, feeling his rising length brush against your wet folds.

He groaned deep as you plied him the way you’d learned to do. And your tongue slipped into his mouth with your next kiss. He gripped your hips tight, wordlessly urging you to lower down into his lap and onto his waiting cock. But you resisted.

“Say it,” you demanded.

When he merely smirked, denying you control, you lowered a hand to take a firm hold of his cock. He let out a low hum of pleasure as you pumped him a couple of times, then held him poised at your entrance.

“I’ll give you what you want,” you said, brushing his lips. “But first, tell me how much you missed this.”

His next breath came out sharp as you squeezed his cock in your hand. You knew you’d find his fingerprints on your hips and ass in the morning, but you didn’t care. Because you were about to fucking win.

“Fine,” he said, through clenched teeth. “Maybe I’ve been craving this, more than a fix. More than goddamn sleep.”

Ben’s eyes were dark with lust, and he thumbed at your lower lip.

“And this fucking mouth. Gets you into all kinds of trouble, baby doll.”

You smirked and finally sunk on top of him. His cock slid past your folds and bottomed out inside of you, making you shudder and Ben groan in relief.

You did exactly as you promised. With your hands braced on his shoulders, you moved over him nice and slow.

Well, nice for you. Torturous for him.

He cast his head back to the headboard as he fought not to make you move.

“You’re fuckin’ killing me here,” he growled.

Your mouth curved into a grin.

“Alert the media,” you said. “We’ve got the ultimate weapon against Soldier Boy: a slow ride on his dick.”

Ben’s rich laugh rumbled out, crinkling his eyes at the corners and making you smile. You felt the impact of his laughter deep inside you, which wasn’t unpleasant. But you had mercy on him and finally picked up the pace. He grabbed a fistful of your hair for leverage while your lovely tits bounced in his face.

Then his fingers slid between you, parting your folds to rub at your clit. It made your hips stutter as you let out a mangled moan. Your inner walls started to tighten around him, earning you another muttered curse. He couldn’t help but thrust up inside you, mostly in time with your movements.

But he got impatient.

He grabbed your hips tighter and flipped you over, with your thighs wrapped around his hips.

“The moment I saw you, I knew I’d have you,” he gritted out. “Fuck, just like this.”

You gasped as he pounded deeper inside you. You felt like the bed was going to swallow you up. But you pressed your heels into his lower back and held on for the rest of the ride.

Within moments, Ben spilled into you so hard and fast that it took both of you by surprise. It felt hot and tingling inside you, making you shudder again.

Thank God for IUDs, you thought.

And when his fingers found your clit again in time with his last wild thrusts, it was enough to tumble you over along with him.

Afterwards, Ben braced himself on the headboard as a line of sweat dripped down the column of his neck. You grabbed onto his free hand while you caught your breath. His lips tugged at a smirk, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“And we’re not done,” he said. “Not by a long shot.”

Ben woke to the annoying sound of coffee percolating. A normal man would have slept right through it, but thanks to his sensitive ears, he was up at…

Christ, it’s 11 in the morning. He noted the digital clock on the nightstand and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He actually slept all night. And all morning.

Up until recently, that had been impossible.

He heard puttering in the kitchen, knew it was you because of your soft humming. It drew a smile to his face without him realizing.

He climbed out of bed, showered, shaved and trimmed off the wilder parts of his beard, and dressed casually with the clothing he found in the closet. Wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would do for now.

This house was also not what he was used to. It was small, and too “suburban dad” for his taste. But he guessed it was better than an underground glass prison cell.

He ventured into the kitchen, where the smell of good food made his mouth water, and the sight of you frying bacon (trying not to get burned by the sparking grease) deepened his grin.

All you wore was his discarded shirt from yesterday, presumably over your underwear as it hung around your thighs, and a pair of slippers you must’ve found in the closet.

Maybe you heard him coming, because you glanced back over your shoulder and met him with a smile. But it soon edged into a more serious look as you turned and leveled him with your spatula.

“Okay. I don’t want any smartass remarks,” you warned. “I did make breakfast, because I’m a nice person, but don’t expect this for every meal.”

Ben raised a wry brow.

“Morning to you too,” he drawled. He rested a hand on your lower back as he looked over your shoulder, surveying the plate of cooling bacon, the pan of scrambled eggs, and the toast ready to be buttered on the counter, next to a jar of strawberry jam. “Looks good.”

You watched him steal a piece of bacon, your lips quirking.

“Is that a thank you?” you asked.

He purposefully bit into the bacon instead of answering. You gave him a narrowed look, but you were still amused.

“Even a child can say please and thank you,” you pointed out.

Ben turned to you then and hooked an arm around your waist, suddenly pulling you tight against him.

“All right. How about this?” he replied. His head bowed and kissed you thoroughly. He tasted coffee and jam on your tongue. A surprised moan caught in your throat, and you clung to his arms on instinct. Meanwhile, his other hand went to your hip, bunching the material of the stolen shirt.

When he broke from you, he looked down on your somewhat dazed expression and had to temper his smile. He gave you a nice slap on the ass, shocking a yelp out of you.

You shot him a dry look.

“Is that please, or thank you?” you teased.

Ben rolled his eyes and kissed you again, trapping you against the counter this time. But he didn’t allow himself to get carried away (yet). He swept back strands of your hair and let his fingers skim across your cheek, feeling your skin warming under his touch.

He finally settled on brushing his thumb across your bottom lip, meeting your eyes.

“Thank you,” he said.

It had a deeper meaning, you realized from the gravity of his gaze.

“That fucking bitch probably wanted to put me on ice the second they brought me in,” he said.

You could only assume he meant Grace.

“You’re probably the reason that didn’t happen,” he continued. “And that I’m here now.”

Emotion threatened to choke you, beginning to sting your eyes. You cleared your throat and soothed a hand along his forearm.

“You made the deal,” you pointed out. Ben shook his head.

“You were right. I want the fucking target off my back, once and for all,” he said. He touched where a smattering of bruises from the car accident colored your temple and part of your cheek with fading purple and yellow.

“But I’m getting it off you too," he said gruffly. "You want a deal? Here it is: no one’s fucking touching you again as long as I’m around.”

Your breath hitched as your heart began to hammer in your chest. You wanted to ask what that meant. You wanted to ask if, maybe, he wanted to be with you. If he…

But you lost your nerve.

“The eggs are gonna get cold,” you said in a coarse whisper.

Ben smirked.

“That’s really what you’re fucking worried about?” he asked, shortly before he cut off your would-be reply with a heated kiss.

Your arms twined around his neck, almost of their own volition. He already had you by the waist, and from there he hefted you effortlessly onto a small clean portion of counter space in the kitchen. His hands burned up your thighs, underneath the overlarge shirt. When he encountered nothing but bare ass, his lips curved against yours.

“What a naughty girl. You’re out here cooking with no fucking panties on?”

It was your turn to smirk as you held a hand to his cheek. He did in fact trim the beard.

“You like that, don’t you?” you remarked.

His dark chuckle was your answer as he spread your thighs wider. Your breath came out a bit shakier as his hand went smoothly up the inside of your thigh and slipped between your folds.

“Already wet for me, I see,” he said. His smirk only grew as you whined with pleasure at the invasion of his fingers. First just teasing inside your entrance, working you up. Your grip on his neck tightened, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Ben…”

“How many fucking times I gotta tell you to be patient?”

“Ugh.” You dropped your forehead into the crook of his neck. “You are the worst.”

His resulting chuckle reverberated in your chest and tingled down into your lower belly. Combined with his teasing, it made your inner walls tighten on nothing from anticipation…until two of his fingers suddenly sunk deep into your heat. You cried out into his ear in surprise.

“Ben,” you breathed, but it ended on a moan as he finally began to give you what you wanted. His thumb found your clit and circled slowly while he thrust and turned his fingers inside you. You gripped at his hair, holding on tighter and tighter as your walls clenched on his hand.

“That’s it, baby doll. I gotcha,” he muttered. Though you teased a grunt out of him when you snaked a hand between you to palm at the bulge in his jeans. If he was going to give you a good morning, you’d be sure to return the favor.

He kept working on you, but with shaking hands you unzipped his pants and aimed to free him from those tight boxer briefs.

Unfortunately, your cell phone ringing halted both of your plans. It was on the kitchen counter, and it vibrated across the tile next to you.

Butcher calling…

Both of your heavy breathing accompanied the shrill sound. But when you noticed the caller ID, you gave Ben a rueful look.

He frowned in annoyance, but he withdrew from you, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel before he grabbed your phone and answered it (even if it took him two or three angry tries on swiping the green button). You put it on speaker.

“What?” Ben grouched into the phone.

“Apologies for interrupting what I’m sure is a dewy morning after,” Butcher said with all due sarcasm. “We’ve got a lead on Neuman.”

You raised a brow at that. Tugging down your shirt back over your thighs, you answered, “Where is she?”

“She’s giving a speech at NYU this afternoon.”

You frowned. You knew for a fact he hadn’t run that by the whole team.

“It’s not a good idea to catch her there. Too exposed. Too many people could get caught in the crossfire,” you said.

“Her next scheduled outing is a fundraiser for the homeless. That any better?” Butcher asked with mock cheer. “At the least the college kiddos won’t be coughing up a lung because their hepatitis A’s on a flare up.”

Ben’s lips twitched at amusement, but your frown only deepened in irritation.

“You’re unsavory, you know that?” you said, rubbing at your temple. “…Fine. We’ll catch her at the college.”

“Wasn’t really up for fuckin’ debate,” Butcher replied. “We head out in two hours.”

This isn’t going to be easy, you thought.

You were teamed up with M.M., Annie, and Hughie on surveillance, sitting in Frenchie’s van on one of the side streets outside the auditorium where Victoria Neuman was giving her speech.

Kimiko and Frenchie had formed a perimeter with Butcher on the campus. After the speech came to a close, Butcher, M.M., and Frenchie had worked out where Victoria would likely be escorted out to get back to her limo.

But you forced yourself to take deep breaths. You watched the various camera angles you and M.M. had been able to hook up to the monitors inside the van. On one of the screens was Ben in his full Soldier Boy gear, sans helmet, waiting for his cue.

You felt M.M. glancing at you, and you met his stare. His expression was tight, but mostly stoic. Still, you had a feeling you knew what he was thinking.

“He can do this,” you said.

M.M. shook his head and faced the screens. “You think you can fucking change him.”

“No,” you said. “But he just might surprise you.”

You weren’t trying to change him, nor were you trying to free yourself anymore. He’d caught you, in more ways than one.

Now, you were just trying to help him. And maybe, help yourself.

“I don’t give a fuck,” M.M. bit out. Annie and Hughie glanced at both of you in thinly veiled concern. You just quirked a humorless smile.

“I think you do,” you replied.

“All right, look alive,” Butcher said on the comm. Victoria’s speech was over. She was shepherded off the stage by her bodyguards while the president of NYU got up to make closing remarks.

She got as far as the hallway leading to the back door of the auditorium before Frenchie and Butcher sniped out her guards. You watched Victoria gasp and flinch at the bullets flying all too close to her. She looked around sharply, but finding no one there, she made a run for the exit.

That was when Ben ambushed her from the side, grabbing her from behind and shoving her through the door of the next room before she could aim her gaze at any part of him.

Ben stalked in after her. You adjusted the camera monitors to connect to the science lab they’d burst into. Every muscle in your body tensed as you watched.

Meanwhile, Ben was wary but not afraid as he kept his shield in front of his face. Victoria raised a hand to a her now bruised arm, but she scrambled in her navy pencil dress and heels to pick herself up.

She looked up at the supe striding toward her, taking in his head protecting his upper body. So she focused her gaze on his right thigh, making him falter as her power made her eyes roll into her head and blast at his suit.

The skin underneath was durable though. It felt like a nasty sunburn, one that Ben could ignore. He approached until he could grab her by the hair and turn her face away from him. She cried out, clawing back at his hand.

He placed his shield onto the holster on his back and got a hold on the back of her neck. He forced her onto her knees while he made her keep looking at the ground.

“Soldier Boy,” she panted. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Cut the fucking chit-chat. Where the fuck is Stan, that dick tease?”

He was about to start squeezing his grip, when he was suddenly thrown into the far wall. He fell into a mess of student desks, beakers, and various scientific instruments.

“Zoe!” he heard Victoria shout. Apparently the woman’s daughter was a supe too. A telekinetic, by the looks of it.

With an angry growl, he picked himself up and shook off the glass from his shoulders. By the time he looked up, Victoria was ushering her daughter out the opposite door.

Ben ran after them, following them into what seemed to be another classroom. This one was full of students busy taking a test, and a professor grading a large stack of papers. Ben zipped through and ignored the gasps and shocked faces, along with a couple of kids that recognized him and immediately took out their phones.

He also didn’t care that his elbow knocked the stack of papers to the ground (to the professor’s outrage).

He bulldozed his way into another empty classroom, where he threw his shield at Victoria’s back. With a cry, she tripped and fell into a desk, and was separated from her daughter.

“Mom!” Zoe cried and reached out for her, but Victoria raised a frantic hand.

“Stay there!” she shouted back at her. Her attention focused back on Ben.

She razed at his face and chest with her powers. Ben winced as heat flared across his skin, blistering to the point of second-degree burns on his arm after protecting his face. He strode forward and grabbed her again, this time with a thumb pressing over one eye.

“You wanna keep your fucking eyes, or you want to tell me where your father is?” he demanded.

“No!” Zoe shouted. She raised her hands, and a violet glow of energy spread between them. Ben picked up his shield, ready to use it as a projectile against the girl.

Until your voice sounded in the comm in his ear.

“Go easy, Ben. She’s not the target,” you warned. He hesitated, his lips twisting in annoyance.

“Zoe,” Victoria warned. His thumb still pressed threateningly against one of her eyes. The other looked up at him, defiant. But her lower lip was trembling.

“You really want your daughter to be a part of this?” Ben asked darkly.

You were on pins and needles. While you watched the screen, M.M. glanced at you.

