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moonknight-s-cumdump · 3 hours

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Muddled Waters 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, blood, violence,, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your boss has a dangerous secret.

Character: Nick Fowler (mob au)

Please comment and reblog if it’s not too much. I always love getting to chat about these stories and hearing all your ideas! You all are wonderful and loved.

Your shift goes as usual. You make drinks to order and bring them out to the tables, or to set in the windows set into the walls of the private rooms. Those are for the more exclusive patrons, the ones who remain mostly faceless. The Sapphire is as close to a speakasy as you’d find in this century.

As you bring out a single scotch and place it on the ledge of the order window, a voice intone from the other side.

“Pardon me,” the English lilt wafts through, “your boss wouldn’t happen to be in house?”

You pull back your hand and consider the question. The customers in the rooms never talk to you. No thank yous, no pleases, no special orders. Those all come through the screen in the back which lists their demands; no olives, extra salt, double vodka...

“No, sir, I’m sorry, he’s not in,” you reply.

“Pity,” he remarks and a hand reaches to take the glass. “You will let him know I was here. In Room Four.”

“I’ll mention it. Would there be a name I should give him?”

“He will know,” he returns and footsteps scuff away from the window. Right.

You’re somewhat used to the cryptic. As nice as Nick can be, he isn’t always straightforward. The establishment does give you reason to bat an eye but for the most part, your pay stubs keep your gaze in the other direction.

You return to the kitchen and work at cleaning the used glasses brought by the singular busboy. You don’t know his name and he doesn’t talk. He always has earbuds in and only puts bins of dishes in the wash tray.

To say the operation is minimal is an understatement. Yet there is never more demand than you can meet. It makes you wonder how Nick breaks even with such a limited audience. Especially with the grade of ingredients he gets in. You never worked at a bar that didn’t water down their liquor now and again.

The night comes to an end and the lights dim as the bar closes up. The busboy clears the rooms and locks the front door. You leave the glasses in sparkling rows on the shelves and a bin of dishcloths to have washed the next day. You place away a few stray bottles then wipe down the counters.

“You’re here late,” Nick’s voice startles you and you hiss, looking up at him from the edge of your vision.

“Cleaning up,” you say and toss the cloth with the rest. “Just finishing now.”

“Mm,” he nods and hooks his thumbs in his belt loops, “you wouldn’t happen to have time to make me something, would ya? I’ll keep it simple.”

You withhold a sigh. Or maybe a yawn. Your eyes tingle and you shrug, “sure, what do you want?”

“Rye and coke,” he answers as he approaches the island and crosses his arms over the top, leaning on the stainless steel.

You swiftly gather everything you need and put together the simple drink. You set it before him and return all you disturbed back to its rightful place. You face him as he raises the glass and considers the dark elixir.

“Oh, er, someone asked for you,” you untie your apron and fold it over the bin meant for tomorrow’s laundry.

“Someone did? Was she pretty?” He winks.

You shake your head, “no. It was a man. He was in Room Four. That’s what he told me to tell you.”

“Room Four,” he repeats and puts the brim to his lips, taking a slow draw. His cheeks dimple before he pulls it away. “Noted.”

You nod at his strange reaction. Almost none at all. You check the time and drag your hands over your head.

“Well, I’m going to head home,” you say, “if that’s okay?”

“Quitting time,” he says coolly, his eyes stuck on the cabinet, a squiggle in his forehead. “Go on, get some sleep, sweetheart.”

“You too,” you shoot back. “Look like you need it.”

You pass him and he stands, turning to watch you, “hey, what does that mean?”

“Nothing, just... look tired.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he scoffs.

You go through to the backroom and grab your jacket and purse. It’s not really a strange night. A few out-of-the-ordinary occurrences, but nothing worrying. The man in Room Four and Nick’s late-night appearance; it’s not really a pattern.

You glance back at the kitchen door before you leave. You head out the back and walk down the next street. You approach your car parked by the curb, the rush hour jam keeping you from finding a closer spot. You take out your keys and they jangle loudly as your footsteps echo.

As you shove your keys into the slot, you’re suddenly taken off your feet, a blunt force jarring your wrist as your fingers catch in the keyring. You hit the ground with wheeze and roll across the stray pebbles as you hug your chest. You can’t breathe.

“Look, honey,” the British voice hisses through the night, “I didn’t wanna bring you into this but I needa send a message.” A figure straddles you on their knees, holding you down by your neck. “Not much, you’ll live...” you hear a metallic shing, “bit of blood is all.”

You feel a piercing pain just below your neck, right at the small dip of your collar bone. You cry out as the metal slices down your chest and easily through your shirt. Your skin parts with the fabric as you vibrate in agony.

“Get... off,” you cough out as you regain your breath. “Please...”

“Shh, honey,” he takes the knife away and smears his hand over your chest, your warm blood spreading under his rough palm, “I just want him to see you painted up nice for him.” He drags his hand over your face, the metallic scent staining your nose and lips. “Mm, you are a pretty thing, too.”

The man wiggles his hips lasciviously before he pushes himself off of you. He stands and you cover your ragged skin with your hands and whine, sobs rising from the pain hewn into your flesh. There’s a noise, something distant, maybe a door, and the man’s silhouette strolls off, whistling into the night.

Another set of footfalls approach you as you writhe on the ground. You don’t understand what happened. Why did that man do this to you? You can’t move. You can’t think. You just can’t.

The street light flickers as someone steps around the front of your car.

“Shit,” Nick rushes over and falls to his knees beside you, “shit, sweetheart, I shouldn’t have let you come out here alone. I shoulda knew...”

“Why?” You babble as your blood seeps between your fingers, “why, Nick?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and bawl. He slides his arms under you and lifts you as you exclaim. He hushes you as he holds you against his chest.

“It hurts,” you whimper.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he rasps, “I got you.”

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 3 hours

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The Man 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Lloyd Hansen

Summary: a demanding customer complicates more than your work life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

A few days pass as the humiliation of your big lesson clings in the air. You think about it too much. Enough that you find yourself cringing to yourself on your bike ride home or even when lying in bed. You’ve never been the most socially adept so the encounter leaves you reeling.

As you help Bre with opening, you feel your heartbeat pick up once more. You need to chase the elephant from the room. You puff out and wet your lips as you glance over at her. She measures out grinds into the silver machine as her eyes pinpoint on the task.

“Um, so, Bre,” you approach her warily with a fresh sleeve of cups, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Mm,” she grumbles groggily. She’s on her second coffee already and she only just got there twenty minutes ago.

“So, um, that guy, from the other day,” you rub your boiling neck, “with the mustache. You said he’s the boss. So he owns this place?”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes as she shuts the lid of the machine and turns the silver dial on the front. She shakes her head as the machine starts to brew and she plants her hand on the counter in front of it. She faces you, her other hand going to her hip.

“Mr. Hansen? Lloyd. Hansen.” She enunciates as if you should know the name.

Your lips downturn and you shrug, “is that his name?”

“Are you new in town?” She asks hotly.

You nod, “yeah, actually. I used to live about forty minutes out of town but there was nothing there--”

“It shows,” she retorts, “he owns this shop, he owns the street outside, he owns me, he owns you. He owns this city. Got it?”

You hum and nod as you look thoughtfully to the ceiling, “not really. But he’s important, got it.”

“Just if he comes back in, come get me and say as little as you can. And please, for the love of god, do not ask him for money,” she snips.

“Oh, alright,” you deflate, “I didn’t know--”

“Now you do. Just trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to fuck around with him. If he tells you to pour boiling water on yourself, you’re better off just doing it,” she sneers.

You wince, “okay, sorry, Bre, I was just asking.”

“You ask too many questions,” she turns and goes into the backroom. She returns, dangling a keyring from her finger, “open up. It’s time.”

You take the key and go to unlock the door and flip on the sign. You retreat back behind the counter, swallowed up by the tension between you. You regret asking. You thought it might help clear the air but now you can barely breathe.

When the first customer enters, you volunteer to help them. Bre just mutters and slurps from her coffee. She might have less of a headache if she takes it easy on the caffeine. You don’t say as much to her, nothing really at all as you work through order after order.

She hops onto prep as you man the till while the queue grows. The morning rush is in full effect as you slide baked goods into little paper sleeves and hand them over before sending customers down to the window to wait for their drinks. The hectic flow helps you forget about the awkward start.

When at last the crowd trickles down and the cafe hums with voices sitting at the tables, you have a moment to catch your breath and center yourself. You like this job, it’s just like your last one, but the company isn’t as pleasant. Bre taps her thumb on her phone screen and ignores you.

The ebbs come with hide tides and soon lunch has you scrambling once more. The smell of toasted bread and cinnamon has your stomach grumbling. You’re too busy to let the emptiness bother you for long. When high noon influx subsides, Bre yawns.

“Lunch,” she announces, “I’m going to head down to Tabitha’s. They’re having a clearance sale.”

“Oh, alright,” you agree, not mentioning that she said earlier you could go first, “I’ll be here.”

She doesn’t respond as she disappears into the back to get her things. You hear her leave through the side door that leads through to the alley. You sigh out and watch the sit-in customers on their laptops or chatting with friends.

You resist the temptation of the tarts staring at you from the display. You can hold out until it’s your turn. The door jingles and a new customer enters. You’re too fixated on the painting of a latte to glance over. Not until you sense the sudden shift in the air. Several people quiet and pack up to go.

Footfalls scuff across the floor and customers leave their unfinished drinks on the table as they hurry for the door. You peer around then at the approaching shadow. It’s him. Oh no. Bre isn’t here.

“Um, hello, Mr. Hensen,” you smile shakily, “how are you?”

He stares at you as he comes to stand across the till from you. His blue eyes darken as he lets a long exhale out through his nose. You gulp and your cheeks tremble. He tilts his head and arches a brow.

“Hansen,” he corrects.

“Right, Floyd Hansen, I remember--”

“Lloyd,” he hits his fist on the counter and you gasp. “Lloyd fucking Hansen.” He leans forward and bares his teeth, “get that through that thick fucking skull.” He reaches for you, grabbing the front of your shirt, “you won’t forget who I am.”

“I’m s-sorry, I’m bad with names--”

“Shut up,” he twists the fabric until it strains against the back of your neck, “if you weren’t so goddamn pathetic, I’d drag you across this counter.”

Your eyes round and you bat your lashes. He’s only an inch away from you. You shiver as he opens his hand and presses the vee of his index and thumb to your throat. You’re frozen, terrified. Who is this man?

“Get me my fucking coffee,” he squeezes then shoves you so you choke.

You stumble back and bring your hand to your neck. You nod, eyes glittering with unspent tears, and look around. You can’t remember what he ordered. You’ll just have to make something up. Or maybe you could just sneak out like Bre...

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 16 hours

Text

Muddled Waters 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your boss has a dangerous secret.

Character: Nick Fowler (mob au)

Please comment and reblog if it’s not too much. I always love getting to chat about these stories and hearing all your ideas! You all are wonderful and loved.

You skewer candied cherries on a long toothpick and balance them over a martini glass. The deep blue drink with a layer of foam is perfectly aligned with the crystal brim. You stand straight as you top off the last of the drinks, a new batch for the waiting customers.

You put the small silver measuring cup aside and nearly cry out as the silhouette hovering in the corner of your vision moves. You touch your chest in surprise as you face Nick with a bashful smile. You didn’t even know he was around that day. Lately, he’s been absent more than not.

“Oh, hi,” you laugh at yourself, “I didn’t hear you...”

“I have a bad habit of that,” he grins, “some have compared me to a cat.”

You tilt your head, “some? You mean, me?”

He shrugs, “was that you?

“Maybe,” you turn and carefully move the stemmed glasses to a tray.

“New flavour?” He nears and stands close. You can smell his cedar cologne.

“Blueberry,” you explain, “bit sweet for my tastes but it fits the season.”

“Ah, sounds interesting,” he reaches and takes one of the glasses and you gasp.

“Nick!” You turn to him and he grins as he sips, the foam clinging to his top lip. He hums as he removes the toothpick from across the rim and nibbles off one of the cherries.

“Tasty,” he commends.

“Why-- Now I’ll to make another.”

“They can wait. It’s more than worth it,” he assures, still standing close as he slurps.

You work in the warmth of his looming proximity. He’s never had much of a personal bubble. Working behind a bar, you’ve grown used to being crowded. You measure and pour and muddle. You garnish and set the drink to replace the one your boss took.

“Right, ready,” you declare.

“Here, let me get those,” he slides the tray across the counter before you can react.

“No, you don’t have to--”

“I want to. Boss man’s gotta do some work around here,” he scoffs and lifts the tray. “You take a load off, sweetheart, I need those hands well-rested. No one else has that magic touch.”

You tisk and shake your head. He can be ridiculous. You won’t complain, he’s the least uptight boss you’ve had. The place isn’t too bad. Upscale with well-tipping patronage. It’s not your typical bar. Most of your work is done behind a wall as the customers drink in private rooms or in the common room where refined jazz wafts through the dim air. The whole place drips of exclusivity.

You clean up and wipe the counter before you wash your hands. Another order appears on the screen. Customers order on a sleek touchscreen, unbothered by servers amid their hushed conversations. You assume they are the types with private jets and luxurious yachts. Of course, they’re too special to drink like normal people.

You start up the next order. Spiced apple cider. A classic though it’s not often ordered. Two to put up. You mix the drinks in mason jars with thick handles. You finish them each with a cinnamon stick.

“Ready to go?” Nick has you squeaking again.

“God,” you throw your hands up and laugh, “how do you keep doing that?”

“Hey, not my fault. You’re in the zone. You know, you get all squinty,” he makes a face, “it’s like the whole world doesn’t exist. Makes me feel a bit small.”

“Mm, well, I guess you’re right. I should pay more attention to my surroundings,” you lift the mugs, “I got these, Nick.”

“It’s no problem, one of my buddies,” he wraps his hands around the jars, “been a while since I’ve seen him.”

“Oh, okay then,” you let him take the cups.

“Take it easy. You do too much.”

You smile tightly and lean on the counter. He goes and you turn around to tidy again. You can be precise. You like a clean station. You’ve worked with too many people who leave the bartop littered in lime peel and broken toothpicks. You can’t make a good drink if you’re working in filth.

But it isn’t just your work. You try not to let the personal seep in but you can’t help who you are. Things should be just so. Books should be lined up and sorted alphabetically and the dishes should be stacked neatly, and the carpet can’t be crooked.

You exhale and run your hands over your apron. Most people might envy your boss for his high company and exorbitant wealth, you just covet his coolness. He’s never bothered by much.

“Sweetheart,” he enters, this time with fair warning. You look up at his pet name. He always calls you that. “What’s that chocolate one you did last time?” He snaps his fingers, “you know, it was kinda creamy--”

“Brandy Alexander,” you answer, “yeah, uh, we’re out of dark creme de cacao. I put it on the inventory.”

“Inventory,” he nods and his blue eyes flick away guiltily, “yeah, I was supposed to do that.”

You cross your arms, “yeah, you were.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, I swear, I thought of it,” he crinkles his nose, “but it must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Mhmm,” you sniff, “well, you have been busy. I didn’t even know you were in town.”

He looks up and his cheek dimples. His gaze falls back on you, “lots of running around. Sorry, sweetheart, if it was up to me, I’d be right here, tasting all your delights.”

You nearly snort but instead just furrow your brow.

“What?” He asks.

“Nothing,” you shrug and turn away, the screen showing another order. “Sometimes... the way you say things...”

He chuckles and leans his elbow on the counter, “I do like to choke on my own foot.”

“You know, I said before, I could make time for inventory. I don’t mind making orders--”

“Don’t bother,” he cuts your offer short, “I know people. I can take care of it. I’ll make a few calls tonight.” He stays as he is, angled against the counter as he watches you. He rests his chin on his knuckles and you glance over as you squeeze a lime dry.

“What?” You ask as you measure out the juice.

“How’d you learn to do all this?” He asks.

“I took a few courses, worked a few dives,” you say, “did a gig on a cruise ship. You know, you figure it out.”

“And you enjoy it?” He says, “I mean, I can tell you do.”

“It keeps my hands moving and my head from racing,” you explain as you mix the drink in a shaker.

“Sounds amazing,” he stands straight, “sooner or later, I need to find something to keep me busy. Something that doesn’t make me crazy.”

You garnish and he swipes up the glass before you can stop him.

“Well, you might just have a calling as a waiter,” you say sarcastically as you wipe your hands on a towel.

“I don’t know about that,” he grins, “I’m not much for taking orders.”

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 16 hours

Text

The Man 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Character: mob!Lloyd Hansen

Summary: a demanding customer complicates more than your work life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stand behind the counter, ready to serve the next customer that comes through the door. If you thought the rush was bad, the lulls are worse. The time drags by as the clock seems to taunt you. You sigh again as you hear Bre clattering around in the back room. You’d rather be back there folding up empty boxes and scouring trays.

You yawn and waver on your feet. The small local cafe doesn’t have the consistent traffic of the franchised kiosk just down the block but there are still hectic rushes. The mornings just after nine, then at noon when the office workers run out for a refresh espresso or a lunchtime sweet, but the afternoons usually deliver no more than the errant college student on their laptop or a few friends in between visits to boutiques.

The door opens and you glance over at the man who walks through the door. He strikes you as out-of-place as he struts across the cafe, hitting a table with his thigh, and sneering at it as if it insulted his mother. He’s tall with broad shoulders, and his hair is slicked back while the sides of his head are buzzed. He wears a black turtle neck under and open jacket and a pair of matching slacks that show off his ankles. His loafers are a rippling grey and black snakeskin print with a shining silver buckle.

You grip the sides of the till as he approaches but he doesn’t look at you. You stare, a little put off by his lack of acknowledgement as he peers up at the menu. He steps forward, tapping his fingers on the counter as he blows out between his lips. A golden signet ring flashes on his pinkie. You’re still not sure he’s in the right place.

“Hello, sir, can I get you--”

“Shh,” he hisses and holds up his finger. You snap your mouth shut and blink. He squints at the menu. He hums, clucking as he gives a thoughtful look to the hand-painted letters. Alright?

You wiggle your foot impatiently, biting your tongue. You’re not an inherently rude person but some customers make you wish you were. You watch him and he finally lowers his chin.

“Oat latte. Half blonde espresso, half regular, with the toffee nut syrup and a sprinkle of cinnamon.”

You nod as you punch in his order. It’s quite the drink. Sometimes you think people just pile on to see how far they can push service workers. They can’t just have a simple drink. Some even request the temperature to the digit.

“Alright, got it, it’s fifty cents for the syrup, is that okay?”

“Fifty cents?” He echoes haughtily, “no, that’s not okay.”

“Um, okay, well, it’s uh, on the menu,” you crane to look behind you, “fifty cents for a flavour shot, twenty-five for whipped cream.”

“I didn’t ask about goddamn whipped cream. They don't charge me here, doll. Get me the goddamn drink,” he demands.

You reel. Admittedly, you’re new. You’re learning but your first lesson was simple; customers are awful.

“I can just take the syrup off, I guess,” you hit the x and the whole order disappears.

“Didn’t you hear me? No charge, honey. It’s on the house.”

You purse your lips and look at him. You raise a brow. Alright, this is a new one.

“Um, if you’d just hold on, I think... uh, I should ask--”

“Yeah, you better fucking ask,” he sneers as swipes at a stack of paper cups and sends them flying. You flinch out of the way and spin to burst through the door to the kitchen.

“Uh, Bre,” you say, “there’s a really angry dude out there and he wants a free latte so uh, what do I do about that?”

She looks over at you as she puts a tray of cookies on a cooling rack. She frowns and her forehead stitches. She pulls of her oven mitt and checks her fitbit.

“Shit, it’s Thursday,” she mutters as if it’s the end of time.

“Yeah, it is, so uh--”

She waves away your words with the mitt and tosses both on the counter as she hurries past you. Confused, you turn to follow her through the swinging door. You stay behind her as she goes to the till.

“Mr. Hansen, so lovely to see you, what were we getting today?” She chimes, more lively than you’ve ever heard you. At any other time, she’s dulcet, almost monotone, completely over the cafe lifestyle.

He scoffs and his eyes drift from her to you. He pokes his tongue into his cheek, “oat, toffee nut, half blond, half regular, cinnamon on top,” he notes each element tersely, “and how about you teach this one some goddamn manners.”

He glares at you and you give a wide-eyed look. You shrug at Bre as she glances over at you. She shakes her head subtly. You take a step back.

You grab a cup and she quickly takes it out of your hands, “I got it, stay out of the way.”

You put your hands up and back away. You don’t know what you did wrong. Who is this man? He smirks and hovers on the other side of the counter as he crosses his arms over his puffed chest. Bre brews a fresh espresso and steams the oat milk.

“I’m waiting, sweet lips,” he cups a hand to his ear, his other arm still over his chest.

You look back and forth.

“Apologise,” he demands.

Bre clears her throat and you glance over, your mouth falling open dumbly.

“Oh, uh,” you face the man again, “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know--”

“Well, now you fucking do,” he sneers as Bre places a cup down before him and a paper bag.

“Mr. Hansen, there’s a cinnamon bun for you too. We just took em out of the oven.”

“You’re such a dear, Bre Bear,” he cooes, sending you a venomous snarl.

You cringe as he spins and strides out with his fare. You watch after him, still thoroughly perplexed. Bre wipes the counter with a cloth.

“The next time he comes in, give him whatever he wants,” she says quietly.

“Oh, I didn’t... who is he?” You garble.

“Better you don’t know. Just think of him as the boss,” she sends you a desperate look, her eyes gleaming, “if you know what’s good for you, you’ll smile and listen.”

She brushes you with her shoulder as she goes back into the kitchen. You furrow your brow and glance towards the door. The man’s just outside the windowed walls, watching you. He winks before he disappears beyond the next facade

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 5 days

Note

Congratulations on the 100 followers sweetie!! 🎉💕 Can I request the whole alphabet with Dean Winchester?

of course! and thank you so much!! 🥰

Yandere!Dean Winchester Alphabet 🖤

Attachment: How do they become obsessed?