“We need to do something,” Annie said. She had been antsy the entire time, and when Hughie tried to grab her shoulder, she shrugged him off.

“We can’t extract the girl without Neuman seeing us,” you said. But you weren’t happy about it.

Annie gave you an incredulous look. “So you’re okay with that psycho killing a little girl?”

“Of course not, Annie!” you snapped. “But this is the reality of catching criminals. They rarely go down by themselves.”

She frowned angrily at you.

“That sounds like an excuse for murder,” she said.

There was a tense moment, in which you and Annie stared back at one another. You eventually relented.

“Okay, go. But stay on standby with Kimiko and Frenchie. They’re outside the classroom, 112B,” you told her. She and Hughie raced out, and you let out a breath while you turned back to the tense scene in front of you.

“Look, I don’t know where he is,” Victoria said. “We haven’t exactly been on speaking terms.”

“Then get him on the fucking phone,” Ben snapped.

A tear streamed down her eye, the one that briefly closed, then looked up at him.

“He’s not a bad man,” she said. “Not…entirely.”

Ben snorted in response. “Well, aside from trying to replace me with a bullshit knockoff, shipping me off to motherfucking Siberia. He stole from me. My life. And the bitch of the whole bunch, tried to kill me with a fucking clone, with the help of my own DNA. So excuse me if I’m past the fucking point of forgive and forget.”

“Fine! Fine,” she said, when he started squeezing in earnest. “Let my daughter go, and I’ll help you.”

Ben glanced up at the girl. She was frightened, with her glowing hands still poised to try and take him out. He still had half a mind to knock her out first.

“She’s just a kid, Ben. Let her go,” you said in his ear.

After another tense moment, Ben nodded.

Annie burst into the classroom, followed by Butcher, Frenchie, and Kimiko. Annie reached Zoe with a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she shared a look with Victoria.

“She’ll be okay,” Annie told Victoria, who nodded as more tears slipped down her cheeks. Ben held her firm by the shoulders when Butcher came with a device, no doubt provided by the CIA. It looked like a large metal band that clicked into place around Victoria’s head, covering her eyes.

Kimiko and Frenchie led her out, while Annie and Hughie did the same for Zoe. Butcher shared an appraising look with Ben, who stared back at him coolly.

Meanwhile, you let out a deep breath. You sat back in your seat and ignored the way M.M. gave you some cursory side-eye.

Thank Christ that’s over.

Back at Supe Affairs, Victoria gave them addresses to her adoptive father’s known safehouses. Not because they expected to find him there, but because they might find even more material to leverage against him before they attempted to arrest the man.

While Butcher and the rest of the team ran down the leads, you and Annie made sure Victoria’s daughter Zoe was put in protective custody, again, with Grace’s help.

Afterwards, Ben was waiting for you in the car that would bring you both back to the safe house. You rode there in silence.

When you got inside the house and made your way to the bedroom, Ben followed you. It seemed he couldn’t help himself. His arms were crossed, and his face was tight. You waited on him to speak as you started rummaging in the dresser for a shirt and pair of jeans to change into after a shower.

“I don’t need you yapping in my ear when I’m trying to get shit done,” he said.

You paused in your search, and you turned to him, raising an incredulous brow.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to stick to the plan. Targeted kills only, remember? Zoe wasn’t the target.”

His frown soured. “She hit me first.”

You stared back at him. Then you raised your eyes heavenward, praying for strength. And you let out a breath.

“She was trying to help her mother, Ben.”

“If you’re grown enough to throw a punch, you’re grown enough to take one,” he argued.

“You’ve never hit me once,” you pointed out. “Is it different because she’s a supe? Were you really going to kill a child?”

“I never said that,” he said, glaring at you.

“Would you have killed Ryan too?” you asked.

Ben expelled a sigh of exasperation. “Would you shut up already?”

“No,” you refused. And you followed him into the living room when he stormed out. “You’re not going to weasel your way out of this. Would you have killed Ryan?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “He was Homelander’s fucking kid.”

“And that makes it all right?”

“Yeah, are you gonna say that in a few years? If he turns out just like Homelander, are you going to come crying to me to take him out?”

You glared at him. He was making a valid point you couldn’t refute, but that didn’t change what he was trying to do.

“You’re unbelievable.” You shook your head and crossed your arms. “You’re actually justifying this.”

“Whether you want to admit it or not, a supe is a supe,” Ben said, raising a finger. “No matter how old they are, they’re a threat.”

“It doesn’t mean a child shouldn’t be protected, Soldier Boy,” you countered. “A life is a life.”

“Hey, if you want to be sanctimonious, good for fucking you,” he shot back. “But don’t tell me how to do my fucking job.”

“I’m asking you to keep your word,” you said. “For both of our sakes.”

That managed to shut him up. With a sigh, you tried to ease up by taking his hand with both of yours, holding it with care. His glove was busted, the skin underneath was red and raw. He allowed it, but he still looked down on you with reserved irritation.

You knew you didn’t have to remind him what breaking Grace’s agreement would mean, for both of you.

“Just follow the plan,” you implored. “Targeted kills only. No collateral damage.”

After Ben came out of the shower, he went into the bedroom to change with a towel wrapped around his waist.

You were already cleaned up, a messy bun atop your head, wearing a plain shirt and some shorts, and sitting up in the bed with your new laptop. But you subtly watched him move around the room.

You noticed the burns across his chest. You were still irritated with him, but you couldn’t help it. You set your laptop aside and went to him.

Ben saw you coming through the large mirror above the dresser. His head turned to you just as you raised a tentative hand near the burns across his chest.

“Does it hurt?” you asked with furrowed brows. Your fingertips were light in touching his chest.

It did sting, but it wasn’t that bad.

Still, all Ben said was, “No. They’ll probably be gone in a few hours anyway.”

Your lower lip stuck out a little, like you didn’t quite believe him as you inspected the various burns.

Ben eyed you. He still couldn’t fucking figure you out.

He knew you were into him…and evidently, you cared about him.

Still, you fought him on virtually everything. There were times when you seemed almost disgusted by him, but when he fucked you, you acted like he was the eighth wonder of the world.

Even now, that perfect damn mouth of yours was frowning while your fingers moved delicately over his skin.

“You want some aloe vera?” you asked.

He knew by your face that you were completely sincere. It made him chuckle. You looked up at him in confusion.

“What’s so funny?”

Not unlike this morning, he picked you up (smirking at your squeal) and set you down on the dresser. His hands rested on your hips while yours laid gently on a non-burnt area of his chest.

“For someone as breakable as you, you seem to be real concerned about me,” he said. “...You’re really not afraid of me, are you?”

Your fingertips ran down his skin, unintentionally raising goosebumps. Though you considered his question with a tilt of your head.

“Why, are you going to break me?” you teased.

Ben huffed in amusement. His lips drew near yours, hovering but not yet claiming. He wanted you to come to him this time. Wanted you to let him know if this thing, whatever it was between you two, was heading where he thought it was…

And you didn’t disappoint him.

You reached out and framed his face with both hands, and pulled him into a kiss. For once, neither of you were in a hurry as one languid kiss turned into another.

Your tongue slipped into his mouth, and he welcomed you with a deep, reverberating hum, along with your thighs slipping around his hips. He took a firm grip of you there, while your fingers carded through his hair.

“Still not tired of this?” you whispered against his lips.

He backed off enough to look at you. Really look at you. His brown hair fell above his brows, and as was your habit, you swept some of it out of his eyes.

You read his answer there without him having to say it in words.

So you pulled him back in.

AN: 😏 Was their reunion everything you wanted it to be? Let me know in the comments!

(And do you wanna know where we're going next?)

Next Time:

“Good morning,” Stan greeted, raising his mug. “Care for a cup? Perhaps a donut.”

“Still fucking smarmy,” Ben said. He stood in front of the man’s desk, flexing his half-gloved fingers. He glanced up at the walls of this office, this tower in the sky. “We’ve been doing this dance for a long time, you and I.”

“And yet, on entirely different tempos,” Stan replied. “How can I help you, Soldier Boy?”

Keep Reading: PART 15

Special Note:

I'm releasing a new one-shot soon, set in this story-verse called "Love Actually." It's part of @deanwinchesterswitch's Christmas in July fic event running this month!

Go here to check it out and participate (as a writer/artist or a reader)!

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#Safe House #soldier boy #the boys #soldier boy/ben #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #the boys season 3 #soldier boy/ben x reader #the boys au #enemies to lovers #frenemies to lovers #private investigator!reader #the boys amazon #soldier boy smut #break me down #Part 14 #zepskies writes

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atopvisenyashill · 10 months

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the chapter i’m on - asos sansa ii - is interesting bc it’s cited as an instance of sansa being cruel, classist, a bully, whatever, in her thoughts of arya but that is such a surface level reading it’s maddening to think people look at it that way.

sansa isn’t thinking “i’d much rather have margaery as a sister” she’s thinking around how much she grieves for arya, and her own guilty feelings over not seeing through joffrey quick enough. it’s really clear:

“how can i let my sister marry joffrey” she thinks as she’s crying, just seconds after thinking about arya and attempting to distance herself from hurtful memories. she’s not just scared for margaery, she is thinking of arya in margaery’s place. she is thinking of how joffrey hurt arya and how sansa had stood there and yelled at arya, not joffrey (which i don’t think is a failing of hers; a drunk 11 year old reacting badly to a wildly stressful situation is not a moral failing). she’s thinking about how she can’t stand there and do nothing again when she can save margaery the way she couldn’t save arya and all she has to do is speak up.

she’s just not saying it directly because she deals with stress by repressing her memories. she thinks around a stressful subject instead of naming it in her mind. thinking of arya and the possibility that she’s dead and the last time they spoke they were fighting, all of that is too painful, so instead she focuses on wanting to protect margaery.

then, with arya on her mind, she finally lets herself acknowledge some of her pain while she’s alone:

“sometimes there was even a girl who looked like arya” is the point of this chapter! she has sons to please willas but the little girl she imagines with him belongs to sansa and sansa alone. and in her dreams, that girl looks like the sister she’s lost. in her dreams, her entire family is reunited. in her dreams, she realized joffrey was a monster earlier and she saves arya and lady and nymeria from him and she gets to be the brave, noble lady of her songs.

the crazy thing is that this has happened before and people understood it then: ned does this constantly.

the most obvious one comes early and you can see clearly he does the exact same thing of thinking around who his thoughts have really strayed to:

“you can’t get your hands on this one, can you?” he is clearly thinking about jon. he is testing to see if robert has changed any over the years, if maybe jon isn’t in that much danger and ned had just discredited robert’s heart too much over the years. only for robert to rage about dany, justify the butchering of elia & her babies, and confirm all of ned’s worst fears are still true. jon will never be safe in westeros if his identity were to be known and ned made the right decision to lie all these years. it’s such an important scene in establishing ned’s character and the show does an equally good job of implying what ned is really thinking.

Beyond being an excellent masterclass in acting during this scene, it comes immediately after Ned has said goodbye to Jon and promised they’d speak of his mother when they reunite. There’s a clear link that we’re meant to make between the scene before and this one despite Ned steadfastedly refusing to think Lyanna or Jon’s names. It’s the same with Arya; we’re meant to link Sansa’s sudden terror for Margaery with her feelings for Arya.

With both Ned and Sansa, a lot of their true thoughts are in what they don’t think and not what they tell you they’re thinking. They lie to themselves and they lie to you and the “trap” is to recognize this and piece together how they really feel.

#valyrianscrolls #rani liveblogs asoiaf #sansa stark #ned stark #fathers and daughters #sisters #sansa x arya #getting on my soap box #the sun and moon in endless chase

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tma-reader-inserts · 9 months

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Elias Bouchard x Hunt Avatar! Reader

Tw: cannibalism

Being one of the file storage and reference section assistants at the Magnus Institute is not a glamorous job. It’s a lot like being a librarian, which is what you got your degree in (along with a minor in folklore), so at least the filing system is familiar to you, and you’re not saddled with unnecessary responsibility like Diana is being the head of the department.

Fortunately, your boss, Mr. Bouchard, is very understanding. You couldn’t control others actions, and as long as something gets returned he’s not too upset over the matter.

He often came to check up on you, to take your inventory report personally and give a stern talking to to those who fail to return their borrowed material. It was nice, to know your boss was looking out for you, to have some backing. People don’t really take you seriously, with your meek nature, at least Mr. Bouchard did.

Jon was concerning you, though. He’s been visiting more and more often, ever since the Prentiss incident. He’s been asking slightly invasive questions since he’s learned you worked closely with his predecessor right before her death. You even think he’s been following you after work; which is highly worrying because of your… odd habits.

You pray he hasn’t noticed your trips to the butcher.

—

You were entering fight or flight when Jon locked the door to the storage room, and were in full on panic mode when he stomped over to you and demanded you answer for your strange eating habits. How you never ate lunch at the Institute but visit a certain unreputable butcher every other day.

He crowded up to you so closely you could count the worm scars the littered his tan skin.

“Do you have any idea how often that shop appears in statements? How- how many people disappear there? You must know, you work here!” He yells, eyes alight with fury.

You curl into yourself, fear stilling your to tongue. You were never good with men yelling at you.

“Gertrude was investigating the place before she died, did you do something to her to keep going there?” He accuses.

The blood drains from your face. You for sure never harmed a hair on Gertrude Robinson’s head. You’re not sure if you even could back when she was alive. But yes she was investigating your butcher. Yes. Even she confronted you about it, and just like when she accused you of your… strange diet, you flinch at Jon’s words.

You felt hot tears well up in your eyes. You were now fully afraid of your coworker. Gone was the hard core skeptic, the ineffable Jonathan Sims and in his place was a maniac.

“It’s not like that-“ you stutter out. “I never laid a hand on Gertrude-“

“She was shot! You wouldn’t need to touch her!” He continues. You felt sick to your stomach as he continues to rave.

You couldn’t tell him that there was no way you killed Gertrude, that as soon as you even smelled blood you lose control of yourself. If you killed Gertrude, she wouldn’t have just bullet wounds.