It didn’t take long for him to become obsessed. He became obsessed with you because of how much love you gave him when you both would hang out. It was like meant to be for him.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get for their darling?

Pretty messy. Dean would be high up on the scale in all honesty.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling when they kidnap them? Would they mock them?

He doesn't want you to be scared, so he tries to make it comfortable as possible for you (if it will even work). He would also never mock you. He would hate to see you so upset.

Delusion: How delusional are they when it comes to their darling? Do they believe their darling loves them?

Dean has his moments of delusions. For the most part though, he knows you’re utterly terrified of the situation and that it will take a lot of you to love him again/things to go back to (semi) normal again. So, he would be pretty medium on the scale.

Erratic: How unpredictable are they? How quick are mood changes?

It depends on the day for him, so with that said, he can be rather unpredictable. Some days, you would think you’re walking on egg shells around him when he was angry or even upset. You just never know with him. Mood changes don’t happen quickly, but at the same time, they aren’t infrequent.

Fight: How would they react if their darling fought back?

At first, he would think you’re just messing with him or joking around with him. When Dean realizes you’re being serious, he restrains you gently and tries his best to reassure you and telling you to calm down. Even though it may not work a lot of the time.

Guilt: What would it take for them to feel guilty about their actions? Or do they feel guilty from the start?

Dean would feel guilty from the start/when he first sees you upset and/or angry at him. The last thing he would want to make you feel is sadness and anger, so seeing you in the state makes him feel so guilty.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worse experience with them?

Whenever you get caught in his fits of rage. He tries to contain them around you, but there are times where he just can’t and he just starts yelling and throwing things, some things even hitting you. Afterwards, he would be so upset (at himself) and try to comfort you, but you would just be too terrified to even let him near you.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Living away from the hunting business, maybe somewhere where you both can have a nice-sized family with some pets running around, with his brother living nearby of course.

Jealous: What makes them the most jealous?

I know it may be basic, but whenever other people flirt with you. It just makes Dean’s blood boil, and that is why he hardly lets you leave, even with him.

Kidnap: How would they go about kidnapping their darling? How much do they plan out?

Dean has everything planned out, from the day he’s going to do it to making sure your soon-to-be room is all nice just for you. So, he tries to make it as stealthy as possible with little to no struggle from you.

Love Letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

He definitely flirts with you. A lot. He tries to play it off as making it playful flirting and as if he doesn’t truly mean it, but he wants you to somehow know his flirting is genuine.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they acted before?

Not really. Dean acts pretty much the same, except for maybe he isn’t as stone cold around you as he is around a lot of other people.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Isolation. I know that’s a very common answer among many of yanderes, but with Dean, that is the worse he is willing to do when it comes to punishing you.

Outrage: What makes them furious?

Besides the supernatural and all of that, he gets mad whenever you just ignore him, whether when it comes to affection and/or he is talking to you.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

Again, it mostly depends on the day for him. Some days, he is very patient and is willing to wait for you/with you. Other days, his patience is on a thin line and that line can break with anything “bad” you may do that day.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

No. That’s it. No.

Rage: How do they act when angry? How do they calm down?

As mentioned before, it mostly is on the inside, but he also yells (a lot) and will throw things, him trying not to throw it at you if you so happen to be around. He calms down either by a drink or hearing your voice whenever you try to calm him down, aka you feel like you have to calm him down.

Self-Indulgent: How possessive are they? (If at all?)

Yes. Is that an answer?

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry and/or isolate themselves?

Dean would be heartbroken and blame himself for your state. He would absolutely be devastated seeing you so upset and would try his best to calm you down or at least get you to sleep so you can calm down.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Besides hunting supernatural beings and getting help from them when you die, escape, are upset, yada yada yada, he's a pretty normal yandere.

Vicious: How vicious can they get?

Around you, not at all. Around other people/people that may hurt you or he believes they can hurt you, very.

Weakness: What weaknesses can their darling exploit in order to escape?

Dean have been touchstarved for god knows how long, so showing him affection in any way is an easy way to let his guard down.

Xenodochia: How quickly would their darling cut them off after they escape?

It wouldn’t be easy, but at the same time, it wouldn’t be the most difficult thing in the world for you. So, it would take only a bit of time for you.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

About half a year, maybe less than that if he’s extra impatient to have you.

Zero Tolerance: What is the thing that always makes them snap? What things will they not allow their darling to do under any circumstances?

Dean does not want you to be involved in the supernatural business under any means. Doesn’t matter if you were before he kidnapped you, you are not going to be involved in it anymore.

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 5 days

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Yandere Alphabet - Demon!Dean Winchester

TW: Toxic Relationship, Possessive Behavior, Controlling Behavior, Hints of Physical Abuse, Hints of Verbal Abuse, Kidnapping, Mentions of Murder, Isolation And Spanking As Punishment, Cursing, Manipulation. A/N: Please inform me if I did not tag something correctly. Please know the difference between fictional and reality. While fictional, these types of relationships are extremely toxic, especially in real-life. If your relationship is showcasing these toxic behaviors, please seek help from someone to get out safely. Reblogs are heavily appreciated!!

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

He’s a physical lover, and he doesn’t give two fucks about PDA. He’ll kiss and touch you whenever and wherever he likes. He always gives you heated, passionate kisses while grasping all over your body and pressing you up against him. When he’s really affected, he’ll growl while kissing you, and his eyes will flash black on occasion.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Very messy. Demon Dean, at this point, is a malevolent being and will resort to more grotesque methods when it comes to his darling. Even if it means killing innocent people who look at you the wrong way or dare touch you, well, try. He’ll break the person’s bones before they even lay a finger on you.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Depending on how you react to the situation, his treatment of you varies. If you behave, he'll treat you good by his definition. However, if you react badly, he's going to not react well. Yes, he’ll mock you, because we need to remember that he may love you, but that doesn't change his nature. He has a cruel sense of humor.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

He’ll make you come with him on his killing sprees. You’re not a fan of blood; that’s too bad. You’ll just have to get used to it, because that’s all you’re ever going to see besides him. Blood and carnage.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Demon Dean still has some of his old traits from when he was human. He doesn't like expressing his emotions until he trusts you enough. Which would take a long time. However, when he finally trusts you, he’ll be more open about his feelings for you. He still keeps things close to his chest, though he might never speak with you about it.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Oh, he’s pissed.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

No, your relationship isn't a game to him. But getting you to fall in love with him will be like a game, and he'll triumph. It’s only a matter of time. Demon Dean wouldn't like seeing you try to escape; it would automatically anger him. He’ll lash out at you.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Your worst experience with him would be your fights with him. He's scary when he’s angry, especially when it's towards you. He’ll practically scream in your face and manhandle you. Another thing would be him forcing you to see his killing sprees. He doesn't trust you enough to leave you on your own, so you'll have to witness his brutality.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

When it comes to your future with him, you’re stuck with him, and not even death would separate you. He’ll secretly try to uncover a way to turn you into a demon. You'll be isolated from hunters; demons wouldn't dare approach you. He’s the only thing you’ll ever need; nobody else can help you.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Extremely, however, it’s not because he’s insecure; you simply belong to him and are completely off-limits. Coping, what’s that? He’s going to lash out in a violent way at the person attempting to flirt with you. He left people bloodied to a pulp on the floor before, and he has done worse.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

It’s discrete, but he’s a little softer around you, and he would let you get away with small things that he wouldn’t tolerate if it were another person. As a demon, he’s not afraid to show you how deep his love runs for you. He’s clingy and always has a hand grabbing you somewhere. He’s very possessive, and he tends to keep you to himself.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

When it comes to demon dean, there is no time for courting or lightly approaching you about his feelings. When he kidnapped you, there were no romantic gestures or heartfelt confessions; you simply belonged to him, and you need to get used to it.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Of course, Dean treats you differently compared to others. He’s less rough around the edge, and he does try to control his temper better around you. You’re his, and he doesn’t mistreat what belongs to him.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Depending on what you do, however, he'll simply tie you to the bedpost and keep you there until you learn your lesson. He would never intentionally hurt you, but he will force you over your lap and smack your ass until you’re begging for forgiveness. Trust me, he wouldn’t make it fun for you.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

The better question is: how many rights would he allow you to have? All you need to do around him is eat, sleep, and look pretty for him. Misbehave, and you’re going to be chained to the bed again.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

He will have zero patience with you, so you better behave for your own sake. He's not afraid of punishing you, however he sees fit, because you didn’t listen to him or try to escape. Therefore, try not to upset him too much.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

No, he would never move on. If you died or were killed, his rampage would be talked about in Hell for centuries. If you manage to escape, it won’t last long. He’s going to get you back, whatever it takes, so enjoy the freedom while it lasts.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

Ha! Hell no. However, after being cured, he will feel horrible for how he treated you. He’ll feel ashamed that his darker feelings for you were brought to light. He really does love you, but the demonic side of him has horrible ways of showing it.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

His transformation into a demon allowed his yandere tendencies to be brought to the surface. He doesn’t have to hold back his urges anymore, and why would he want to?

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Of course he doesn’t like it; he prefers you being obedient and rather docile. He would never admit this, but he would want you to be happy with him, even as a demon. If you try avoiding him, he’ll keep bugging you and forcing you to talk to him. He lacks patience, so your screams and cries will only make him angrier the longer you keep having tantrums.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Demon Dean would never hurt you intentionally, especially by abusing you to make you cooperate. Sure, when he lashes out, there may be a few accidents, but that’s all they are. Accidents.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

There are two things you could use: his killing urges and/or feeding into his ego. If you want to play the waiting game, you would have to gain his trust enough to allow you to be out of his sight. Simply pretending to love him won’t be enough because he’ll see right through you. When he goes on his killing sprees, leaving you behind for once will be your chance and only chance to escape. You better protect yourself; he will find you.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

No matter how much he cares about you, he will hurt your feelings at times, especially when he flirts with other women in front of you. When he’s extremely angry or has the itching need to kill something, you need to stay out of his way. He will lash out at you with hurtful words and potential bruises.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

Demon Dean cares about you despite who he is, and he doesn’t like upsetting you. You’re not much fun with tears in your eyes. As a demon, you’re the only one that makes him feel things—feelings he used to hide within when he was human. Anyway, he would go to the ultimate length to win you over. He’s not going to beg on his knees for your love, but he’ll show you how much he worships you in his own way. You want him to kill someone and bring you their head? He'll do it.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

After Dean became a demon and left with Crowley, he didn’t take you with him at the time, no matter how much he wanted to. However, you’ve never left his thoughts, no matter how much he tried to drink your sweet voice away. You haunted him for months until he finally snapped and came after you.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

If Dean was never cured or you never managed a way to escape from him, he’ll find a way to break you and make you depend solely on him. Make you finally see that he is the only thing that would kill to keep you safe. One way or another, he’ll make you fall for him.

Taglist: Comment to be added/removed!!