You were seconds away from sobbing, so terrified of Jon and how close his accusations were, ready to spill your guts and let him call the police or the press or maybe he’d just try and kill you the same way Gertrude did-

The door broke open, and in hastily strolled a very angry looking Elias Bouchard. You shook with relief and a shaky breath rattled through your body. A firm, ring adorned hand was placed on Jon’s shoulder and the Archivist was pulled away from your personal space.

You weren’t even registering what Elias was scolding Jon for, but after some rebuttal from the archivist and back and forth from both men, Jon eventually left in a huff. After he slammed the door closed, the tears in your eyes finally spilled.

Elias was quickly by your side, his voice was sturdy, and his hand rubbed your back in a comforting manner.

“It’s alright, my dear, let it out.” He hums. “Let us retreat to my office, give you some privacy to calm down, hmm?”

—

One cup of tea and a box of tissues later, you’re now sniffling helplessly in Elias’s office. He waits for you patiently to calm down, as you alternate between wiping your cheeks and sipping your earl grey.

When it’s seems you’ve finally settled enough, your employer speaks.

“I am truly sorry for Jonathan’s actions. It seems that he’s not quite himself since the Prentiss incident, although that is no excuse for his behavior.”

One thing you’ve always like about your boss was how he was concise with his words and how put together he was. Nothing seemed to get to him. Always prim and eloquent.

You sigh heavily, the fear and sadness in your system expelling itself through the breath. “It… I’m fine now, I guess. I’ve never seen Jon act so… erratically.”

Elias nods, a warm hand placed itself on your knee. “Erratic is one way of putting it, I suppose.” There was a beat of silence before Elias removed his hand and settled his gaze on you. “Jon does raise a fair question, in regards to your relation to the butcher shop you visit.”

Your heart stops, and you felt very sick.

“The shop in question is central to several statements over the years, not to mention has been investigated by the police many times for related and unrelated reasons.” He says easily. “Is there a particular reason you frequent this specific shop?”

You couldn’t exactly tell your boss that it’s one of the only butchers near your house that can supply your high demand for copious different kinds of meat and blood; that it’s certainly the only place that doesn’t question why you need so much. That it feels safe to you because the owner can smell the strange on you and doesn’t curl away in fear the way most do.

“… I… have a crush on the butcher.” You lie. It’s an awful lie, you sound horrifically unsure of yourself and you could feel the bead of sweat roll down your temple traitorously. Not to mention it felt gross to even say it.

Elias raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “The man is well above you in age.” He points out. How he knows that off handedly is beyond you but you don’t dare question his knowledge right now.

“… I’m into older men.” Not a lie, exactly. You felt some peace with yourself with this truth exposed.

He tilts his head in consideration before sighing. “Be that as it may; you’re still not telling me the whole truth.” He says sharply.

You flinch, and cast your eyes downward.

“It’s-“ you choke on your words. “It’s a lot more complicated than that.” You confess lowly, under your breath. “I can’t tell you, I-I just can’t.” You sigh roughly, pointedly looking away from the man across from you. “You wouldn’t believe me, anyhow.”

Your wording intrigued Elias, as he leaned in closer to you, the perfect expression of sympathy on his face. “We work here, my dear, I’m sure I’ve heard for more unfathomable tales.”

A frown yanks the corners of your mouth downwards as you try not to start crying again. You’ve kept your secret so close to you all these years, so afraid of how people would react. How it would change others perception of you. You’re more afraid of speaking the incident aloud than of the incident itself, and the idea of confession finally chokes you up.

The hand returns to you knee as Elias says you name, so tenderly it makes you ache. “You’re safe here.” He urges. “Think of it like a statement; we’ll lock it away and keep it hidden from public.”

That… does assure you a bit. You’ve had people confess to murders here. It is the Magnus Institute after all.

“I… I don’t want it investigated.” You murmur, one hand of yours coming to your mouth in anxiousness. “There isn’t anything left to investigate, there’s no point.”

The older man nods in understanding all too readily. “I understand.”

You felt like you were going to throw up. You’ve never even toyed with the notion of confessing of what happened to you, now here you were, locked in your boss’s office, tea lukewarm and you ready to let your heart bleed.

“I was… six or seven, I can’t be sure.” You start. “My family has relatives in Canada, on my fathers side. We always visited them around the end of summer, and we’ve been going there so often that even as a child I was familiar with their land. We usually rented a small cabin in the woods not far from my uncle’s house and we’d stay there for a few weeks; me and my parents.

“We didn’t usually sleep in the cabin truthfully, we tented out in the wood by the place. It’d be right before hunting season and the forest would be littered with all kinds of animals that my dad would hunt idly with the assortment of guns his brother owned. We ate off of deer and rabbit and-“ you laugh at the memory, “squirrels if you can believe it. Anything dad could catch. We’d eat the wild berries and vegetables and fish from the creek. It was… nice.” You sigh, thinking of your father’s methodical hands as he skinned rabbits and your mother’s careful explanations of identifying plants that were safe to eat.

You swallowed thickly, preparing to speak of the unfortunate bit. “One night, we heard a noise. Nothing that would indicate… the danger that followed… but somewhere nearby there was something snapping twigs as it walked. It sounded so close.” You shudder.

“My father grabbed one of the guns near him and went to investigate. That was the last I ever saw of him. His last word were ‘wait here.’” Your eyes glass over as you relived your memories, and Elias moves his chair closer to you, nodding for you to continue. “He never even had the chance to shoot the gun. So deep in the shadows I didn’t see him- see him get killed.” You choked up again.

“My mother grabbed me and ran. She apparently saw something I didn’t and lugged me up into her arms and started to sprint to the tree line, to the cabin. But she tripped. I fell from her embrace and she was dragged back into the darkness.” The recollection was making you numb, and perhaps now it was easier to speak of your trauma. “I don’t think she had time to scream. To plead or beg, because I felt warm liquid splash on my face mere moments after I managed to stand up.

“I didn’t want to run, I was too scared too. Evidently that’s was the best choice. The thing that had killed my parents finally emerged from the darkness. I couldn’t see it clearly, but it loomed over me so greatly in height I thought it was a moving tree. Its limbs were long and thin, like bones or branches, and it was almost red with how richly brown it was. I couldn’t see its face, but I saw red droplets fall from somewhere above me.

“I-I’m not sure why exactly it didn’t kill me. Maybe because I wasn’t moving. Maybe it could only see me if I moved and I was so still I was sure my heart had stopped all together. It just… walked away from me; slowly, snapping branches and twigs underfoot as it retreated back into the woods… I wish that was the end of it.” You sigh.

“I spent hours in the woods, days. I was so lost I couldn’t find the tree line at all. I couldn’t even find our camp site.

Whatever direction my mother started to run in was wrong, and I was sure it spelt my doom. I’m not sure how long I wandered in the daylight but I eventually found a cave, a large tree sticking out from the mouth.

“Well, I thought it was a tree at first. Until I saw it move. I heard no noises in the area. No birds, or bugs, or animals. Like they were all afraid of being in the vicinity of this great beast; and my parents and I were just too stupid to sense the danger.

“I was… so mad, seeing it. I was furious. This… thing destroyed my life and it was sleeping! It was resting as if my parent’s bodies weren’t in its stomach. I’m not sure what possessed me; a very child like rage, I’m sure, and the determination to get back at it, somehow. To make us even. It ate my parents.” You clipped coldly. “I was wanted to eat it.”

Elias watched you patiently. And you continued.

“It must’ve been used to not being disturbed while it slept. So used to being left alone that it didn’t notice me at all as I crawled into the cave. When I crawled in as far as I could until its mass was so large it plugged the cave. I had no weapon, I had nothing sharp, not even a stone or a stick, but I was so angry and so hungry…” you hiss.

“I… I didn’t know what to expect of it. It looked leathery, but when I dug my fingers in between what I thought was it’s rib, the flesh gave away easily, with hardly any resistance at all, like pulling slow cooked meat off the bone.” You swallow here. And Elias looks at you with rapt attention.

“How did it taste?” He inquires, voice not above a whisper, and you answer.

“… it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

You confess, eyes closing tightly, trying to conjure the experience to your mind. “It was so rich, and soft and warm. I kept pulling bits and bits off of it until there was a hole in its side, and I could see into its hollow chest cavity. It… ignited something in me. A fierce kind of hunger. It felt like I’ve never eaten since before that moment and I was starved. I just… kept eating. Pulling meat from its arm, its legs, the fingers. I must’ve spent hours slowly feasting away on this creature, piece by piece consuming it. It never woke up, never even stirred. I wondered if it died in its sleep as I licked my fingers between bites. I ate more than I thought possible, more than I should have been able to feasibly consume. I ate everting I could reach until all that remained was a skeleton, a black, brittle skeleton that cracked easily when I knocked into them too hard.

“When there was nothing left to eat, I was still so, so hungry. It was like I didn’t even pick away at the monster for hours on end. I crawled out of the cave on my hands and knees. There was still no sound of life in the woods.

“… I don’t remember being found. They say I was missing for weeks. They say a mountain lion killed my parents because their corpses were found mangled in the trees.” You scoff, bitterly, eyes welling with tears. “It never actually ate them. It killed them. For fun. And now I’m… this.” You gesture ruefully to yourself.

“What are you now?” Elias asks gently, hand never once leaving your knee.

You sniffle. “I don’t know. When I managed to come back to England, to be placed in the care of my grandparents, it was obvious I wasn’t… normal, anymore. I couldn’t manage to eat anything for the first few weeks, I kept throwing it all up. And whatever I managed to keep down, it never satisfied me. I always felt so hungry, so… hollow. I was almost dying of malnutrition, when in a fit of starvation I tore into a package of raw ground beef. For the first time since being in Canada, I could feel my stomach being to fill and take to the food, even if it was bloody, raw meat.”

You laugh ruefully next, the sound not even startling your boss. “When my grandmother found out, she told me I was better to starve to death than be that… some kind of freak, monster.” You look away to let the tears fall freely. “My grandfather thought a monster of a grandchild was better than no grandchild at all, so he moved me and himself to the country side, where he could feed me in peace. Live cattle and lots of butcher shops. A place where no one really noticed when a pig or sheep go missing.” You wiped at your face as you calmed down. “I grew up relatively normal besides that. Got good grades in school. Had friends. My grandfather was willing to experiment with my diet to see what I could eat and how to disguise my meals.”

Elias nods along. “What else can you eat?”

Shrugging, you answer. “Raw foods. Non processed vegetables, fruit, and grains, although they only curb the hunger pangs, I could eat pounds of them and never be full. Eating… live animals is what fills me up best.” You confess carefully, trying to gauge Elias’s reaction without fully looking at him. “Raw meat is more convenient, easier to buy and to consume in peace.”

There was a moment of silence as Elias considers your words before speaking. “What do you mean by, ‘best’?”

You look to him, confused.

“You said live animals is what satisfies you best, but does it satisfy you enough? Does it actually fill you up?”

A tremor of fear wiggles down your spine. In for a penny you assume

“No.” You answer honestly. “I’ve… never actually been ‘full’ since before the accident. Meat helps greatly but…” you trail off, afraid to finish your thought.

Elias speaks for you. “Is it because it’s animal meat? Do you think of you ate other meat, it would fill you?”

‘Other meat.’ What a funny way of saying humans.

Your face twitches in to a scowl before you answer. “I know it would.” You sigh again, fresh tears forming along your wet line. “I know if I ate human meat I would finally be full, but…”

Elias nods. “But you’re not sure if you’d be able to stop yourself.” He concludes. And you shake your head negatively.

“Not that.” You whisper, dread filling your voice. You finally look into Elias’s eye and almost burst into tears when you confess your greatest sin. “I know I can stop because I have before.”

This stills Elias, but you barrel through, afraid if you stop you’d never be able to say it again.

“A man followed me home after my grandfathers funeral. All the way from the burial to town. I thought he had left but, when I went into an alley for a shortcut to the house, he-he attacked me.” Your breath hastened as you recall the details. “He said awful, awful things to me. Called me all sorts of names and said what he was going to do to me. I haven’t been that scared since my parents died, and-“ you gasp, “and I just- I chased him.”

Elias’s eye brows scrunched together in confusion. “You didn’t run away?”

You shook your head. “I bolted at him. I was so scared but also so furious, I couldn’t believe someone was trying to accost me on the worst day of my life, and I just,” you shrugged, “I took after him. He wasn’t expecting that and ran away, but the more he ran, the more it felt like I needed to chase him. It was like it was the only thing I could do, the only logical decision. I’m my head was just a mantra of ‘catch, catch, catch,’ so I kept running in the town’s back alleys. He didn’t hit a dead end, didn’t trip; I pounced at him and-“

You swallow again, mouth thick with saliva. “I caught him by the throat. I tore it out like it was nothing. He didn’t even have time to scream.” You whisper, horrified. “As I chewed on his flesh, felt it slid down my throat into my stomach, I could feel it. That this is what I needed to finally be full. This is what the creature tasted like all those years ago.” you shudder. Ashamed, you turned from Elias, hiding your tearful face into your hands, but you couldn’t stop taking now. “I-I didn’t know what to do. It re-sparked a hunger in me and I was digging into his stomach when I finally gathered my wits and ran away. No one could see the blood on my black dress and gloves and my face was covered by a veil.

“When I got home I scrubbed every inch of my body to rid it of blood and burned my clothes, I ended up eating a sow I was so famished. It felt so… good. To chase, to hunt. It felt like I should’ve been doing it my whole life. Like I was born to take down prey. Like I was a spoiled house cat, finally in the woods hunting mice.” The analogy makes you pause. You weren’t a cat, and other people weren’t rodents, but it was the closest and less gory way of verbalising your emotions.

When you were done, you eyes Elias carefully. This was it. He could have you put into prison, the looney bin. You confessed to monstrosities and crimes that have been weighing you down for years, and now Elias Bouchard was going to judge you.

The man nods, and considers his words.

“And the butcher?” He questions.

“He knew my grandfather.” You say, “He’s been helping to feed me since I was a child. He knows all about me and my… condition. Goes out of his way to get, uh, exotic meats to keep me fed.”