@prettywhenibleed @britany1997 @rottent33th @slaasherslut @huntressandlioness1 @wraith-posts @schizonephilim

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 9 days

Text

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part VI)

Series summary: After the events of the Seven Tower, you present Grace Mallory a new secret project you're working on already to develop a cure to Compound V. The only problem? You need Soldier Boy for that.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 2.5k.

Warnings for series: set after S3 (spoilers), some OOC!Ben, some depressed!Ben, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slow-burn, language, PTSD, reader has Compound V (she's no Vought supe tho), Soldier Boy being an usual asshole, reader is a fucking liar.

Warnings on this chapter: some suicide thoughts, very suggestive stuff, nudity, sexual tension barely starting, misogyny coming from you know who lol.

Notes: i was eager to drop this so here it is. hope i can make justice to the slow burn/slow sexual tension. aaaa as always thanks for reading!! ily all!

this fic tags: @k-slla @syrma-sensei @mostlymarvelgirl @cheynovak @drasticemotions @soldirboy

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part VI: Don't Lay Your Red Hand On Me

“Where the fuck are we going?” Ben asked, checking the picture outside the windshield.

The sun was already setting down, and there have been hours since you started driving. At least he had been able to see the damn sunset again after being caged for so long.

Despite his questioning look and not trusting you completely, both made it to your car in the middle of the mess of blood and headless corpses around the building, with him naked under the effects of your invisibility powers. Somehow, you still managed to reassure Soldier Boy it was to protect him. In fact, as you guided both out of the place, you were scared of your abilities not working properly to have him covered. The last thing you wanted was the cameras to have a look at him, escaping with your help.

Now, with Soldier Boy dressed in his clothes and you still wiping some of the dry blood from your skin, you drove without a destiny in mind. Just somewhere you could take him far away from Homelander and Vought. He was, in fact, your top priority and needed to be protected, even if you knew you were nothing compared to his strength and abilities, you still had the urgency of him trusting you, to feel like you really cared. And you did care, but for the wrong reasons and those, he didn’t have to know.

“Far away,” you responded, picking up your phone with one hand as you drove through the highway.

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” he insisted, looking at you switching your attention between the device in your hands and the road.

You dialed Grace, ignoring his voice. She didn’t answer immediately. You cursed under your breath and dialed again. No answer anew, just the ring and the automatic voicemail message. Well, fuck. You had to play with what you had.

“Hey, it’s me,” you began the message. “Please call me when you can, I have to inform you of something. It’s urgent, please call me back.”

Ben rolled his eyes, annoyed as fuck for your silence towards his demands. “You’re gonna tell me now what the fuck is going on? You’re a fucking supe and everyone is dead back there! And not ‘cause of me.”

“First, nothing to fear from me. Okay? You’re the one who’d kill me in a blink. Second, I don’t know!” you yelled as a response, clearly irritated. “I don’t know shit! I know we need to run and that’s all. So just shut up and let me drive.”

“Christ on a cross, you women are fucking irritating,” Ben fumed. He saw a cheap motel by the road and he would’ve guessed you were going there because you slowed down and pulled up in the parking lot. He sighed. “Home, shitty home.”

“Got any ideas? Because I’m all ears,” you stopped the engine and got down the car, taking the sports bag with you. The supe rolled his eyes and before he went out, you came right to his half open door. “Stay here, I'll check in.”

Ben shut his eyes, watching you closing the car door with a loud thud, and you left to get a room. He felt the need to storm behind and shout out what he really thought of your stupid ass bossing him around. If it wasn’t because he wasn’t really half the way out of the fucking car, he should have been arguing and insisting for some real answers. But for some reason he stayed back. When you came back after a short time he followed you to a double bed room you’d be using just for the night.

Once you entered, you decided a shower was first thing on the list, and then you had to communicate with Grace as soon as fucking possible. Checking around, you were thankful to find a couple of towels in the bathroom, while Ben settled on his own space, lying down on one of the beds.

He observed you thoroughly as you studied yourself in the dirty mirror hanging on the wall. The disgusting grimace you made told him you were looking for more blood to wipe off. And before he could speak again you turned to see him.

“I'm gonna take a shower,” you announced.

He raised a brow. “Mind some company, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes as you started to unbutton your blouse, his eyes checking shamelessly the little exposed skin didn’t go unnoticed by you. “Don't even think about it.”

And with that, you just disappeared inside the bathroom. The noise of water running compensated both of you for the silence. He turned on the cheap TV to have some noise for himself too, deciding he’d go for a shower after you. Probably if he was in a different mood would have just tried to get in your pants. Ben was getting so damn stressed out. First you took out his weed, then you announced he would have medication for his fucking stress disorder or some shit, and later, agents and employees of the facility just started to die violently without reason. He thought if any of you would be next while you walked him out.

It was too much to handle right now. He needed something to take it all out. Something, anything, somebody. Just to release it the only way he knew: with sexual pleasure. He didn't understand yet what the fuck was happening. Did you really care about him? You could just have left him there to handle everything by himself and run away. Yet, you took him out of the facility and he, once again, had a glimpse of your courage. Maybe a little. And he started to like that. Suddenly, he heard the shower being turned off and minutes later you came out of the bathroom sooner than he expected, dressed in the same clothing, drying the droplets on your face and wet hair.

“I’m gonna get some dinner, stay here” you announced, taking your phone and the room and car keys. “The door will be locked, don’t do anything stupid.”

Ben scoffed, standing up before making his way to take a shower himself. He faced you directly, just a couple of inches separating both of you. Your gaze challenged him to step closer. “I’m not a fucking animal.”

You hummed, without looking away from his eyes. “Sometimes I doubt you.”

“Locking the fucking door won’t do shit, why you keep doing this?” Ben asked, visible confusion on his features. He really looked tired as hell. Tired of your bullshit.

“It’s not because of you. I perfectly understand that, just wait for me here.”

With that, you turned on your heels and left the room. From the other side, you locked the door. Ben let out a deep breath. He knew it was easy to tear it apart, and again, run after you to have damn answers for once. But instead, he decided to calm himself a little and get rid of his clothes. Inside the shower, he let the warm water take care of the burdens he was carrying, without knowing, on his back. He wondered if he’d been better dead by now, if sleeping in a chamber was a greater choice than this, just running along with you, a woman, who just seemed to fuck him up even more instead of playing real like you had promised. If he knew how to kill himself, probably would’ve done it already. He was getting sick of hiding, of being a fucking experiment, to be under someone’s else’s orders… The worst part of it all is that he never had the right to choose on his own faith. Not even his own death.

Out of the room, you were a few feet away from the door you left behind when your phone started to ring softly. An unknown number appeared on the screen and cautiously you answered, making your way to the car, getting inside on the co-pilot seat.

“Hello?” a voice you knew too well started to speak after some seconds of silence.

“Grace?”

The woman on the other line breathed out. “Yeah, it’s me. Uhm, couldn’t attend earlier, sorry…”

“It’s okay,” you shook your head, as if she could see you face to face. “We’ve been compromised. My lab assistants, the nurses, scientists, guards… Everyone is dead.”

“Fuck,” Grace hissed. She sounded exhausted. “Where is Soldier Boy?”

“I took him out, checked us in at a motel. Can’t go back to my old place. Not yet.”

“You have the copies of the project, right?”

For a moment you felt she was doubting you, but you answered anyway, surprised she would even ask that. “I do.”

There was a little silence coming from her. You continued. “I don’t think I told you yet, but… Fuck, I received a visit from Homelander a couple of days ago. He crashed into my apartment… He knows.”

Grace cursed under her breath. “Y/N, we’re playing with fire here.”

You swallowed thickly, feeling your heartbeat raising. “What’s going on with you? Something happened back there?”

“Victoria Neuman came, saying she wanted to talk to me. She kinda threatened my life, and I’m on the run… Now I can make the puzzle.”

“You think they might be working together?”

“Probably. Senator Bishop was found dead, and guess who is running now with Robert Singer for vice president.”

You chuckled. The whole situation was so ironically clear. “Victoria, that stupid, smart bitch.”

“I’m gonna get some information on her, I know some people who’d know more than I do. I’ll call once I find something.”

“Okay, I’ll wait for that. Do you need me to do anything?”

“Just keep Soldier Boy busy. Work on that injection as soon as you can,” she ordered.

You nodded to yourself, taking a look around the empty lot. “Yes, ma’am.”

After a somewhat long time, Ben saw you entering the room and locking the door. You left a paper bag and water on the nightstand by his bed, where he laid down like he was having a nice day on the beach with only a towel around his hips. He noticed you looked down at him a little longer than usual, but he wasn’t going to let that slip. A sleazy smirk formed on his lips.

“My eyes are up here, sugar.”

You turned away your gaze for a moment before looking back up at him again, confident this time as you locked up your eyes with his half-lidded ones.

“Stop the pet names, Soldier Boy.”

Ben stood up on his feet slowly under your eyes following his moves. His muscular frame towering over your figure as the towel fell to the floor, revealing his bare figure to you. He was growing fond of the way you didn’t step back, ever, from him.

“Well, you never complained back there. Speaking of,” he took the bottle of water between his hands and took a sip from it before his green orbs focused on you anew. “I think you owe me an explanation.”

“I already told you. I don’t know shit.”

“Fucking lies,” the supe hissed. “Tell me now.”

You shrugged and crossed your arms on your chest, tired of him. “I have nothing.”

“Sweetheart, you never shut your piehole during our sessions. Don’t back up now,” he dared, stepping closer to you, eyelids narrowing.

Neither Ben or you dared to look away. You had to act like it, for your good. What if Soldier Boy found out that probably Homelander was behind all of it? It was going to be the end of him, his son; the fucking abusive experiment would be gone with a blast. But Vought was still around. It wasn’t just about Homelander or personal payback. It was more than that.

Homelander was barely the tip of the iceberg. And you were afraid Ben would never understand the mission. Would he say yes to use his blood to create even more experiments after all he went through, even if you explained everything? You knew his answer. The next step was getting it from him and it was going to be the hardest thing ever. But you could think of that later. There was nothing that a small cut accident couldn’t do.

“I’m not talking because I have nothing to tell you, Ben,” you lied, looking at him with your brows knitting together. “I wish I knew, but I’m just as scared as you might be.”

“I’m not scared,” he replied a little too fast. “I want to know why you took me out.”

“Why not?” you insisted. “You deserve another chance.”

And I need you alive to find a cure to this curse.

Ben scrutinized your face. This time, he couldn’t read through you. What did he know though, was that he was tired. A burning ache was forming inside him once again and he needed to release it. He was used to sensing your heartbeats, the blood running on your veins, and still now there was no glimpse of you reacting to his teasing. Any other woman would have thrown herself at him, he was used to it. Now, there wasn’t anyone. Just you, paying no attention to his perfectly sculpted body and his cock between his legs. It had to be the fact that you were a supe. Not as powerful, but still. A clear advantage in the cursed world you all lived in. He took in your body, thinking into luring you to give in and imagining how it would be to have you crying under him, moaning his name exactly like numerous women have. Just for the night.

“Don’t think about it, Soldier Boy,” you voiced out, like if you read his nasty mind. “I’m not gonna do that.”

His eyes went back to your face. “Y’know, I used to have lines of women like you during my days. Countless lines of rich whores, waiting to have a good fuck with me. Pretty ladies whose husbands would leave unattended, cute little secretaries, bombshell Hollywood actresses… All of them, just wet holes ready for me. I’d take them all.”

You chuckled at his pathetic little speech. If that was his way of getting you to bed, it wasn’t working. Not now, not never.

“I’m not just any rich whore, Ben. I don’t want to fuck you, you can use the bathroom to take care of your little problem down there.”

You saw how his jaw clenched as he held his eyes with yours.

He smirked. “Maybe not today, pretty thing. But you’ll see.”

“Be my guest.”

Ben turned around, giving you a clear view of his ass as he locked himself inside the bathroom. The sound of the shower running was not enough to cover his moans and grunts as he jerked himself off. You just decided to sleep. There was a long drive waiting for you in the morning.

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 9 days

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I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part V)

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 2.4k.

Warnings on this chapter: some misogyny and shit (you know who), psychiatry stuff, canon gore, blood, heads exploding, and violence?.

Notes: so I'm sorry for any mistakes during the psychyatric process, I go to therapy and take medication myself so that's all I know plus google research. And be aware of the gore descriptions, I tried to do my best I guess lol. Thanks for reading as always!

this fic tags: @k-slla @syrma-sensei @mostlymarvelgirl @cheynovak @drasticemotions @soldirboy

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part V: Blow Your Mind

With a deep breath, you reviewed the symptoms Soldier Boy barely 'gave' during your session. The list was kind of long on the pages and it read:

Always being on guard for any danger, self-destructive behavior, irritability, angry outbursts, panic attacks, feeling emotionally numb, not trusting anyone, not feeling safe, hypervigilance, intrusive thoughts, fatigue, muscle tension, headaches, back pain...

There was a weird silence surrounding both of you, mostly because of his mood and his change in demeanor from a somewhat friendly asshole to an irritated, unbearable jerk. Once you had started with the uncomfortably stupid questions, he felt threatened. Soldier Boy wasn't actually open to talk about his past and the traumatic experiences he had, and that meant it was difficult to get to know how his body and mind were reacting to all the stress and madness he went through in decades, adding those weeks after Billy Butcher had released him from his nightmare.

He was opposed to speaking directly about how he was feeling, but you knew better that Ben speaking out on his symptoms was not going to happen. So you had to ask each one of them and review some his most harsh experiences directly, in order to receive monotonous responses, limited to: 'yes', 'no', 'I don't know,' and finally 'what the fuck is that?' You took them all as an absolute yes.

He was being defensive and you knew better than to miss anything after he almost burned the whole damn building. And with the small but confident experience you had with psychiatry, you concluded that he needed medication and therapy. As soon as fucking possible.

"Yeah, you have PTSD," you said after a moment and your eyes found his unreadable gaze.

He raised his eyebrows with false surprise. He already heard that shit from Hughie before. "And where's the fucking drugs?"

"For that to happen, you have to stop the weed first."

"I've survived bricks of coke mixed with shit you probably don't know about and you want to take the only thing that's keeping me sane? Fan-fucking-tastic!" he fumed, but you didn't flinch. Not a bit.

"Look, my goal is keeping you safe and making you sane because you definitely are not. Not right now. And since I took you out, you'll follow my process, so stop whining."

He chuckled softly with a bitter grimace on his lips as he shook his head softly. "No, that's not gonna happen."

"I don't care if you agree with that, it's settled," you continued, a triumphant smile plastered on your face.

It was true, you didn't give a single shit. He had to be clean and quit any type of drugs to start the medication but most importantly, to use his blood. Eventually. You were more than aware that he wouldn't die easily, that was proved. And it was just a matter of time to get him to your lab to take samples of his blood and run the necessary research on them while you and your team still continued the studies with the Anti-V prototype. You were only hoping that day would arrive soon enough. Two months sober, that was all you needed from him. And the best part? Soldier Boy didn't have to really know the whole details.

Ben, on the other hand, clenched his jaw so tight and closed his eyes for a moment after hearing your statement. You really were a fucking bitch, letting him fall into the abyss of misery and torture that was his own wrecked mind. He considered your intentions internally, once again for the millionth time. You showed up there all dressed up, playing a rich doctor when in reality you were just a fucking slutty brat, just to tell him he had to stop his usual pot, which you also brought happily when he asked you to. And now, you were taking away the only thing that stopped him from ripping your head off. What a great move.

"That's not smart," he insisted.

"Why not? I have you under my own terms."

Ben tilted his head, studying you carefully. "You can't stop me, doll. None of you can. I'm only here because I find it suitable instead of storming out and catching unnecessary attention."

Ben saw you swallow down, he immediately knew it was because you were angry, not scared. You never really seemed scared of him. And you tried to restrain yourself from slapping him right away. "Are you blackmailing me again, Soldier Boy?"

"Is just a warning," he said, nonchalantly. "Wouldn't want to harm such a pretty thing like you, now wouldn't we."

"Oh well, just a reminder I can also turn on the damn gas if needed," you snapped. The arrogant smirk on his lips fell off and it was your turn to smile back. "We all have hidden cards, right?"

Such an arrogant bitch, he thought.

"So, what's your plan?" you switched the subject to avoid going further into what was troubling him.

"What do you mean?"

"Homelander. You want him dead, don't you? You must be getting ready to fight again..."

His body seemed tense once you pushed him to talk, looking away from you to calm a bit. "Isn't that what all of you want?"

"Any sane person would love that, trust me."

Soldier Boy narrowed his eyes. "Well, I can do it. If I wasn't here... You've seen what he's capable of. Jesus, I've seen it," he bitterly chuckled. "And the kid? He's a fucking menace."

"You've been watching the news, I take that—"

"The fuck I do! Wasn't gonna wait for you to keep me up to date of what the fuck is going on!" Ben shouted, his loud voice roaring in your ears despite the distance.

"I don't want you to stress out more than you do," you said, vacillating. "A lot of things take time, such as you adapting to the twenty-first century."

"I'd love to know when that'll happen," Ben insisted. "Or else, I might just break out."

With a tentative smile, you started to write down the report. "I'm so glad you're talking more during our sessions."

You barely said goodbye to Soldier Boy once you finished your daily session. Your head was aching as you walked down the aisle, barely leaving the empty wing of the building behind. Certainly he was hard to handle and was behaving defensively. Before you left he began asking, or better said, bossing you to get him whatever the kid Hughie told him he needed to learn how to use. Shit like the internet and GPS, he said. You told him he was not ready for it yet.

But you'd give him a golden star for trying and insisting so badly, even if he was against eighty percent of your methods. He was up to something, there was no question for that. He was a soldier, more or less like his given supe name. People like him always had a plan, and underneath his facade, there were more plans backed up with words of honor that you had to track sooner or later.

As you made your way to your office, greeting your lab employees and guards, a disturbing sensation grew up inside. Before crossing the doorframe you subtly looked around, focusing for some reason in the security camera, more time than you'd like to admit. You turned again to finally get inside, facing the entry of your office when hurried steps and a voice stopped you from doing so.

"Doctor!"

Once again you turned on your heels to see your assistant, tablet in hand. Those had to be the results.

"Hey," you began. "You have everything?"

Bianca nodded with a straight face and handed you the tablet. You noticed her tight grip and her somehow trembling fingers when you took the device from her hands. You eyed her a little, she remained with her hands intertwined in front of her, her attention seemed lost. With caution, you continued to check the file.

"Is the patient alright?" you asked, reading the profile of the supe who had the not so good luck of being tested previously.

Solaris was his supe name. And he had the ability to manipulate light and matter with his mind. He had taken part in the program for a month now and this was his first test. As always, each supe you had into the program was low-profile. You were thankful of your team keeping these supes under their gaze to offer them some sort of solution, even after all the deaths you tracked from time to time when a test of the Anti-V was run. More than a solution for them, it was a partial contribution to find it.

You quickly scanned the updated file that Bianca completed for you. He was doing better than projected, his powers were still gone with a forecast of probably coming back within a couple of hours. A deep breath left your lips. Now that was an improvement. It was the first time anything like that happened on any tests. The supe survived, he was weak but the powers were off for a bit. It was a small step closer to your goal. Just a little bit more maybe and it could be done, finally...

"He's resting right now," Bianca interrupted your thoughts. Your eyes were back on her face.

"This is great news, thank you. I trust he's doing okay."

She nodded. "He is."

"Great, I guess I'll see him in a couple of hours," you said about entering your office.

"Wait!" Bianca suddenly closed the little space between both of you. She breathed heavily before stuttering words out. "I, I have- I'm sorry..."

"Are you okay?" you inquired, knowing her behavior was unusual. She swallowed down, turning her gaze away, her hands shaking. Was she sick? "Bianca, what's wrong?"

You tried to reach her cheek with your hand, but she stepped back abruptly, looking at you like if you were a ghost with her eyes red and wet, and a fine layer of sweat adorning her skin.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed.

You walked towards her, worried about what was going on but every step you took, she also gave it back.

"Bianca, what's happening?"

Her back bumped the wall of your office, and finally, she started to cry. "I'm sorry. You have to go, please..."

Your heart started pounding heavily on your chest. "What—"

"Go now! Please... Please don't hurt me..."

"I'm not going to hurt you, Bianca," you whispered, trying to comfort her.

But she continued crying and mumbled incoherent words with eyes shut, while hot tears streamed down her face. She choked on her sobs as she pleaded for her life. But you didn't understand why. You tried to soothe her, reaching her shoulder with your free hand.

And when you placed your palm on her, everything became red. It all happened in seconds. Ropes of warm blood covered your face in an instant. A loud gasp fell from your throat. You felt every drop mixed with brains on the skin of your face, on your neck, and sliding down the skin under your blouse. It was shocking and equally disgusting. And your eyes remained shut, not brave enough to move or see the horrid picture in front of you.

Your palm was still on her shoulder when the remains of her body fell to the ground with a thud. Your trembling hand wiped some blood from your face to open your eyes anew. The wall was painted with her, as much as you were, and it left a trail of blood from where her corpse slid to the floor. Her head long fucking gone.

"Shit."

Shit. Fucking shit. Was it him? It had to be him. There was no reason to doubt it. It was him. And he complied with his promise. Had Homelander been controlling Bianca? Was she the only one? No. There had to be something more. Homelander wasn't easy and he wasn't merciful with anyone. You had to stop him and get Soldier Boy out of the building. Now.

You tried to control yourself as best as you could, walking away to reach anyone, crossing a corner on the hallway, where a guard was casually passing by.

He stopped on his tracks at your sight, covered in blood and meat. "Doctor?"

"I need your help," you whispered.

He nodded quickly and you began explaining with a low, shaky voice.

"I don't know what happened, my assistant was right there with me when— Fuck!"

You walked some inches away when his head exploded, just like Bianca's did. Luckily, or not, this time was inside his helmet. All the red brains and blood were catched by it. Still, you wanted to throw up right fucking there. The remains of his body fell to the floor with a loud sound.