Elias nods again. Snatching a tissue from the box, the man dabs away your tears and looks at you in what seems to be acceptance and sympathy.

“Well, no wonder why you were so anxious about Jon confronting you.” He mumbled to himself, pushing your mused hair out of your face.

“Will you tell anyone?” You whisper, terrified of the answer.

He shakes his head. “Not a soul, my dear. This isn’t the worse confession this Institute has seen. But it does explain some things…”

You don’t ask what they explain. You’re too scared. Elias managed to fix your face, and calmly refills your tea. You sip at it half heartedly as your boss easily promises that your secret was safe within his office walls.

It… doesn’t exactly feel like a weights been taken off your shoulders. You haven’t been that vulnerable in a long time, and you hoped that Elias would never betray you.

—

Weeks later

—

You felt cold, staring down at the body. Incredibly hot blooded and cold simultaneously. Bile threatens to rise from your actions but you swallow it down. Gore sticks under your finger nails and teeth, and it tastes divine; like manna from heaven. You wanted to cry from how hungry you were, how there was sustenance right in front of you and you cannot bring yourself to eat.

The other woman ran ages ago, darting down the alley as soon as you threw her attacker against the wall and punched a hole into his stomach. She certainly didn’t stay long enough to see you pull out his intestine and bring it to your mouth.

You fucked up. Badly. There was no possible way to get out of this situation by yourself. Your mind was drawing a blank and you were beginning to panic. You just killed someone, again. And this time you don’t have the giant lake to hide the body in.

You needed help; you needed guidance. Someone who always had a clear head and means to help you.

You knew exactly who to go to.

—

When Elias opened his office door, he certainly was not expecting to see you standing there, covered in blood, eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Mr. Bouchard?” You said lowly, almost in a trance. “I did something bad…”

Elias could see the body in your minds eye. The corpse with his insides spilled out and chewed on. Some brute of a man with a bruised sternum and his skull shattered from the back, brain matter smearing the wall behind him.

He nods, slowly, taking into account your clothing, your guilty face, and your extremely vulnerable mind.

“Come, in my dear…” he couldn’t fight the smile which inched across his face. “Tell me what happened…”

—

Disposing of the body was easy enough. A few calls and the whole problem was swept under the rug. You didn’t exactly know the details, but whatever they were Elias just smoothed your hair and told you not to worry.

I’m a matter of an hour, the man never existed, and you were still in Elias’s office, gripping your now cold tea cup. He just stared as you, bemused.

After several long minutes of silence, he moves, straightening up and weaving his fingers together, gazing upon you steadily.

“Would you like to have dinner with me on Friday?”

You stared at him, shocked and confused.

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t think you’ve been taking care of yourself properly.” He states. “I’d like to make sure you’ve eaten well, for once.”

He looks like he might eat you instead.

Your breath hitched. “Wh-why?”

He winks at you. “Don’t worry about that, darling.”

#elias bouchard #tma #the magnus archives #elias bouchard x reader

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babyflorencee · 5 months

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Haunted House

Jonathan Crane x fem!Reader

"Johnny, please. I don't want to go in," I whined, tugging on the sleeve of my best friend, as we started to near the entrance.

"Come on darling, I'll be right next to you the whole time," he said, intertwining our fingers together, giving my hand a small but reassuring squeeze.

I nodded my head, holding on to his hand tighter when I realized we were the next people in line to go in. "Okay, next," the lady said, nodding her head to Jonathan and I.

"Have fun," she sinisterly said, smiling widely at us, causing me to hug Jonathan as if my life depended on it.

"Don't be scared, love, she says that to everyone," he said, laughing a little as he hugged me back.

We walked through the blood-stained door to be greeted with a room that looked identical to a meat locker. Taking a deep breath, I looked around the room noticing that there were meat hooks, hanging animals, hanging body part, black and white flashing lights making it harder to see, not to mention the room was so cold that smoke appeared whenever someone talked, or even breathed.

I looked over at Jonathan, seeing an amused look on his face. He had this psychopathic, crazed look in his eyes, making me nervous at the thought of this amusing him. "Jon, I don't like this," I whispered, looking up at him.

"How? This is so fascinating. The affects the smoke, the blood, the animals, not to mention the screams. Don't you like it?" He said, smiling like a little boy who just got handed ice cream.

I knew he liked these things. He has been trying to convince me to go with him to a haunted house for years. But something about him getting pleasure from other people's fears seemed a bit off to me. But I never really cared to think about it. I was just grateful enough at the fact that he let me cling onto him, since he was the polar opposite of affectionate. He hated giving and receiving any form of affection.

"No, I don't Jon," I said, giving him a weird look as he just rolled his eyes in response.

We kept walking for what seemed as if forever, when all of a sudden, this overly tall guy that was wearing a white apron with blood and slashes all over it and who was carrying a big, butcher knife, jumps from behind the door causing me to let out the loudest, blood curling scream I had ever heard. I practically jumped onto Jonathan, burying my head into his neck, on the verge of tears, as he was now forced to carry me.

All he did was let out a laugh, reaching over a little to pat me on the head, "It's okay little one, I'm here to protect you." The mockery in his tone being very apparent.

After the second jump scare, I ended up forcing Jonathan to carry me until we reached the end of the haunted house, making him swear on my life that he will never bring me to another one of these things ever again.

#cillian murphy imagines #cillian x fem!reader #jonathan crane #jonathan crane imagines #cillian murphy x reader

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esther-dot · 6 months

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why do u think grrm smiled and said "doesn't it?" when a fan asked if lady’s death meant that sansa had ceased to be a stark?

I couldn't find an official source for this quote, it popped up on Reddit in a few places, but it looks like this is the source for it:

We've had these debates before about whether Sansa's actions truly resulted in her losing her wolf and father. And whether losing Lady symbolized her ceasing to be a true Stark. In fact, we've had this debate in front of GRRM twice. The first time was in St Louis in 2001 while at dinner. GRRM let us debate, smiling and nodding here and there. He also told us why he created Sansa in the first place, because there is always someone in a family that the others don't get along with. He was a bit coy in answering our questions but in the end he did indicate that Sansa did have responsibility for Lady's and Ned's deaths. I reported this to the board and I recall it being dismissed by some. I distinctly recall someone saying, "Well what I think he really meant to say was..." The second time we had this discussion was in Indy in 2007. There was a boarder there that didn't believe that Sansa's losing Lady symbolized her not being a Stark anymore. The person said so in front of GRRM and GRRM smiled and said, "Doesn't it?" (link)

When they say he smiled, was Martin merely smiling to be nice in a social situation? Was he laughing at them for missing the point? Was he happy that one person understood what he had written? I don't think this description really tells me enough to know what to make of Martin's intent. Presenting a question to someone is about forcing them to think, not necessarily a Statement of your own beliefs, it also can be used to deflect/provide a non-answer, and that seems to be the case here. That post doesn't tell me much at all, tbh, certainly not enough to make me question what did or did not happen in the books.

Is your attention being drawn to some culpability on Sansa's part in these passages?

They were all staring at him, but it was Sansa's look that cut. "She is of the north. She deserves better than a butcher." He left the room with his eyes burning and his daughter's wails echoing in his ears, and found the direwolf pup where they chained her. Ned sat beside her for a while. "Lady," he said, tasting the name. He had never paid much attention to the names the children had picked, but looking at her now, he knew that Sansa had chosen well. She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting. She looked at him with bright golden eyes, and he ruffled her thick grey fur. Shortly, Jory brought him Ice. (AGOT, Eddard III)

So he listened, and she told it all, from the fire in the library tower to Varys and the guardsmen and Littlefinger. And when she was done, Eddard Stark sat dazed beside the table, the dagger in his hand. Bran's wolf had saved the boy's life, he thought dully. What was it that Jon had said when they found the pups in the snow? Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord. And he had killed Sansa's, and for what? Was it guilt he was feeling? Or fear? If the gods had sent these wolves, what folly had he done? (AGOT, Eddard IV)

If Martin wanted to write the blame on Sansa, he could have. Instead, he emphasizes Sansa and Lady's innocence, their trusting nature, how they were betrayed:

Sansa begs for Lady as she begs for herself, but it is futile. These words: “She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting” (AGOT, Eddard III) may just as easily have been written about Sansa. Lady calmly looks up at Ned never expecting that he would kill her, and Sansa believed Joffrey’s promise to spare Ned. Both Lady and Sansa’s trust was used against them: “Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father's head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.” (ACOK, Sansa I) Ned looked into Lady’s eyes and killed her, Joffrey looked into Sansa’s eyes and took Ned’s head. Is the point that Lady was stupid for trusting Ned, or that Ned was wrong to take an innocent life, to participate in an unjust act? That Robert was wrong for commanding it? Is the point that Sansa is stupid? Or that Joffrey and Cersei wronged her? (link)

So, I don't know what to say about what that conversation with Martin, I don't know what preceded his response or followed it. I only know what he wrote in the books, and imo, it isn't what the poster believes it to be. Instead of Martin saying Sansa is less of Stark, I think he has taken pains to associate Sansa and the North, not merely through her longing to return home, her love of the cold and snow, her scene of rebuilding Winterfell, the prophecy of her returning North and exacting justice for all of LF's crimes against her family, but also through what her she endures:

People who say that need to contrast the thrill of reading this: "The King in the North!" "The King in the North!" "THE KING IN THE NORTH!" (AGOT, Catelyn XI) with this "The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey's gifts as well. When they told him that Robb had been proclaimed King in the North, his rage had been a fearsome thing, and he had sent Ser Boros to beat her." (ACOK, Sansa I) The author wrote the birth of the independent North in bruises on her skin. Martin tied Sansa to the North's fate but instead of giving her the glory, he made her pay for it. While Robb and the North fight on a battlefield, it is Sansa’s body men seek to claim in order to secure the North. (link)

I think Sansa will have great importance to House Stark and the North in the future, her freedom will align with theirs, and I'm not sure why Cersei being evil and Robert being a weak, unjust king, is Sansa's fault. And, it will always fascinate me that so many fans have read this passage:

"Surely you did not think I'd forgotten about your sweet innocent, my lord? The queen most certainly has not." "No," Ned pleaded, his voice cracking. "Varys, gods have mercy, do as you like with me, but leave my daughter out of your schemes. Sansa's no more than a child." "Rhaenys was a child too. Prince Rhaegar's daughter. A precious little thing, younger than your girls. She had a small black kitten she called Balerion, did you know? I always wondered what happened to him. Rhaenys liked to pretend he was the true Balerion, the Black Dread of old, but I imagine the Lannisters taught her the difference between a kitten and a dragon quick enough, the day they broke down her door." Varys gave a long weary sigh, the sigh of a man who carried all the sadness of the world in a sack upon his shoulders. "The High Septon once told me that as we sin, so do we suffer. If that's true, Lord Eddard, tell me … why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when you high lords play your game of thrones? Ponder it, if you would, while you wait upon the queen. And spare a thought for this as well: The next visitor who calls on you could bring you bread and cheese and the milk of the poppy for your pain … or he could bring you Sansa's head. (AGOT, Eddard XV)

only to walk away from AGOT thinking that the author wants us to blame Sansa for the things she has suffered.

#anti asoiaf fandom #sansa stark #dot chat

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jackoshadows · 10 months

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There's this nice little parallel between Arya and Jon doing the right thing under incredibly dangerous and complicated scenarios and then being saved by the direwolves.

When Jon Snow is asked to kill the old man at the Queenscrown, he knows that his life would be forfeit if he refuses. And yet, he can't bring himself to do it.

“Why do you hesitate?” Styr said. “Kill him, and be done.” He is an old man, Jon told himself. Fifty, maybe even sixty. He lived a longer life than most. The Thenns will kill him anyway, nothing I can say or do will save him. Longclaw seemed heavier than lead in his hand, too heavy to lift. The man kept staring at him, with eyes as big and black as wells. I will fall into those eyes and drown. The Magnar was looking at him too, and he could almost taste the mistrust. The man is dead. What matter if it is my hand that slays him? One cut would do it, quick and clean. Longclaw was forged of Valyrian steel. Like Ice. Jon remembered another killing; the deserter on his knees, his head rolling, the brightness of blood on snow . . . his father’s sword, his father’s words, his father’s face . . . “Do it, Jon Snow,” Ygritte urged. “You must. T’ prove you are no crow, but one o’ the free folk.” He turned his back on the man. “No.” - Jon, AGoT

And then we have little 9 year old, skinny little Arya confronting Joffrey's sadistic torture of Mycah. Joffrey is taller and bigger than even Jon and Robb and he's armed with a sword. Arya is armed with a stick. Joffrey has been trained in the sword and Arya has not. The odds are against her. And yet she steps up to defend Mycah because it's the right thing to do.

“And you’re only a butcher’s boy, and no knight.” Joffrey lifted Lion’s Tooth and laid its point on Mycah’s cheek below the eye, as the butcher’s boy stood trembling. “That was my lady’s sister you were hitting, do you know that?” A bright bud of blood blossomed where his sword pressed into Mycah’s flesh, and a slow red line trickled down the boy’s cheek. “Stop it!” Arya screamed. She grabbed up her fallen stick. “I won’t hurt him … much,” Prince Joffrey told Arya, never taking his eyes off the butcher’s boy. Arya went for him. - Sansa, AGoT

And when both Arya and Jon are under attack because of doing the right thing, the direwolves - gifts from the Old Gods - step in to help save them.

The Magnar said something in the Old Tongue. He might have been telling the Thenns to kill Jon where he stood, but he would never know the truth of that. Lightning crashed down from the sky, a searing blue-white bolt that touched the top of the tower in the lake. They could smell the fury of it, and when the thunder came it seemed to shake the night. And death leapt down amongst them. The lightning flash left Jon night-blind, but he glimpsed the hurtling shadow half a heartbeat before he heard the shriek. - Jon, ASoS

Joffrey slashed at Arya with his sword, screaming obscenities, terrible words, filthy words. Arya darted back, frightened now, but Joffrey followed, hounding her toward the woods, backing her up against a tree. Then a grey blur flashed past her, and suddenly Nymeria was there, leaping, jaws closing around Joffrey’s sword arm. The steel fell from his fingers as the wolf knocked him off his feet, and they rolled in the grass, the wolf snarling and ripping at him, the prince shrieking in pain. - Sansa, AGot

What also stands out is 9 year old Arya's presence of mind. She steps in to call Nymeria off else the damage done to Joffrey would be far worse. Just look at what Summer does to the Thenns.

The lightning flash left Jon night-blind, but he glimpsed the hurtling shadow half a heartbeat before he heard the shriek. The first Thenn died as the old man had, blood gushing from his torn throat. Then the light was gone and the shape was spinning away, snarling, and another man went down in the dark. There were curses, shouts, howls of pain. Jon saw Big Boil stumble backward and knock down three men behind him. Ghost, he thought for one mad instant. Ghost leapt the Wall. Then the lightning turned the night to day, and he saw the wolf standing on Del’s chest, blood running black from his jaws. Grey. He’s grey. - Jon, ASoS

“Get it off,” he screamed. “Get it off!” Arya’s voice cracked like a whip. “Nymeria!” The direwolf let go of Joffrey and moved to Arya’s side. The prince lay in the grass, whimpering, cradling his mangled arm. His shirt was soaked in blood. Arya said, “She didn’t hurt you … much.” - Sansa, AGoT

As Arya points out rather accurately, Nymeria did not hurt Joffrey...much, considering what a direwolf is capable of. Nymeria steps in to save Arya and that's it. Arya could have done more damage to Joffrey if she wanted to - but she recognizes and understands the situation and calls Nymeria off.

Anyways I thought this was a cool, thematic parallel of not only Arya and Jon having the instinct to do the right thing, no matter the circumstances, but also of the direwolves - in this case Nymeria and Summer - helping them overcome the danger of those circumstances.

#Arya Stark #Jon Snow #asoiaf #parallels

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melrosing · 5 months

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Ok speaking of changes GOT made… is there any changes you like? I struggle to find big moments, but there are small additions I love. Like Ned praying before he dies, Robb hitting the tree when he finds out, the chemistry that Kit Harrington and Rose Leslie have…. But there are very few structural changes I think improve the story.

hmmm so I can't lie there is a LOT I just don't remember anymore about the show, so wringing my mind a little to come up with something.....

I won't mention things that I think were adapted well (like Ned's execution) as those aren't adaptational changes. and I also won't mention things that I like the idea of (e.g. Jaime's dyslexia) but not the execution (they made out it was part of the longrunning 'stupidest Lannister' joke).

and like.... well I'm stuck already lmao?? I'm not even trying to shit on the show I just feel like it was a consistent exercise in either understating GRRM's work or butchering it entirely. so I can think of only a few things:

I can't find the link to where I talked about this at length but the scene in which Jaime and Ned duel in the streets of KL was a good one imo. I think it was more in character for Jaime to just recklessly fight Ned himself, and a neat parallel to what I suspect will happen between Ned, Arthur and Howland - in that when Ned is attacked from behind by one of Jaime's men in the midst of their fight, Jaime angrily ends the duel bc his man has essentially dishonoured it. I think Ned's fight with Arthur will end as it did in the show (with Howland stabbing Arthur from behind and Ned finishing the job, bc he needs to reach Lyanna), and this is like a parallel to show Jaime and Ned have the same principles, yet each have broken them in times of desperation. My personal theory is that this was a change GRRM recommended - the parallel seems notable to me, and not one that would've even occurred to D&D, esp. given they never gave any particular shit about Jaime's story. And this may sound spurious but I recall that GRRM remembers in an interview, saying the weather was different in the show version of the scene than in the books.... which makes me think he was maybe onset for this one, possibly because of the rewrite??

I'm v much in favour of ageing up the youngest characters. My ideal starting ages for the youngest characters in AGOT would've been Jon/Robb/Dany - 18, Joffrey/Sansa - 14, Arya - 12, Bran - 10. To me they all feel much too young for the roles they play in the story, and it occasionally kills my suspension of disbelief

I way prefer the book’s version of the Red Wedding but I do feel like Catelyn's single cry of despair works better than the book's manic laughter. maybe the laughter was a more vivid image for the books idk

I do actually like how we see Robb's grief onscreen it's very movingly played by Richard Madden. I also love Catelyn's expressions as Robb rides back from the Whispering Wood, like both these scenes are great reminders of their mother/son relationship in a setting where they aren't really allowed to be just that. and like just Michelle Fairley tbh I really like her work as Catelyn even though I don't like how the character was adapted more generally

Breaking the 'concept but not execution' rule just to say I think it was definitely a good idea to explore the High Sparrow as this weirdly charismatic figure so we can see how others might be taken in by him, even whilst we see the extremes of his faith. but that subplot was not executed well at all so fuck it

Yeah I agree that Jon and Ygritte having a slightly more charged romance also works. In the books Ygritte comes and goes quite quickly and I think there is something to be said for lending a bit more gravity to that relationship. I don't think they necessarily had to be the grand romance that the show makes them out to be but I didn't hate it

I might be forgetting other things that worked because some seasons I haven't seen since like 2015, but honestly it just doesn't work for me as an adaptation. things I liked in the show before reading the books feel completely naff in hindsight, knowing how they were supposed to play out, so..... eh

#ask #anti got #asoiaf #edit: sorry this originally said I prefer the show’s red wedding I do NOT 💀💀💀

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fireandbloodsource · 2 years

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DAENERYS APPRECIATION MONTH 2022 ↳ Day 9: Anti parallels with the current ruling elite of Westeros (How Dany treats her ‘hostages’ // How Theon Greyjoy felt being Eddard Stark’s hostage)

A ward in name, a hostage in truth. Half his days a hostage... but no longer. His life was his own again, and nowhere a Stark to be seen.

Lord Eddard had raised him among his own children, but Theon had never been one of them. The whole castle, from Lady Stark to the lowliest kitchen scullion, knew he was hostage to his father's good behavior, and treated him accordingly. Even the bastard Jon Snow had been accorded more honor than he had.

Lord Eddard had tried to play the father from time to time, but to Theon he had always remained the man who'd brought blood and fire to Pyke and taken him from his home. As a boy, he had lived in fear of Stark's stern face and great dark sword. His wife was, if anything, even more distant and suspicious.

***

One of her young hostages brought her morning meal, a plump shy girl named Mezzara, whose father ruled the pyramid of Merreq, and Dany gave her a happy hug and thanked her with a kiss.

"They are very sweet, the both of them," Dany assured her. "Qezza sings for me sometimes. She has a lovely voice". And Ser Barristan has been instructing Grazhar and the other boys in the ways of western chivalry."

Dany had grown fond of her young charges. Some were shy and some were bold, some sweet and some sullen, but all were innocent.

What good is peace if it must be purchased with the blood of little children? "These murders are not their doing," Dany told the Green Grace, feebly. "I am no butcher queen."

#danymonth2022 #asoiaf #asoiafedit #daenerys targaryen #canondany #theon greyjoy #valyrianscrolls

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istumpysk · 1 year

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Operation Stumpy Re-Read

TWOW: Barristan I

Welcome back! What's worse than a battle chapter?

A Barristan Selmy battle chapter.

Through the gloom of night the dead men flew, raining down upon the city streets. The riper corpses would fall to pieces in the air, and burst when they came smashing down onto the bricks, scattering worms and maggots and worse things. Others would bounce against the sides of pyramids and towers, leaving smears of blood and gore to mark the places where they'd struck.

Bodies are flying from trebuchets, so that must mean a Lannister is on the other side.

+.+.+

When Daenerys had taken the city, they had broken through that same gate with the huge battering ram called Joso's Cock, made from the mast of a ship.

Just a friendly reminder that this is a rape metaphor, and has nothing to do with Jon Snow's cock. My condolences to that fandom.

+.+.+

Now once again the market was a scene of carnage, though these dead came riding the pale mare. By day Meereen's brick streets showed half a hundred hues, but night turned them into patchworks of black and white and grey. Torchlight shimmered in the puddles left by the recent rains, and painted lines of fire on the helms and greaves and breastplates of the men.

Unfortunate timing: the rain stopped precisely when the threat of a city-state being engulfed by dragon fire reached its peak.

Perhaps the gods are not deaf after all, Ser Barristan Selmy reflected as he watched those distant embers. If not for the rain, the fires might have consumed all of Meereen by now. - The Queen's Hand, ADWD

+.+.+

Ser Barristan Selmy rode past them slowly. The old knight wore the armor his queen had given him—a suit of white enameled steel, inlaid and chased with gold. The cloak that streamed from his shoulders was as white as winter snow, as was the shield slung from his saddle. Beneath him was the queen's own mount, the silver mare Khal Drogo had given her upon their wedding day. That was presumptuous, he knew, but if Daenerys herself could not be with them in their hour of peril, Ser Barristan hoped the sight of her silver in the fray might give heart to her warriors, reminding them of who and what they fought for.

Remember this, a great joke is coming.

+.+.+

Besides, the silver had been years in the company of the queen's dragons, and had grown accustomed to the sight and scent of them. That was not something that could be said for the horses of their foes.

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

That was how Khal Jhaqo found her, when half a hundred mounted warriors emerged from the drifting smoke. - Daenerys X, ADWD

Westeros implications as well.

+.+.+

With him rode three of his lads. Tumco Lho carried the three-headed dragon banner of House Targaryen, red on black.

✨ banner ✨

+.+.+

Beneath the towering brick facade of Meereen's ancient Slave Exchange, five thousand Unsullied were drawn up in ten long lines. They stood as still as if they had been carved of stone, each with his three spears, short sword, and shield. Torchlight winked off the spikes of their bronze helmets, and bathed the smooth-cheeked faces beneath. When a body came spinning down amongst them, the eunuchs simply stepped aside, taking just as many steps as were required, then closing ranks again. They were all afoot, even their officers: Grey Worm first and foremost, marked by the three spikes on his helm.

This isn't terribly important, but it's never made clear where the other three thousand are. Is it a surprise?

+.+.+

Not far from them, about the ghastly monument the Great Masters called the Spire of Skulls, several hundred pit fighters had gathered. Selmy saw the Spotted Cat amongst them. Beside him stood Fearless Ithoke, and elsewhere Senerra She-Snake, Camarron of the Count, the Brindled Butcher, Togosh, Marrigo, Orlos the Catamite. Even Goghor the Giant was there, towering above the others like a man amongst boys. Freedom means something to them after all, it would seem. The pit fighters had more love for Hizdahr than they had ever shown Daenerys, but Selmy was glad to have them all the same. Some are even wearing armor, he observed. Perhaps his defeat of Khrazz had taught them something.

It wouldn't be a Barristan Selmy chapter if I didn't breakdown all the ways he's an imbecile.

Possibly Perhaps a Probable Predicament in the Battle #1:

We are not far removed from Barristan Selmy overthrowing Meereen's king and killing Khrazz, a pit fighter and the king's personal guard.

He now surrounds himself with other pit fighters, and is glad to be in their presence. 🚩🚩🚩

Selmy did not fear Khrazz, much less Steelskin. They were only pit fighters. Hizdahr's fearsome collection of former fighting slaves made indifferent guards at best. Speed and strength and ferocity they had, and some skill at arms as well, but blood games were poor training for protecting kings. In the pits their foes were announced with horns and drums, and after the battle was done and won the victors could have their wounds bound up and quaff some milk of the poppy for the pain, knowing that the threat was past and they were free to drink and feast and whore until the next fight. But the battle was never truly done for a knight of the Kingsguard. Threats came from everywhere and nowhere, at any time of day or night. No trumpets announced the foe: vassals, servants, friends, brothers, sons, even wives, any of them might have knives concealed beneath their cloaks and murder hidden in their hearts. For every hour of fighting, a Kingsguard knight spent ten thousand hours watching, waiting, standing silent in the shadows. - The Kingbreaker, TWOW

Could have another Tyrion / Mandon Moore situation on our hands.

+.+.+

Above, the gatehouse battlements were crowded with men in patchwork cloaks and brazen masks: the Shavepate had sent his Brazen Beasts onto the city walls, to free up the Unsullied to take the field. Should the battle be lost, it would be up to Skahaz and his men to hold Meereen against the Yunkai'i … until such time as Queen Daenerys could return. If indeed she ever does.

George will never slip an ellipsis of truth by me!

The takeaway? The battle will be lost ... until Daenerys returns with her weapon of mass destruction.

There's even more evidence of this when we get a preview of Dumbo's overconfidence in his next chapter.

He sees that ironmen are coming ashore, fighting the Yunkish, and says, surprised, "They are on our side!" The sellswords did not come to meet his charge because they were already preoccupied with the ironborn! Barristan is almost gleeful. "It’s like Baelor Breakspear and Prince Maekar, the hammer and the anvil. We have them! We have them!" - Summary of Barristan II, TWOW

None of this is much of a surprise. Moving on.

Possibly Perhaps a Probable Predicament in the Battle #2:

With Barry and his knights, the Unsullied, the Lhazarene, the sellsword companies, the Dothraki, and all the fighting freedmen outside the walls, Barristan has left Skahaz the Shavepoint (aka The Poisoner) and his Brazen Beasts in charge of Meereen. Uhhh, not ideal.

Ser Witless has forgotten why Daenerys believed this was such a bad idea in the first place.

"I know." The queen sighed. "What do you counsel, ser?"

"Battle," said Ser Barristan.

[...]

"Or five. And if I give you the Unsullied, I will have no one but the Brazen Beasts to hold Meereen."

[...]

When she opened her eyes again, Daenerys said, "I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city. I need … I need …" She could not say it. - Daenerys V, ADWD

And that's not the only thing he's forgotten.

The hostages again. He would kill them every one if I allowed it. "I heard you the first hundred times. No." - The Queen's Hand, ADWD

Speaking of outcomes that are fairly easy to anticipate:

A battle that looks lost + Skahaz the Shavepate in charge of all the child hostages and Hizdahr zo Loraq = ...