With a deep breath you continued your way, finding guards, lab assistants and agents. If they were alive, their heads popped into your sight. And if it was your somehow lucky moment of the day, you just found their headless corpses lying on the ground, creating a pool of blood you tried to avoid.

The only thing on your mind was taking Ben out of the building. The alarm had been turned on and the annoying sound of it was driving you crazy. Your head ached more than ever as you made your way to Soldier Boy for the second fucking time during the day.

Since there was no time to open the heavy door properly, you used a force field around the metal, moving the door until it slipped enough to let you in. You found him standing in the middle of the room. Eyes dark and alert, with fists and frame ready to fight. He wrinkled his nose once you entered the place.

"What the fuck's going on?" Ben growled, observing your blood covered face.

"We need to go, now. Take your clothes off."

He blinked, taken aback. Before he answered you continued with an explanation.

"I'll turn you invisible, but can't turn your clothes," you ordered, looking in the closet for a sports bag you knew was inside and picking a couple of shirts, pants and boxers as quickly as time allowed you to. Once finished, you turned to Ben again.

"Mind to fucking clarify?" he insisted. You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment.

"Look, I'll tell you everything once we're out," you turned one of your hands invisible for him to see.

Ben snorted with laughter. How ironic, he thought.

"No fucking way."

"Strip. We're leaving."

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 9 days

Text

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part IV)

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 2.8k.

Warnings on this chapter: Reader's parents are fucking irresponsible and disgusting people, mentions of a dead parent, Homelander!!!! (he's a fucking warning), sexual assault (touching, kissing, etc.) and some after thoughts, you know the usual questionable stuff on TB universe, Ben's point of view and presence=red flag.

Notes: more about reader's past in here! And just want to add that this is how i imagine her suit on this chapter. I'm also using a lot of inspo from Sue Storm of the Fantastic Four because I love her, so yeah. And thanks so much for reading it means a lot to me! ^^

this fic tags: @k-slla @syrma-sensei @mostlymarvelgirl @cheynovak @drasticemotions @blacknoirr @deans-spinster-witch

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part IV: Countdown

2009

"Spectrum, turn around, please," the lady on the other side of the camera ordered.

You did as she told, turning slowly and showing a complete view of your suit. Made of unstable molecules, the suit was your best creation at the time. It was all white with black details, and finally you had something covering your whole body that'd turn invisible when you commanded. Your boots were the same, specially built to disappear and blend with your powers when needed.

"Great, show us what you can do," the woman said.

You nodded, your heart beating so hard on your chest. You didn't want to fuck it up. Not for your mother. She was the main reason why you were there in the first place. You took a deep breath, with eyes closed you raised your palms at your chest level and created a force field around your figure. The force fields you learnt to make over the years of self training were like gigantic bubbles that allowed you to float around if you said so, and they protected you or anyone or anything they were covering.

The camera, the couch, the table, and any single thing you found in the room were now surrounded by the fields, lifting them up a couple of feet from the surface. And once you thought it was enough, they landed slowly on their place, the fields vanished just like the one around yourself. Though the lady on the other side didn't seem amused or surprised.

"I also turn invisible," you said for the first time after your personal presentation was over.

"Go on," she plainly answered.

And within seconds, you slowly disappeared from her sight. The fabric of the suit faded away.

"I created this special costume to turn invisible without, you know, being naked," you commented.

Still, there was no clear answer on the face of the woman. She was just busy taking notes and filming your audition with the steady camera on the table. She said nothing, her eyes glued to her writing. Disappointed, you made yourself visible again.

"That's impressive!"

You gasped. It was that voice you heard so many times on TV. His steps came closer and he stopped by your side with a smile on his face.

"Homelander," the woman called with a wide, fake grin. "You weren't supposed to be in here."

"Just passing by, wanted to say hi. I'm really amazed by you, darling."

You tried to smile the best you could. But you were so tense and flustered now that he was in front of you. Your childhood hero, coming to see you at your audition. Even before you got a clear response from Vought. It felt like a dream. Any child had dreamt of it at some point.

You grew up with him and the Seven. He was one of the reasons you forgot every single problem and responsibility your dysfunctional, selfish family put you through from a young age. To them, you were just a doll to play with and show off. The perfect daughter. But seeing the Seven was totally different. You wanted to be like them. Too sad this part was also linked to your mother and her self-centered shit. If only...

"Thank you," you barely answered with a soft voice, looking down on your boots.

"I've been out there, hesitating if I should come in, since you created those force fields. Wow!" he praised, making you chuckle. "You left the door open on purpose, didn't you two?"

All you could do was chuckle again, you felt your cheeks burning at his banter. He smiled along with you before turning his eyes to the lady.

"Hey, Greta. Can you leave us alone for a moment?"

"But I have to-"

Homelander chuckled, cutting her words. "Absolutely no, I can continue for you. Remember?"

Greta, as he called her, swallowed thickly and her eyes switched between you and the supe. "Sure, sir."

She lifted herself up from the chair, took her things and went out. You noticed the camera was still in place, that meant it was still rolling.

Once the door closed. "So..." he began, walking a circle around you. "How'd you create this... costume of yours?"

"Well, I like science," you nervously smiled, playing with your glove-covered hands. He passed by your face this time and paced around one more time. "It took me a while to figure out how but I did something with the molecules, created my own patent of the matter and did this complete costume."

Homelander stopped at your back. He hummed. "Smart. Tell me..."

His pause made you answer what he was looking for. "Spectrum."

"Spectrum, why do you want to be part of the Seven so bad?"

Homelander dragged your alias with a dark voice, one that replaced the long warm and welcoming tone he had with you at first. You licked your lips, anxious and out of words. Once behind your figure, he angled himself so close to one of your ears that you felt his hot breath on your skin.

"So? I know you have something to say, dear."

"I- I just want to help others... Do what you guys do..."

The next thing you felt was the supe's strong body pressing on your ass. You gasped loudly as his hands grabbed the sides of your hips forcing you to fall back against his chest.

"Go on," Homelander whispered.

One of his hands roamed over your stomach slowly, right under your breasts, and you were absolutely caged on his grip. You took deep breaths, closing your eyes as he touched you over the suit.

"I- I know science, I told you. Also I can help the team w-with new inventions of my own... Create technology t-to fight very bad threats," you stuttered.

"Mmmh, yeah, I like the sound of that," Homelander chuckled against your neck, his lips tracing soft and unwanted kisses on your skin.

"Please- ah!"

He harshly pushed you against his groin. Your breath caught in your throat at the feel of his crotch. This wasn't what you thought it was. This was not what your mother signed you up for.

"Tell me, did your father know how much of a fucking slut you are?" Homelander hissed, his hand cupping your covered breast.

Something inside you emerged at his question. His touch was disgusting and it was making you sick and the mention of your father, your dead father, made it even worse.

"What do you know about him?" you asked in a dark whisper, still planning your next move.

Deep inside, you were scared of Homelander, it was a new face he had yet to show to the world.

"Just the basics, honey," he said plainly, forcing you to walk with a grip on your arm. The supe sat on the couch and pushed you to his lap. "He was quite the rich man, Edgar knew you'd be a great deal to the company, well, your money of course."

You let out a gasp. "What?"

"Honey, he was one of our most valuable shareholders," he playfully answered, his hands cupping your cheeks.

And it clicked. Your mother supported your dream just because she'd still be getting profits from Vought. The firm was now under her name, and she needed something more to strengthen the relationship between Vought and your father's inheritance. The fucking witch. And then, your father. He was the one financing this piece of shit sitting between your legs. Were all supes like this behind their masks? If so, fucking crap. Everything you believed in was bullshit. A circus. And they clowned you so well. And above all, the sickening man that had been touching you without your permission the past endless minutes...

"Oh, poor thing, you didn't know," Homelander's intense blue eyes widened when he immediately noticed your confused, blank face.

Your eyes filled with tears and still, you refused to cry in front of the asshole you once admired.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of you here with us," he smirked. His fingers on your neck, feeling your pulse. You closed your eyes so hard, your nose wrinkled and you held back a sob when his hand added pressure around your collar. He leaned closer, his lips finding yours in a sloppy kiss as you tried to resist his touch. "So fucking useful," Homelander whispered against your lips. He gave you that mischievous grin of his. You shivered. "I can't wait to ruin you. Every single inch of you."

The same past memory of Homelander haunted you the next day. The way you found out about your father's business with Vought and how the supes showed their real faces was the main reason you were here now.

You remembered you had to hit Homelander as hard as you could to escape from him and use your force field to protect yourself before running away and leaving the tower, fully invisible. Not that it was a great help since Homelander had a lot of abilities with his vision, and he could hear the beating of your heart miles away, but for you, it was worth the try. It was a surprise he didn't follow you that day. Instead, Vought got a new deal with your mother for the budget and you hated that. You cut all communication with what was left of your family after that day, knowing it could've been so much worse.

Homelander and Vought, however, were after you now. And he was a difficult face to forget. Not only because he was faking everything from the public but because Vought was after your father's money. And deciding to step away from all the illegal stuff they did, you left for college. Science was always a part of you and it's what got you here, under Grace Mallory and the CIA, doing different jobs you were not so proud of, but now, you were looking for a cure. It was all that mattered those days, until you found out that your mother had been experimented on during her pregnancy. A fucking lie. That's what your life was. That's why she cheered you to go to that stupid audition and fell into the hands of that monster at twenty-three years old.

The thought of your father supporting the horrid things Vought and the Seven did for decades was unbearable, and since Homelander's visit the night before caused those memories and nightmares to be back. It took a great effort to get out of bed and come to work that day. You'd make sure to compensate yourself for it later. But now, you were in a hurry to your daily session with Soldier Boy. You saved your phone in the pocket of your trousers after checking the time as you walked down the aisle, grabbing tightly the report of your patient with your other hand. Well, thirty minutes late wasn't nothing.

"Doctor!" you heard a female voice running towards you in the halls that made you turn on your heels. It was your young assistant.

"Hey, Bianca. What's wrong?" you asked as you noticed she was a little out of breath.

"We ran another test. The supe survived," she blurted, handing you a tablet that you didn't take. Sometimes the change in the results was minimal.

"That's great. Any significant improvements?"

"Well, just minimal effects. Right now some fever, fatigue, dehydration, and uhm, low pulse."

You sighed after another illusion. "Right. I don't think those are minimal effects, Bianca. Please check our patient and see how the powers are working. Run blood tests, all tests you can and then you can provide me the results. I'm a little busy right now."

She nodded with a shy smile, looking around subtly. "Sure."

You smiled back as best as you could. "Anything else?"

"No, it's just- I see you go this way a lot," Bianca pointed to the direction you were heading with her gaze. "That's Soldier Boy, isn't he?"

Your brows furrowed. "Why you ask?"

"Nothing, well, my grandpa used to talk about him all the time," she giggled. "I was just curious, sorry."

"No problem. I get it. But I really have to go, please make sure those results are on my desk by the end of the day," you ordered kindly.

"I will."

"Thanks, Bianca."

With that, you gave a last smile and began your walk again away from her, slower than before. For some reason something was off since you entered the building. It felt different. Totally weird. For the record, since Homelander threatened to have your head off, you paid twice the attention to your surroundings and the people around. You didn't know if there was something big planning right now in front of your nose. You just walked a couple of feet when you felt someone following behind, that was probably watching over you. In a swift movement, you turned on your heels but no one was there. The aisle was empty.

Bianca was already gone and almost no one would wander on this wing of the building, for obvious reasons. With caution you resumed your steps, telling yourself that you were not going insane.

"Robert Singer and I have been hard at work bridging the divide between the human and Superhuman communities. I've seen that divide firsthand in my three years running the FBSA—"

Ben scoffed, taking the TV controller to turn the screen off. "Bullshit."

He stood in the middle of the room with nothing but a towel hanging down his hips after taking a shower, taking the last smoke of his blunt. He grew tired of waiting for you, so he just took a shower and now, everything on the fucking channels was the stupid campaign by Victoria Neuman being supported by Vought and the fucking brat he was supposed to call his son.

With a deep breath, he finished the weed and threw the remains on the ashtray over the new coffee table. His mind started to wander away, realizing he had been a little calm the last couple of days after he almost blew up the fucking place to the ground. Inside, Ben knew your words and actions were a lot of help for the small sense of serenity that started to grow within his chest after that moment. Absolutely that was something he wouldn't admit, ever. But if he was to say, he was actually relieved.

Taking a look around, his place was not that big of a mess. You were certainly used to his clothes around the floor and the sofas, so it wasn't really important. What he found annoying though was you pushing him to read the stupid books and write down his feelings. He wasn't going to do that. If you were there to medicate him, so be it. He wondered why you took so long to do it. Probably he should be stoned enough to not feel anything. That was fucking better.

Just as he started to go over his mental plan to get the hell out of your prison, the door opened. He smirked at your sight. As always, an useless armed man standing behind your figure. You dispatched the guard and stepped inside Soldier Boy's place, the door closing with a loud sound.

You stopped your tracks just a few steps away from him. He noticed your eyes tracing his half bare body in a quick motion, before turning to his face with an arrogant smirk on your lips.

"See something you like, sweetheart?" Ben teased.

With a light chuckle, you held your head high. "Don't be delusional, it's just basic instinct."

"Believe me, I fucking know that," he snarked, taking over your figure with his green eyes the same way you did before. "Basic instinct."

You rolled your eyes. "So," you sat down in your usual place to start the session, making a pile of three of his shirts in the empty space. "Make yourself decent and then we can continue."

Ben took some sweatpants and a shirt from the floor and started to dress himself in front of you, without much care. He smirked as you turned away your gaze to focus on the report lying on your lap.

"You're late," he remarked, taking his own seat once he was done with his clothes.

"Yeah, I had some things to do," you mumbled going through the pages. "But I see we can start now."

He took a deep breath, staring into the distance. "Don't make it boring."

You grimaced, looking back at him. "Can't promise that."

Ben sensed a playfulness coming from you. Could it be that, after recieving your comforting words, he was seeing another side of you? Like the side that would actually trust him, because you still arrived. You were sitting in front of him. You were with him, in the same fucking room where the sun was far from getting. Yeah, you were there but he was too full of ego to bring his walls down again. He wanted to convince himself he wasn't vulnerable. He knew he was more than that. He was Soldier Boy, the man who had to stop Homelander and his fucking kid.

He smirked. "Well, sugar, I can ask you to try."

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 9 days

Text

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part III)

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 2.2k.

Warnings on this chapter: panic attack, killing threats, violence, Ben my poor meowmeow, hurt/comfort, mentions of rape.

Notes: this is mostly a bonding chapter between Ben and the reader, also there's more about the reader's past in here plus a special guest lmao. I'm having too much fun writing this! If anyone would like to be tagged I'll be more than happy to do so! I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.

this fic tags: @k-slla @syrma-sensei @mostlymarvelgirl @cheynovak

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part III: Afraid of the Fall

Ben felt his head being hammered and strange voices in a foreign language mumbled to him, all while they laughed and mocked his suffering, causing loud screams and groans of pain falling off his mouth. He struggled, feeling his skin burning again and again. He hoped it stopped, sitting down on the edge of the mattress, but things didn't get better.

Far away, he heard a familiar voice, shouting to get inside. But he couldn't move from his place to reach it. He groaned again, grabbing the sides of his head strongly and covering his ears, elbows on his knees, at the same time he felt a fire forming on his chest. It was happening again. He didn't want to do it. He couldn't do it. He had been trying to control himself with the reefer the past few days. Why now? Why here? He thought he might lose control over himself one more time, and it scared him to death.

There was a loud sound of metal and high heels running towards him, until someone dropped in front of him.

"Ben?"

He barely recognized your voice, but he felt your hands running all over his cheeks, until he opened his tired eyes.

"Ben, you're fine, okay? You're safe here," he took in your gentle voice as you knelt in front of him. He saw you observing his chest and the blast forming in there. "Please, you can control yourself. Look at me, breathe."

He moaned in pain again, closing his eyes shut. He was holding back as much as his strength allowed him, but it wasn't working. Your worried eyes locked when he opened his own again, green and teary.

"Please just breathe. Inhale and exhale," you said, mimicking the directions as he tried to steady his breath following you.

"That's it, go on," you repeated, encouraging him to keep doing the same. "Take my hands, here," he felt your palms embracing his rough hands, his grip hard on your soft ones. "Keep breathing."

The explosion on his chest was still there but as you soothed him with your voice, he eventually felt as the burn dissipated little by little.

"You're safe now, nothing's gonna happen," you mumbled. "Breathe."

Ben took in your whispering voice, until the burn stopped. You remained there with him, hands together, as he opened his eyes anew. He found a comforting smile on your lips, but as soon as he scanned the room he found two men standing in the doorway. Armed and pointing at him, ready to shoot him. He looked between you and the men, and abruptly got on his feet, shoving you away with such force. You landed over your ass on the floor just a couple of steps away from him. The guards aimed their guns immediately.

"Don't!" you ordered.

"Doctor, he was about to blast," said one of them.

"Stop it!" you raised your hands, with glossy eyes and lungs out of air. "Please, leave," you pleaded. Ben remained in the same spot, figuring out if he had to fight you and the men.

"Doc, the gas-"

"Leave now!" you shouted. They hesitated. "I can handle this, just go and don't turn on the gas, that's an order."

Your gaze might've worked because they slowly backed up and left, closing the heavy door and leaving you alone with the supe. He looked at you, breathing steady and an outraged face. You stood up, fists tight, as Ben closed the distance between both of you.

"Ben, I'm so sorry-"

You choked on your own words, his hand grabbing your neck with his tight grip. "Don't fucking tell me I'm safe. You've built a chamber that'd kill me while I sleep," he growled. Your hands took on his wrists.

Ben just held you in place, denying oxygen into your lungs. He was fucking mad at how you decided to play with him and his life. All these days, he had the chance to end you and that fucking building, and he didn't do it. He felt like a fucking idiot. He had to finish this now. Suddenly, he loosened the rough grip around your throat and slammed you harshly, until your back hit the hardwood of the coffee table.

You coughed as you tried to lift yourself to a sitting position, the mess of the broken wooden lying underneath.

"Ben," you gasped looking up at him. "It's okay if you want to kill me. I'm only asking you to think twice because I'll be dead but it'll be worse for you."

How could it be? Ben couldn't take a fucking break without knowing the damn gas could be turned on if any of those cocksuckers, you included, wanted to. He was beyond pissed. Over and over, he became surrounded by traitors, people who didn't give a single shit about him. And now, he just wanted to rip your head off, kill everyone inside, and run away. Yet somehow he couldn't. With brows furrowed and a cold expression on his face, he watched your figure on the floor, vulnerable and aching due to the impact, at his cruel mercy. But his body wouldn't move an inch to get to you.

Slowly you got on your feet again and for a moment that felt eternal, you looked at each other. Ben was just waiting for the rage to flourish and do what he had to since he met you in that fucking office. He had to kill everyone when they took him out of that box. Too sad he couldn't go back to the past and change his decisions.

You held his haze, and all of the sudden you stepped forward wrapping your arms around his muscular waist. He was shocked.

"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry," you whispered, hiding your face on his chest.

Ben felt your warmth against his flesh, but he couldn't do more than stay frozen in the middle of the room. The only physical contact he had felt for a long time was for the purpose of torture, pain, and suffering. A hug felt strangely uncomfortable to him. More so after he was the one ready to kill everyone around, starting with you. You must have noticed the stiffness on his body because you slowly backed up and separated from him.

He gave you a confused look and you started to speak softly again.

"I can leave if you want-"

His voice came barely as a whisper. "No."

You nodded, locking your eyes with his own. "Okay. You want to talk?"

"I don't know," he said softly.

Calmly, you asked him to sit on the edge of the bed and Ben soon followed as you did. His eyes were lost in the room and he felt regretful for what he did to you. Anyone in your place would just have left and ran away. He'd be alone, just like he had in the past decades. But you didn't. You were there by his side because you wanted to help him. At least that's what you said.

"I had a nightmare," he began. "It felt so real."

"I'm here, you can let it out," you reassured. Ben felt your eyes on him, but he wasn't strong enough to see your face, so he focused on the wall on the other side of the room.

"I was there... Again. I thought I was there, and thought I was going to blow up everything. Haven't felt this pain since you brought me here, until today," Ben mumbled. "I don't know what happened. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"There's nothing wrong with you," you replied once he finished. "You're not a bad person."

"I could've killed you," his words sounded like a fear confession.

But he didn't have any idea of why he would care that much for a stranger like you. He harmed you, and still here you were. It was almost as if you were not scared of him, the atrocities he had done and the ones he could do in the future.

"But you didn't, so don't torture yourself with things that are not real."

He believed you were right. At the same time, it was difficult to push those thoughts away.

"I'm a fucking mess," he said, his eyes locked on his lap as he played with his hands like he was a child. "My father was right."

"Ben-"

"I could've done so much better with him."

"Who?"

"Homelander."

This time, he found your intense gaze. You shook your head.

"You didn't know what Vought was up to. That is not your fault."

"But he is my son in the end," Ben grumbled. "And he has a fucking son of his own."

"A lab experiment," you corrected. "A lab experiment that has a child, product of a rape. You don't have to call that your blood."

He gave a sad smile that quickly disappeared. "I wish I didn't have to. I always wanted kids. Y'know, give them the figure I never had, let them know I'm proud of them, tell them they mean everything to me... Be a better father. And I feel guilty for no reason."

You nodded. "I understand all that, and you'll get over the generational trauma and the PTSD. I promise. Just remember before you run, you need to learn how to walk."

A part of his heart refused to believe your words, that you were lying, but the look in your eyes said otherwise. Probably you were not as bad as he thought you'd be. After all, you were there. You had the courage to step in front of him, to be in the same room as him, and to come every day just in hope to have some sort of advance even when he was pushing his pain away. All those efforts and insistences, they had to mean something in the end. Right?