+.+.+

Across the city at other gates others forces had assembled. Tal Toraq and his Stalwart Shields had gathered by the eastern gate, sometimes called the hill gate or the Khyzai gate, since travelers bound for Lhazar via the Khyzai Pass always left that way. Marselen and the Mother's Men had massed beside the south gate, the Yellow Gate.

We remain on high alert regarding anything concerning Missandei's sole surviving brother.

+.+.+

Too many foes, Ser Barristan brooded. Their numbers must surely tell against us. This attack went against all of the old knight’s instincts. Meereen’s walls were thick and strong. Inside those walls, the defenders enjoyed every advantage. Yet he had no choice but to lead his men into the teeth of the Yunkish siege lines, against foes of vastly greater strength.

The White Bull would have called it folly. He would have warned Barristan against trusting sellswords too. This is what it has come to, my queen, Ser Barristan thought. Our fates hinge upon a sellsword’s greed. Your city, your people, our lives … the Tattered Prince holds us all in his bloodstained hands.

You had no choice? Really, you had no choice?

The best of them overcame their flaws, did their duty, and died with their swords in their hands. The worst …

The worst were those who played the game of thrones. - The Queensguard, ADWD

If the Shavepate speaks treason, he will leave me no choice but to arrest him. Hizdahr is my queen's consort, however little I may like it. My duty is to him, not Skahaz. - The Queensguard, ADWD

"Daenerys signed that peace," Ser Barristan said. "It is not for us to break it without her leave." - The Queensguard, ADWD

The Tattered Prince's bloodstained hands? The Tattered Prince?

+.+.+

Even if their best hope proved to be forlorn hope, Selmy knew that he had no other choice. He might have held Meereen for years against the Yunkai’i, but he could not hold it for even a moon’s turn with the pale mare galloping through its streets.

Here's that beautiful joke.

Who's the pale mare galloping through the streets, disrupting any chance of peace?

+.+.+

"You know our plan of attack," the white knight said, when the captains were gathered around him. "We will hit them first with our horse, as soon as the gate is opened. Ride hard and fast, straight at the slave soldiers. When the legions form up, sweep around them. Take them from behind or from the flank, but do not try their spears. Remember your objectives." "The trebuchet," said the Widower. "The one the Yunkai'i call Harridan. Take it, topple it, or burn it."

The plan is for Barristan to lead a sortie, destroy all the trebuchets, and give the Unsullied enough time to march and form up outside the gates.

And then they win, I guess? I don't know what the hell this guy is thinking.

+.+.+

He let it pass, and said, "These attacks should distract the Yunkai'i long enough for Grey Worm to march the Unsullied out the gate and form up." That was where his plan would rise or fall, he knew. If the Yunkish commanders had any sense, they would send their horse thundering down on the eunuchs before they could form ranks, when they were most vulnerable. His own cavalry would have to prevent that long enough for the Unsullied to lock shields and raise their wall of spears.

An Unsullied weakness has been emphasized by the author. I'm sure that will be important later in the story.

+.+.+

"At the sound of my horn, Grey Worm will advance in line and roll up the slavers and their soldiers. It may be that one or more Ghiscari legions will march out to meet them, shield to shield and spear to spear. That battle we shall surely win." "This one hears," said Grey Worm. "It shall be as you say." "Listen for my horn," Ser Barristan told them. "If you hear the retreat, fall back. Our walls stand behind us, packed with Brazen Beasts. Our foes dare not come too close, or they will find themselves in crossbow range. If you hear the horn sound advance, advance at once. Make for my standard or the queen's."

Possibly Perhaps a Probable Predicament in the Battle #3:

There's more than one person planning on sounding a horn during this fight.

"You will sail with me on Iron Victory," he told them, "but you will not join the battle. Boy, you're the youngest – you'll sound the horn first. When the time comes you will blow it long and loud. They say you are strong. Blow the horn until you are too weak to stand, until the last bit of breath has been squeezed from you, until your lungs are burning. Let the freedmen hear you in Meereen, the slavers in Yunkai, the ghosts in Astapor. Let the monkeys shit themselves at the sound when it rolls across the Isle of Cedars. Then pass the horn along to the next man. Do you hear me? Do you know what to do?" - Victarion I, TWOW

That might be an issue.

Not Barristan Selmy's fault, but I'll blame him anyway.

+.+.+

The Widower's horse sidled to his left. "And if your horn falls silent, ser knight? If you and these green boys of yours are cut down?" It was a fair question. Ser Barristan meant to be the first through the Yunkish lines. He might well be the first to die. It often worked that way. "If I fall, command is yours. After you, Jokin. Then Grey Worm." Should all of us be killed, the day is lost, he might have added, but they all knew that, surely, and none of them would want to hear it said aloud. Never speak of defeat before a battle, Lord Commander Hightower had told him once, when the world was young, for the gods may be listening.

"And if we come upon the captain?" asked the Widower. Daario Naharis. "Give him a sword and follow him."

The Widower and Jokin are Stormcrow captains.

I have no idea why they're ahead of Grey Worm in the line of command.

+.+.+

Though Barristan Selmy had little love and less trust for the queen’s paramour, he did not doubt his courage, nor his skill at arms. And if he should die heroically in battle, so much the better.

No way it will be that easy.

+.+.+

He had done his own praying earlier, as his squires helped him don his armor. His gods were far away across the sea in Westeros, but if the septons told it true, the Seven watched over their children wherever they might wander. Ser Barristan had said a prayer to the Crone, beseeching her to grant him a little of her wisdom, so that he might lead his men to victory. To his old friend the Warrior he prayed for strength. He asked the Mother for her mercy, should he fall. The Father he entreated to watch over his lads, these half-trained squires who were the closest things to sons that he would ever know. Finally he had bowed his head to the Stranger. "You come for all men in the end," he had prayed, "but if it please you, spare me and mine today, and gather up the spirits of our foes instead."

She sure does.

+.+.+

"Ser?" Larraq pointed with the Kingsguard banner, even as a wordless murmur went up from a thousand pairs of lips. Far across the city, where the shadowed steps of Meereen’s Great Pyramid shouldered eight hundred feet into a starless sky, a fire had awoken where once the harpy stood. A yellow spark at the apex of the pyramid, it glimmered and was gone again, and for half a heartbeat Ser Barristan was afraid the wind had blown it out. Then it returned, brighter, fiercer, the flames swirling, now yellow, now red, now orange, reaching up, clawing at the dark. Away to the east, dawn was breaking behind the hills.

The beacon!

"We have built a beacon atop the pyramid where once the Harpy stood. Dry wood soaked with oil, covered to keep the rain off. Should the hour come, and I pray that it does not, we will light that beacon. The flames will be your signal to pour out of our gates and attack. - The Queen's Hand, ADWD

This beacon isn't as fun as Stannis' beacon. (Or is it??)

+.+.+

Another thousand voices were exclaiming now. Another thousand men were looking, pointing, donning their helms, reaching for their swords and axes. Ser Barristan heard the rattle of chains. That was the portcullis coming up. Next would come the groan of the gate’s huge iron hinges. It was time. The Red Lamb handed him his winged helm. Barristan Selmy slipped it down over his head, fastened it to his gorget, pulled up his shield, slipped his arm inside the straps. The air tasted strangely sweet. There was nothing like the prospect of death to make a man feel alive. "May the Warrior protect us all," he told his lads. "Sound the attack."

Earlier:

Ser Barristan smiled. "Well said … but take care that you do not seek death out there, or you will surely find it. The Stranger comes for all of us, but we need not rush into his arms."

Love that this moron continuously references the Faith of the Seven to a bunch of people who don't know what the hell he's talking about.

Final thoughts:

Can officially confirm Barristan Selmy still sucks in The Winds of Winter.

Next chapter: Victarion I

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #twow #barristan i

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catofadifferentcolor · 7 months

Text

Terrible Fic Idea #71: The Night's Watch, but make it found family

Maester Aemon is perhaps my favorite character in ASOIAF. He could have been king. He could have lived a life of luxury as a prince in the south. He could easily have forsaken all his vows and risen to the most dizzying heights - and chose to remain sworn to guard the realm of men twice over as a maester of the Night's Watch.

So I thought: What would it take to give Maester Aemon the best possible ending?

Aka: The Maekar the Maester Fic

Just imagine it:

Everything follows canon - until the Greyjoy Rebellion, where Ned falls to a lucky crossbow bolt during the Siege of Pyke.

King Robert razes the castle in his fury, not bothering to evacuate the remaining Greyjoys or the common folk who took refuge in the castle. It is a massacre - but it puts the fear of god in the surviving Ironborn. The new Lord Reaper Rodrik Harlaw remains a faithful servant for all his days.

Back in Winterfell, 6-year-old Robb Stark is the new Lord Paramount of the North. His mother, Lady Catelyn, is his regent. And one of her first acts is to send her husband's bastard to the Wall. Which endears her to very few, as first graders have no place in a military organization even in Medieval times.

Benjen is away on a ranging at the time, so the Lord Commander entrusts young Jon's care to the only other man he can trust: Maester Aemon.

This works out better than anyone might have expected, because although Aemon is nearly 90 years old and has limited experience with children, the pair get on in a way that they really shouldn't given their vast difference in age and experience. But young Jon is bright and lively and curious, and Aemon has been lonely and lacking mental stimuli for most of his time at the Wall.

By the time Benjen returns from his ranging, the maester has already been dubbed Uncle Aemon and Benjen has to navigate co-parenting with a man who thinks teaching a young boy to stitch sword wounds is an appropriate learning activity.

(Benjen also has to navigate the urge to ride down to Winterfell and murder his brother's widow, and doesn't for the sole reason his nieces and nephews are too young to be orphaned.)

Jon grows up in the Night's Watch. He absorbs everything that there is to learn with the bright-eyed eagerness of a child - and though Jeor would hate to admit it, makes Castle Black a more enjoyable place to live. By age fourteen he can swing a sword, plan a ranging, sew a wound, cook a meal, repair a sword, patch a castle wall, chart the stars; track an animal, skin and butcher it, and name its bones afterwards; mix wildfire, and recite every piece of dragonlore he's ever learned - including a few slivers of knowledge that were normally only saved for dragonlords.

At fourteen he's allowed to make his Night's Watch vows.

The night before, Maester Aemon calls Jon into his chambers and tells him that could not be prouder of Jon if he were his own son.

Jon admits that he's wished many times over the years that Aemon was his father and considers him the father of his heart - more than Ned Stark, who he hardly remembers; more than Benjen, whose duties often keep him away; more than Jeor, who is kind but distant.

There are many tears and much hugging and more confessions, but at the end of it Aemon adopts Jon - perhaps through some Valeryian blood ritual - and gifts him the name Maeker, after his own father.

Canon proceeds apace elsewhere, save that when Jon Arryn dies, Robert rides to Highgarden at Renly's urging to name Mace Tyrell Hand of the King - and sends a raven in the opposite direction to summon Sansa as a bride for Joffrey.

Mace, through an almost comical series of events, comes to the same realization that Ned did in canon: that Cersei's children are not Robert's. Rather than try to have her step aside gracefully, he attempts to blackmail the queen into retiring to a motherhouse so that Margery can take her place... This does not go well.

Westeros erupts into war. It follows canon very closely - save that Cersei tries to use Sansa's presence in King's Landing to blackmail the North into fighting on Joffrey's side. Robb still ends up being named King in the North, this time more out of the urging of bannermen angry at how much the Southron wars have cost the North instead of revenge.

All this largely passes Maekar by on the Wall. He remains behind during the Great Ranging, serving at Aemon's assistant and apprentice. When the survivors return with news of the Others, he's skeptical but willing to hear the evidence - and wins the election for 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

As the War for the Dawn looms, Maekar sends messengers to each of the remaining kings for aide. Only Daenerys Targaryen responds, intrigued by everything she's been told by the messenger of the man they call Maekar the Maester, the adopted son of her Great-Uncle.

While Daenerys journeys north, Maester Aemon dies in his bed with Maekar at his side. With his last breaths, he gifts Maekar his maester's chain, saying that he has more than earned it - and that Maekar shall go down in history as the greatest of all Targaryens.

Daenerys grows even more intrigued by Maekar when she arrives at the Wall, but respects his desire to honor his vows. They remain great friends for the rest of their lives, sending entire flocks of ravens back and forth. Together they lead their forces against the Night's King-

-a task made easier when Bran and Meera Reed show up on the wrong side of the Wall, having slain the Three-Eyed Raven and raided his hoard. Amongst which are Blackfyre and Dark Sister.

Blackfyre is truly a massive sword and with dragonsteel in such short supply Daenerys allows Maekar to wield the Conqueror's blade in battle, as she cannot.

The War for the Dawn continues for another year - just long enough for the other kingdoms to realize what's happening and send a handful of reinforcements - before Maekar manages to slay the Night's King. Daenerys is able to destroy the last of the Others with her dragons...

...and when she lands, Maekar wastes no time in returning Blackfyre to her keeping.

A Great Council is held in the south. Though they try to offer the crown to Maekar, the hero of the War for the Dawn and (now wildly known thanks to Bran) rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Maekar refuses. They eventually grant the crown to Daenerys, who rules fairly and well for sixty years. She names her eldest son Maekar after her dearest friend.

Bonuses include: 1) Dozens of small character moments between Aemon and Maekar, showing the development of their relationship and depth of the feeling they share over the years; 2) Maekar inadvertently playing matchmaker more times than you'd expect of a man in a celibate organization. This should include hitting Bran and Meera over the head until they realize they've been crushing on each other for years, and getting Dany to give the minor lord she ends up marrying a chance; and 3) Young Jon breathing so much life into Castle Black that it's nearly unrecognizable from canon by the time Sam joins up. It's still cold, but it's not so miserable. It is, in fact, a home.

This is actually an idea I've had kicking around for a while and have only finally managed to put down. As always, feel free to adopt this most beloved of buns, just link back if you do anything with it.

More Terrible Fic Ideas

#plot bunny #fic ideas #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #got #asoiaf #jon snow #jon snow is a targaryen #aemon targaryen #maester aemon #house targaryen #night's watch #found family #found father #jeor mormont #benjen stark #daenerys targeryan #the long night

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zepskies · 10 months

Text

Break Me Down - Part 16

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: *Deep inhale, deeper exhale* Okay. You ready?

Word Count: 5,800 Tags/Warnings: Blood and peril, violence, angst, and yet another cliffhanger. (Last one, I promise!)

Part 16: Soldier Boy

You fled with Jon, Frank, and Loco to escape the bowels of Vought Tower.

You all were lucky that the Security & Surveillance room hadn’t been caught in the blast, but on the monitors you had seen it carve through the center of the building like a beam of light.

You could freak out about that later though. Now you were in flight mode, just trying to survive and evade falling debris and unsteady ground.

Frank kicked through a locked door on the way to the nearest stairwell. You and Jon made it through, but a huge chunk of debris fell, cutting Loco off from the rest of you.

You gasped and went to the doorway, trying to see if you could help push it out of the way. But more of the ceiling was still falling and threatened to crush you. Frank pulled you back, even though you knew he was worried too.

“Just go!” Loco said. “I’ll find another way out.”

“Head east,” Jon said. “There’s another stairwell by Human Resources.”

“Vought HR. What a fucking joke,” you couldn’t help but quip. But after Loco took off, you grabbed Frank’s arm and headed down the hall. You could see the “EXIT” sign up ahead. It led to a gray door, where several people were fleeing down the stairs.

Including Dr. Tonya Baker and three of her guards.

You and Frank stopped her before the door with your guns raised. Frank killed each guard with precision, while you kept your gun aimed on the good doctor. She raised her hand in wide-eyed surrender, but her other hand held a briefcase. You gestured to it with your gun.

“What’s that? Open it up,” you said. When the doctor hesitated, you pointed the gun back in her face. “Now.”

Gritting her teeth, she obliged you by entering the code that would unlock the briefcase. Jon took it from her and showed you its contents.

There were several files and blue vials of what you assumed were Compound V. However, you noticed three small white containers that weren’t like the rest. They were labeled: Soldier Boy.

“What are these?” you asked. Dr. Baker was tight-lipped, until you pressed the gun between her eyes.

“DNA samples,” she answered reluctantly. Your face fell, then hardened into a glare.

“Well, fuck that,” you said.

With your gun trained on the doctor, you grabbed a glass container and smashed it to the ground, making her flinch. Stale-smelling yellow liquid splattered on the floor, and you realized then what kind of “sample” it must’ve been. Jon grimaced; some of it had splashed onto his shoes.

“Thank you,” he groused.

“Oh, I’m not done,” you said. And you did the same to the last two containers. You took the briefcase from your father and gave it to Frank. “Take this and Madam Fritz here to the S.A.”

“What are you about to do?” Frank asked, though he took the briefcase from you (and laid a firm hand on Dr. Baker’s shoulder). “I don’t like that damn look in your eye.”

You turned to the scientist. “Did you see anyone else still in the building?”

“A few,” she admitted. “Mostly in the lower floors. Admin, Customer Service, R&D.”

Your eyes flew wide in alarm. Yvette, your friend who worked in Customer Service. She could be trapped down there…

Jon turned to you with a frown. “The only way they’re getting out is when the Fire Department comes to collect the bodies.”

You glared back and raised your gun at him next.

“Guess who’s going to help me get them out?” You glanced at Frank, who didn’t look pleased. “Don’t make that face. I’ll be fine.”

“The tower’s literally falling apart as we speak!” Jon exclaimed. He tried to push your gun away from his face, but you held it aloft.

“Move your ass or catch a bullet,” you snapped. “We’re going to Customer Service first.”

Ben continued to fight Black Noir.

He still wanted to cave in Stan Edgar’s skull, and it had the added benefit of giving Butcher and his team the cover they needed to try and escape the tower. That wasn’t in his mind though. He was focused on his two targets.

He’d grabbed a discarded gun from the floor when he’d gotten back up to his feet. He now used it to shoot Stan in the leg, to stop him from fleeing. The man cried out and went down hard on the newly installed tile.

Ben raised the gun again to shoot him between the eyes, but Noir stopped him. He grabbed Ben’s arm and hurled him over his shoulder. He landed in the broken shambles of Stan’s desk, and the impact further destabilized the top floor of the building.

Parts of the ceiling had already begun to break off, and Stan noticed. He tried to drag himself towards the door while Soldier Boy was distracted. Blood trailed after his bleeding leg, but he was determined, fighting for his life.

In fact, he almost made it.

But just when he was a mere three feet from the door, a massive panel of the ceiling (along with a silver light fixture), crashed down over him. If the concrete hadn’t crushed his bones, the ceiling light would’ve impaled him—right through his chest.

Ben watched the scene from where he half-lay on the ground in the rubble. His eyes marginally widened, but then his mouth quirked in satisfaction. One down…

His hand closed over a metal rod, yanking it from a piece of rock and wood, and he got to his feet. When Noir flew at him again, Ben lodged the metal rod deep into his exposed ear. If it had worked for Maeve on Homelander, he’d figured it could work on Noir.

And it did. The supe remained mute, expressionless, but the projectile lodged into his ear canal still made him wince. He clawed at it with shaking hands, trying to get it out. Ben didn’t give him a chance—he drop-kicked the other supe into the large glass window.

They’d given this clone Homelander’s strength, but forgot to give him flight, it seemed. Because the supe fell and kept falling off the side of the tower.

Ben stood there in the center of the destroyed room.

He panted for breath, only then did he notice his own fatigue. His limbs felt heavy, and it nearly buckled his knees. He forced himself to stay upright. Ben would never admit it, but whatever that gun had blasted him with, it did a number on him.

Ignoring how his hand shook, he raised it to his ear.

“Stan Edgar’s dead,” he said. “So is Noir, probably. I’m headed down.”

Hughie helped Butcher to the van in the garage, but he stopped short. An ex-military-looking guy was walking toward him with a briefcase in hand, and leading a doctor in a lab coat with the other.

“It’s you!” M.M. recognized him with a sharpening gaze. “From the airport. You’re one of Soldier Boy’s men.”

Frank gave the doctor over to M.M., informing them that you had asked him to put Dr. Baker into custody. At the mention of your name, Annie’s eyes widened.

“Oh my God, she’s still in there!” she said. She turned on her comm and called your name. “Where the hell are you?”

“Uh…little busy at the moment,” you replied.

Predictably, Soldier Boy got on the line next.

“What? Where the fuck are you?”

Annie grimaced at the man’s tone. But she marveled, because she could hear the depths of his worry for you.

“Still in the tower. Some people are trapped on the second floor,” you replied. Soldier Boy’s growl of frustration came through.

“Where are you exactly?” he demanded.

“Admin department, second floor,” you told Ben. You were prying open the door to the former when the ground beneath your feet trembled. “Oh shit!”

You needed both hands to stabilize yourself against the wall, but it was Jon who helped you stay upright. And he finished what you started, wrenching open the door and letting out a crowd of desperate people clamoring to get out.

Once most of them passed, you and Jon slipped inside the large Administration office. Inside were various cubicles, conference rooms, and internal offices, one of which was Customer Service. That was your goal as you jogged through the halls. Jon fell into step with you.

“Look,” Jon began. “Everything I did—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you said sharply. “I don’t have time for a meaningless heart-to-heart with you.”

You called out for Yvette, or anyone still trapped inside one of the offices. You heard a distant voice respond, and you followed it. You were led all the way to the end of the hall, where a chunk of debris had fallen outside of a glass office door. Inside was a group of about ten people.

“Okay, hold on!” you told them. “Stand back from the door.”

You and your father worked to clear the debris. But he looked up at you with something you’d never seen before in his eyes, though you refused to acknowledge it now.

“When I came back from Vietnam, I saw what this country had become. How these asshole supes had taken over the goddamn world,” Jon said, though it was labored between bouts of lifting.

He briefly grasped at his chest in pain. And you remembered then that Ben had broken at least his arm and collarbone. He even wore a cast on his forearm, which you finally noticed beneath his jacket sleeve.

“You were different from your sister. Even at a young age, I saw that spark of fire in you. Hardheaded, even at the best of times,” he said, with a flicker of a smile. “I just wanted to make sure you were strong enough to handle this snake pit of a fucking world.”

He paused to look up at you. “But you were strong in spite of me.”

You had to stop and catch your breath. As his words registered, tears began to burn in your eyes. But you refused to let them fall. Nor did you respond.

Once the doorway was clear, you were able to open the door and let the people out. The last of them was Yvette, and her son Devon.

“Oh my God,” she gasped when she saw you. Tears fell from the corners of her eyes as she pulled you into a hug, and you returned it.

“Are you okay?” you asked in relief. She tried and failed at a smile. Still weeping, she took her eight-year-old son’s hand and guided him out along with her.

“Well, now we are. What are you doing here?”

“I’ll explain later. Come on,” you said. You flashed Devon a smile and reached out your hand. “Hey, Devon. Let’s go, buddy.”

He was crying, but he nodded and grabbed your hand too.

“He had a stomachache,” Yvette whispered to you. “I pulled him out of school early. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay, we’re getting out,” you told her. Jon brought up the rear to make sure you all made it out of the office unit safely.

You made it down to the gift shop on the first floor, but a small crowd had formed at the back exit to the garage—which by now, was the only safe route out of the tower. The lobby was completely destroyed.

The problem was, the garage exit was now blocked by debris as well.

“All right,” Jon sighed. “There’s another way, through the custodian entrance—”

Three shots rang out. You ducked and took Yvette with you, but you choked on a gasp when you looked back…

Jon had a gloved fist punched through his chest cavity.

You watched with wide eyes as Black Noir revoked his arm from your father’s body with a wet, horrific sound. You gasped when Jon fell to his knees.

But to your shock, the supe glanced right past you, Yvette, and Devon. His pale gray eyes focused on only the men in the room. He then strode forward and began picking them off one by one.

You shakily pointed out a large aisle of A-Train merchandise for your friend to hide behind. Yvette pulled her son in that direction, while you went to your father where he laid on the ground.

With difficulty, you rolled him onto his back. You then laid a hand on his shoulder, while the other hovered over his chest. Blood pooled through the gaping chasm in his Vought-issued black jacket.

Your lower lip trembled, and you realized then that you were crying as he struggled for breath. Even after everything he’d done to you—to your family—it still hurt you to see him like this…to know that he was dying.

And there was no time. Not to save him, or for resolution…

“Dad,” you tried, but he stopped you. His brows were furrowed with pain, but he gripped your wrist tight.

“Run,” he said. He held on for a moment or two longer, but when the light faded from his eyes, you closed yours.

You struggled against a sob. His grip eased from your wrist, and you laid his hand to rest on the ground.

Protect yourself, your sister’s voice reminded you. You couldn’t stay out in the open like this. Black Noir had finished with the men, and now was starting in on the rest of the survivors. It seemed that without a handler, the clone had no orders to fulfill except his own.

With a ragged breath, you retrieved the gun from your belt and had to leave your father behind.

You joined Yvette and Devon behind the A-Train aisle and warned them with a finger over your lips to stay quiet. You pressed a shaking finger to the comm in your ear.

“Ben, where are you?” you asked. Maybe he heard the tremor in your voice, because you certainly read the concern in his.

“You’re not on the second floor. Where are you?”

You closed your eyes for a beat. “On the first floor. The garage is blocked and Noir has us bottlenecked.”

“I’m almost there. Just stay put,” Ben said. His tone was firm, and it reassured you. You nodded, despite the fact that he couldn’t see you.

“Yeah, not going anywhere in a hurry,” you whispered.

You could hear the agonized screams of people dying in the room, but you knew you couldn’t do anything about it. Tears slipped down your cheeks as you looked back at your father’s body on the cold ground. But with a determined breath, you looked at Yvette and Devon, who were clearly terrified.

You cocked your gun and nodded at them to move forward down the aisle, but to stay low to the ground. The custodian entrance was on the first floor, but it was in the east wing of the tower. You were in the west wing. The only feasible way out was through the blocked garage exit, just up ahead.

But so was Black Noir. The only thing you could do was stay alive long enough for Ben to find you. Because there was no way you could exit the room the way you came without Noir spotting you.

Fuck. This wasn’t going to be easy. And all the while, the tower could come crashing down at any moment. The tremors in the walls and in the ground were increasing with every minute as pieces of the floor above continued to fall.

A nightmare, for which you’d surely need copious amounts of therapy, if you survived this.

No sooner had that thought filtered through your mind, when a katana flashed above your head, decapitating a cardboard cutout of The Deep. Yvette and Devon yelped in fright, but you grabbed them and shoved them forward into a sprint down the aisle with your head bowed.

Bullets ripped after you, into the ground and the rows of merch. You turned a corner and stopped behind a large metal shelf lined with Queen Maeve plushies.

But the three of you screamed when the katana ripped through the shelf, and one of the unfortunate plushies.

You all stumbled into the open, where Noir soon found you. He raised his katana level with your face, and your eyes grew wide. But before the blade could slice into you, Noir was yanked back and thrown across the room, into the far wall with a heavy impact. He recovered, of course, but he paused.

Because Soldier Boy now stood between him and his targets.

You looked up at Ben with relieved tears in your eyes—both for him saving your life, and just at the sight of him. He mostly looked all right, if a bit worse for wear. You knew you were much the same, dusty, bruised, and tearful.

He flashed you a quirk of a smile.

“Go, get out of here,” he said.

“We can’t,” you started to say, but an explosion behind you made you flinch. You turned to see that the debris covering the garage exit had been cleared. It its place was M.M., Annie, Kimiko, and Frenchie, the latter waving a spare stick of dynamite. You smirked, even though your eyes glittered with unshed tears.

“Okay, let’s go!” You reached for Devon and helped Yvette pick him up.

However, the dynamite blast had ruined what small semblance of stability was left in the ground floor. The ceiling began to fall—first near the exit, then right behind you, cutting you off from Ben. You gasped, but you didn’t have time to call out to him.

And you heard M.M. and Annie calling out to you. All you could do was push Yvette forward, then drag her back when a massive chunk of concrete nearly fell on her and her son.

But that’s when you lost your footing, and your balance, tipping backwards with a halting shriek.

You were trapped. Ben knew it the moment the wall of debris cut you off from him. He heard your voice, your scream, but he knew he couldn’t help you until he finished off Noir, for the last time.

“All right, Earving. Let’s make this quick,” Ben said. “I don’t know if there’s any part of you left in there, but this would be a good fucking time to come out with some last words.”

The gray-eyed supe just stared back at him. His katana was drawn, and he slowly slid back into a crouched stance. Ben’s body tensed as well. The effects of Noir’s gun were still making his hands shake, but Ben clenched them into fists. He couldn’t afford weakness right now.

So when Noir ran forward, Ben waited for the supe to come to him. He dodged the swipe of the blade, and threw out smart punches and combinations that started to push Noir back.

The blade came down again, but Ben blocked it with his shield. It cut through the top of it. But Ben used the momentary pause to kick Noir straight in the chest. He tore the blade from his shield and threw it away. Then he tossed his shield like a fatal frisbee.

The supe narrowly dodged it, but he couldn’t escape Ben grappling him to the ground. He put all his energy into lighting the nuclear fuse in his chest.

It was hard to keep it steady after the destabilizing gun, but no matter how Noir thrashed, Ben squeezed around his neck with all his might to keep him pinned. With a ragged yell, a flash of power escaped him. It fried through Noir’s suit, though it only lightly burned his skin.

When the power ran its course, Noir lost his strength. The clone was now powerless.

Ben grabbed a knife from the other supe’s belt, and he was able to break skin, stabbing into the center of the man’s chest. He didn’t let go until the clone’s gray eyes were truly lifeless.

Ben drew in ragged breaths. Gathering his strength, he pushed off of Noir and managed, with difficulty, back onto his feet. He felt satisfied, but maybe there was a bitter tinge to it. This thing had been created with Homelander’s DNA, and ultimately, Homelander had been a product of Soldier Boy.

Of Ben himself.

He knew it wasn’t his fault. That lay dead with Stan. But Ben knew that he’d wasted a lot of time. For all his bravado, he had let himself be manipulated and controlled. For fame and money and women, and everything else that came with that.

“Soldier Boy! Are you there?” he heard your friend call out. It broke him out of the haze of his exhaustion. He shook his head sharply to focus.

He called back for you, nearing the wall of debris, but you didn’t answer. He was able to break some of it away, enough that he was finally able to see Yvette’s worried face.

“Where is she?” he asked. A coil of dread stirred in the pit of his stomach.

“She’s hurt,” said Yvette.

The coil tightened, as did Ben’s jaw.

“All right, stand back,” he ordered. He grabbed his discarded shield and held it aloft.

“Okay, go ahead!” she said.

He used his shield like a battering ram to get through the pile of wood and concrete. It loosened even more of the trembling ceiling and plunged the entire clearing with dust. Ben waved a hand through it, coughing as he stepped inside. He found Yvette and her son, but his eyes were drawn to you.

You’d fallen on your back, and a slab of concrete was pinning your leg. He moved it with a grunt, and it fell to the ground with a heavy impact. He examined your leg next; he was no doctor, but he could assume it was probably broken under the weight of concrete.

Okay. Doctors could fix a fucking leg, he reasoned. He was more concerned about your head. Had you hit it on the way down, or had you smacked it on the hard tile when you landed?

Your hair was loose, and he slid careful fingers through it. He felt a small knot forming behind your head. He touched your pale cheek…

And then he saw it.

You weren’t lying entirely on the ground. You’d fallen on a small pile of rubble, and sticking out an inch below your shoulder was a thick piece of rebar.

Fuck, he thought. Your pulse at your neck was still beating under the pads of his fingers.

But then, he paused. He was starting to hear something, a deeper tremor than the occasional rubble falling from the ceiling.

“Are you guys okay?” M.M. called. With all the debris, he couldn’t quite get to you all. But maybe he could find a hole underneath the rubble to squeeze you out of.

“The tower’s coming down!” Ben barked.

“Yeah, that’s why we need to get the fuck out of here,” M.M. replied.

“No, the whole fucking thing. It’s coming down now!” Ben said. Yvette grabbed her son and huddled closer to you and Ben. He quickly stood and surveyed his surroundings in search of a larger shield.

The only thing in reach was a large metal shelf. It would have to do.

He grabbed it and ran back to you, just in time for the world to start falling.

Ben blinked dust and plaster out of his eyes and coughed it out of his mouth. He was holding God knew how much of the tower on his back. The metal groves of the shelf were digging into his spine and between his shoulder blades.

When his vision cleared, he saw that Yvette was knocked out, bleeding from a cut on her temple. Maybe a stray rock had hit her.

Her son seemed all right though, if covered in dust.

“You okay, kid?” Ben asked. He nodded shakily, his eyes wide like he couldn’t believe he was still alive. Ben could understand that.

However, you were the one he was worried about. He called your name, but you didn’t respond. Ben looked up at the kid.

“Shake her a little, would ya? Not hard.”

The kid nodded, biting his lip. He gently shook your arm, calling your name. Eventually you coughed and opened your eyes on a moan of pain. Ben let out a short, relieved breath.

“Hey…how you doin’?”

“Hurts to breathe,” you admitted, coughing up more dust. But you cried out when trying to get up disturbed your shoulder. “What…?”

“Don’t move,” he warned you. “You’re uh…you’re pinned down.”

With trembling lips, you turned your head and saw what held you—the rebar protruding just beneath your shoulder. You let out a ragged breath.

An inch lower and it would’ve been your heart.

The problem was, you were sure you would bleed out anyway the moment you were freed from the rebar.

“Don’t look at it,” Ben said firmly. “Look at me.”

You blinked up at him with watery eyes. You finally realized that he was kneeling, holding up a massive shelf to cover all four of you.

“Oh my God. Are you okay?” you asked. A tear streamed down the side of your face.

Ben nodded. Really, it was taking all the strength he had left to hold up this piece of shit, but he wasn’t about to let you know that.

“I can do this all fucking day,” he said with a smirk. “But maybe check in with your friends so we can get the hell out of here.”

Letting out another shaky breath, you raised the hand opposite to your pinned shoulder and pressed a finger to the comm in your ear.

“Are you guys still there? Did anyone make it out?” you asked.

For a moment, it was silent. You looked over at Devon, who was quietly crying. You reached out your free hand to him, even if it made more blood weep from your shoulder. He grabbed your hand, and you gave his a comforting squeeze.

“It’s okay, Dev. We’re getting out soon,” you tried to sooth him. Devon nodded and squeezed your hand back.

Ben watched the exchange with interest. You seemed to have a good way with kids…

“Hello?” you repeated into the comm. Your voice was weak and raspy, even to your own ears. You released your shaking hand back to the ground. “No one’s answering…where’s Yvette?”

“Knocked out for a bit, but she looks fine,” said Ben, nodding to where your friend was lying on the ground.

Though he realized he was starting to lose you when your eyes closed.

“Hey,” he barked. “Stay with me.”

The near shout forced you to open your eyes, but they were already starting to droop. Ben finally noticed the blood slipping away from you, starting to pool beneath your arm.

“I’m awake, just resting my eyes,” you said. Not very convincing.

Ben experimentally lowered an arm from supporting the shelf. He moved slow, and he heard shifting rubble above him, but he managed to balance the shelf on just his back. He grit his teeth at the strain.

Even for him, the weight was immense. He didn’t know how long they could wait for someone to get to them. But he could see the kid was frozen with fear.

“You’re gonna be fine, all right?” Ben said.

The kid was tearful, but he nodded.

“What’s your name?” Ben asked.

“Devon.”

“All right, Devon. You know who I am?”

“…Soldier Boy,” the kid replied in a small voice. His large brown eyes were filled with tears as he sniffed. His short hair and dark tan skin were covered with dust, so Ben could see the path of his tears down his cheeks and neck. He gave Devon an attempt at a smile and nodded.

“That’s right.”

Finally, some of the debris near Yvette cleared a small hole above the ground, revealing Kimiko. Her eyes widened with excitement, her mouth falling open in a quiet gasp. She smiled and ducked her head back out. Ben frowned in confusion as he heard the French guy and some of the others babbling.

“Hello?” he snapped. “The fuck is going on out there?”

M.M. peered in next and took in the four of you with relief. He met Ben’s gaze.

“They’ll need a stretcher,” Ben said, gesturing at you and Yvette. “And a medic.”

“Okay, we’re gonna see if we can open this hole a bit wider,” M.M. said. He frowned at the narrow space inside. “It’s gonna be hard to get a stretcher in here.”

“Just get it done,” Ben said, beginning to lose his patience. He was carrying the tower on his back, and you were fading before his eyes.

M.M. nodded and was gone. But he returned soon after with Kimiko, and both worked together to open the hold wider without dislodging more debris. Once they had a big enough hole, M.M. peered in.

“Okay, who’s first?”

“She is,” Ben said, nodding down at you. “Bring the stretcher.”

Once again, M.M. disappeared.

Ben looked over at Devon.

“She’s hurt bad. We’re going to get her out first,” Ben said, gesturing at you. “I’m going to need you to hold her down, by her shoulders. After I take out the rebar, you’re going to put pressure on the wound. Got it?”

Devon looked unsure.

“Got it?” Ben repeated. More tears slid down the boy’s cheeks as he shook his head.

“Listen, you little sh—” Ben started to snap in irritation.

But at the last moment, he stopped himself. He remembered how you were with the kid earlier, tried to think of what you might say right about now.

“Uh, you can do this,” he said, gruff and a bit awkward.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” Devon said in a small voice.

At that, annoyance slowly drained out of Ben. He reached out and grasped the kid’s shoulder, firm, but gentle.

“You won’t. You’re going to help her,” he said. “Just hold her down, and I’ll do the rest. All right?”

He hesitated, but Devon nodded and wiped his face dry.

“Good man,” Ben nodded. “Now come on, over here.”

Devon moved so that he was behind you, holding your shoulders down.

You grimaced and made a sound of pain. But Ben was quick; he braced your shoulder with one hand and slid the rebar out with the other. He forced himself to remain stoic at your resulting screech of agony.

But Devon couldn’t. His tears came down anew, and he immediately released your shoulders. Ben moved you more fully onto the ground and instructed Devon to put pressure on the wound, leaning his body weight into it.

“Stay awake,” Ben warned you. He knew you were having a hard time, and tears streamed from the corners of your eyes, onto the ground below. You forced your eyes to open, so you could look up at him.

“Ben,” you tried, but if this was going to be an if I die speech, then he didn’t want to fucking hear it.

“Don’t talk,” he said sternly. “Just keep breathing.”

“Listen,” you insisted. With difficulty, you grabbed onto the metal embellishments on his suit, finding purchase on his chest.

“You are strong. You can do anything you want, you know,” you said, smiling wryly. “Including, being a better man.”

Ben looked down at you with knitted brows. Sweat slipped down his forehead, but he didn’t know what to say to you.

Until you let go of his suit, and your eyes started to close.

“Fuck. Stay awake, damn it!” he snapped. It was an effort, but you opened your eyes.

Then Yvette started to rouse, raising a hand to her aching head.

“Oh, thanks for joining us,” Ben remarked, unable to disguise most of his snark. Devon helped her sit properly.

When she saw you, paler than ever, she gasped and took over putting pressure on your wound.

M.M. then finally returned with the stretcher. He beckoned Devon out first.

“Come on, little man.”

Ben opened his mouth to snap a protest, but M.M. shook his head.

“It’s too narrow. They need to come out first to make room.”

Devon eyed the jagged concrete around the hole they’d created. He seemed scared to attempt taking M.M.’s hand to leave.

He looked back at Yvette, who encouraged him forward. But he also looked over at Ben.

He was frankly surprised the kid was looking to him for reassurance. Again, he thought of what you’d said to Devon earlier.

“It’s okay,” Ben said. “You’re going home today. Trust me, son.”

Devon stared at his face for a moment, and nodded tearfully.

When M.M. was eventually able to take the boy’s hand, he met Ben’s gaze, which was mostly covered by stoicism.

Devon made it out of the cave, followed by Yvette. While she climbed out, Ben took over putting pressure on your wound, even though it made the shelf creak. He grunted against the pressure on his back.

Then M.M. finally slipped in the stretcher. Ben roused you by tapping on your cheek. He accidentally left a smudge of your own blood there.

“Come on, baby doll. Work with me here,” he muttered. You whimpered in response.

You were so pale, but you were fighting to keep your eyes open. You’re a fighter, Ben reminded himself, as he helped M.M. maneuver you onto the stretcher.

“See you later, sweetheart,” he said.

“Wait,” you croaked. “Wait…how’re you getting out?”

Ben quirked a smile.

“I’m right behind you.” But he then glared up at M.M. “Hurry the fuck up. She’s still bleeding out.”

M.M. shot him a dark look, but he ignored Ben in order to help you. After you were taken out on the stretcher, Annie called out to him.

“The fire department’s about to come in with pressure bags, so you can drop the shelf,” she said.

True to her word, Ben started to hear a sharp whirring—the sound of something inflating.

But as soon as they started, the ground shook.

And the walls once again began to collapse around him.

AN: *cowers in the corner* Please don't hate me! I promise, you're going to like the ultimate outcome of the next chapter (despite the teaser lol).

But I would still love to hear your thoughts on this one! What did you think of Jon's ultimate fate? How did you like Ben literally holding up the Tower?

(And did you catch the small Captain America reference? 😏)

**Side note: I hope you all enjoyed "Love Actually"! It's a far cry from where we are right now in BMD world lol...

Next Time:

Part of him refused to believe it had gotten to this.

And the reality, that this was his fault. He’d caused the blast that destroyed the tower. His fault he hadn’t gotten to you sooner.

“You are the reason I needed saving,” you’d told him once.

You were right then, and it still held up now.

So, no…he wouldn’t go in there, into your room. The truth was, he couldn’t.

Keep Reading: PART 17

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