Last couple of days were hell. You caught something good though. Soldier Boy finally talked to you. Just a little. Anything was fine at this point. For you, work didn't stop. Rest was not an option most of the time. So on Sunday morning you drove back to your apartment after spending the whole Saturday working on more details about the Anti-V prototype.

Once in the building, you made your usual way to your door and immediately got rid of your coat and shoes in the entry hall. You were so tired and craving for a sleep, so you made your way to your bedroom, until a horribly annoying voice you knew too well stopped you on the doorframe.

"Well, don't you work your ass off," the blonde man swung into your room in his usual ridiculous outfit, admiring every detail of the place. He gave you a disturbingly disgusting smile.

You also noticed the balcony windows and curtains were open. Of fucking course he'd used the easiest way to break into your home.

"What-"

"Oh, you know who I am, doctor. I can break the president's home if I want to," Homelander beamed when he stopped just inches from you.

You gulped and crossed your arms on your chest.

"And may I ask why are you here?"

"You know why, don't play dumb."

"No, I don't. Enlighten me, please," you replied, faking it. "You know, I don't really think we've met before."

"Actually, we did. It was in an audition. Around 2009, remember?"

"Now I do," your jaw clenched. That was a fucking memory you wanted to erase and bury forever. "I'm glad I didn't pass that shit."

"Yeah, you were such a waste now that I think of. Could've been with our team now."

Homelander chuckled, proudly and honorably, walking around and stopping in front of your vanity. He started to check your perfumes and jewelry that spread on there, like a damn kid. You followed him immediately.

"What do you want?"

"Straight to the point, fine," he began, facing you once again. Smile long gone. "I know you're up to something. Fucking stop it."

Your lips opened but he shut you up with a gesture of his hand and went on.

"Uh-uh, not now. Don't try to deny it. Don't make fucking excuses," Homelander closed the distance between both of you. His lips brushed your ear and somehow, you were frozen in place. You didn't know what would happen next, he was unpredictable.

"I know you have my dad with you, and what you're doing will not benefit me," he whispered and he pulled back to see your blank face, eyes staring with rage. "Just a small warning. I got my eyes on you," he chuckled. "But don't worry, I'm giving you a chance. Only one chance to stop whatever the fuck you're doing. Trust me, you don't wanna know what I have for you."

He started to walk to the balcony without giving you time for an answer. Not that you had much of a comeback in mind when your life and project were now in danger. At least he was going to finally leave your place. Before flying away, he turned around one last time.

"Better take care of the old man, uhm?"

Those were his last words. And you knew he didn't mean them.

You were so fucked now.

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 9 days

Text

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy (Part II)

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 2.5k.

Warnings on this chapter: Ben being a misogynist, talks about masturbation and porn, killing threats, Ben's POV in general is a red flag, death.

tags: @k-slla

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part II: Silence is Peace

The next day arrived fast, and again, you found yourself walking ready to have a conversation with the supe locked in the facility. A part of you was surprised he didn't try to escape yet, but Ben, on the other hand, was just letting things flow at the moment.

The heavy, metal door opened to let you in. The supe caught by surprise seeing you coming inside full of confidence at this time in the morning. A couple of armed men in black uniforms followed behind as they settled down some furniture in the empty area of the room: two small sofas and a coffee table.

His arrogant self knew those guns wouldn't tear a single hair off of him, but hey, he understood you needed to feel safe. So meanwhile, he decided to play along. He remained still by the bathroom door as you came closer.

"I didn't request that," he said once you stood face to face.

"Oh, I know. I did, it's for your therapy," you smiled, tugging the bag on your shoulder. The armed men finished decorating the cell, and they left with a loud thud of the door being closed behind their backs. "There's been a small change of plans. I will come by every day for one hour. Anything you want you will ask me first and if I approve, then I will bring it to you."

He smirked. Like if he needed to be bossed around by a fucking woman, he thought. "You sure have the balls to stand up on me like that."

"Like I said, I want to help you," you replied, making your way and sitting down on a sofa. "Please," you requested him with a hand to do the same and he followed with curiosity. You put the bag on the coffee table, taking out a notebook, pens, a folder, and a small zip bag containing the only thing he asked from you the day before. You left his reefer on the coffee table, putting the folder in your lap as you waited for him with a smile on your face he found unsettling.

Ben still didn't buy you or your intentions, but he sat down on the opposite sofa nonetheless. You had brought him something he asked from you, something he wanted and would calm him down for a little. Hopefully it wasn't going to be that bad. He only had to put up with the game of doctor-patient. In the back of his mind, he was also grateful you dropped the stupid white coat at the same time he found your attempt to fix him ridiculous. He didn't need to get fixed.

"Your guards ain't hurting me with those guns, you know that," Ben started.

"We have to try," you shrugged. "And you're still here, that has to mean something."

He rolled his eyes. Of fucking course he had to stay. There were a lot of questions in his head. He had to settle down for a moment. Things were different in the world, he needed to learn about today's tech and get a fucking good plan to get away with his shit. Who would he get to kill first? Still thinking about it. How would he escape? Probably could use some help to keep a low profile. Could you be that help, being the only human contact he figured would have from now on? Maybe.

"So how are you feeling? Did you have some sleep?" you asked.

"I slept enough, spent the whole fucking night jerking off," he spat. "That TV of yours now does have good porn some hours in the day."

With wide eyes, you wrote down after his answer.

"Alright. But tell me, how are you feeling?" you pushed, your smile long gone and replaced with a serious face locking your gaze to his own.

"Great, never been fucking better" he smirked and you shifted on your seat.

His green eyes started checking you all over for a second. The pencil skirt hugged your legs perfectly and the blouse was tight enough to show off the size of your breasts. The clothes yelling that you were expensive and valuable for the CIA, and most important, to Mallory. Soon he sensed the discomfort emanating from you as his gaze returned to your face. God, he loved doing that, but you sure were daring to get locked inside a room with him alone.

"You can tell me the truth, you know," you said.

"I can easily break your neck and explode this shithole if I want to," he spat back.

"You won't do that. You had the chance yesterday, today even, and yet here you are."

He thought you sounded so sure about that. Ben held your gaze. Neither of you dare to break eye contact. It was like you were challenging him to something he wasn't aware of just yet. He didn't like that, but he remained there, breathing deeply with a strong look on his face. You were right though, and he realised could find you a good usage besides the obvious fucking use for pretty girls like you. He might have missed a good fuck for 40 years but the little common sense on the back of his mind told him the porn channel was enough for now.

"Listen, I know you're not a bad guy," the words fell softly from your lips. "I know you didn't mean to harm those people in Midtown... And in order to help you I could use some information on how you feel every time the blast comes-"

He stood up abruptly, strong enough to move the sofa he was sitting some feet away behind his back and yelled aggressively.

"Fuck off, bitch. What the fuck do you know about me? I don't trust your kind and you're making my threat sound like a great plan now.

You held his gaze as he made his way towards you. You were a prey in his cage, but even if you were scared, he didn't sense any sign of it. Ben's big frame towered you, standing just inches away from the couch you sat on. The space was enough for him to kill you with only one hand but you never moved or flinched a second.

"If you touch me, just a single hair on my scalp, you're fucked."

"C'mon sweetheart, you're no match for me," he mocked with a smirk on his face.

"Novichok definitely is."

He tightened his fists with his lips on a straight line, and his heartbeat increased at the mention of that fucking poison. Meanwhile, you just sat down looking at him with a blank face and innocent eyes. For a moment, he was tempted to just kill you but he forced himself to calm the fuck down. He didn't want to black out again, he certainly did not want to become a fugitive. If he was going to do something, it had to be done well.

"Soldier Boy, it's okay," you got on your feet. His eyes followed your moves. "It's fine if you don't want to talk to me. I can't force you to."

He saw a strange sparkle in your eyes. Were you pitying him? He didn't need that. And when he said nothing, then you continued.

"You accepted the deal, and that includes therapy to help you get out of your trauma. And sooner or later, you have to talk to me," you explained, he felt like a fucking child being scolded.

"You want to fucking help me and spray me with Novichok at the same time," he groaned.

"We have to take our precautions. But trust me. I’d rather not use that on you, I prefer other ways."

"This is fucking crap," he mumbled through his teeth.

He watched you making your way towards the book shelf, leaning down to grab a couple of books. He took in the curve of your ass as you knelt, and he wondered if you were doing all that little show on purpose to test him. His jaw clenched once again at the thought of being played with false promises and a cure to his memories.

"I can leave, but I will come tomorrow," you tossed two books on the coffee table: one about PTSD, the other one about new technology for him to start educating himself on that. "Start reading those and write down in the notebook anything you have to say. It can be about the books, your thoughts, your feelings... Anything you want. I don't have to know unless you want me to."

If looks could kill, you were already dead. He still didn't trust you. He didn't understand completely why a stupid psychiatrist of the CIA wanted him to go through rehab. You were a woman, for fucks sake. Psychiatrists were old, wise, rich men back in his days, not expensive sluts.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You're lucky I'm trying hard not to crush your bones right now, pretty thing."

"At least you're trying, that's improvement," you smiled cockily, pointing at his chest with a finger and you took your bag and belongings together, as if he didn't threaten to kill you like three times in the same conversation. "I will leave you now. Have a good lunch, Soldier Boy."

"Time of death 9:41 a.m."

The sound of the monitor disturbed your senses as the voice announced all over the place the death of yet another supe. You watched through the windows as two lab assistants ran inside the chamber to take out the lifeless body of the woman who had given her life to volunteer and assist the program. Anything for the cure, you remember her voice saying, even after she was warned about the possible effects. The worst of them being death. The contract stipulated it clearly and you told her to think twice before agreeing to take the third version of the Anti-V, although she hesitated a lot before joining.

You breathed out. The formula needed improvement, quickly. How many corpses had they taken out of there? You lost count already. You ordered Bianca, your young assistant, to note down all the details one day after the second death of a supe you witnessed, and for her to count them as necessary and at all cost. Arms folded on your chest, your jaw clenched, losing hope and feeling despair running through your spine. The discomfort of what had to be done to find a cure sometimes was too much of a burden. But sacrifices had to be done.

And speaking about sacrifices, you knew you had to get into Soldier Boy's head as soon as possible. The few other sessions you tried to talk to him were useless. The sixth one being today before lunch. A part of you was growing tired of faking it and pretending to be a psychiatrist, it really wasn't your field but you knew how to be one after many sessions, research, and medication on your own. Grace had taken care of your training years ago and this was just another mission with a huge impact and objective in mind: destroy Vought and Homelander, and then provide the cure to supes who didn't want their powers and give them the chance to live a normal life. People like you needed the cure, but first things first.

"Doc, the analysis of Blaze is updated," Bianca said, giving you the tablet to check the information on the supe that was collected.

"Thanks."

Blaze, or Electra Richards was her real name, was a low-profile supe for some time, and you had a secret track of those like her with some help. These kinds of supes didn't really represent a threat to Vought, so it was kind of easy to contact them and give them a possible solution with a warning written all over the place. When Electra was contacted, she had to think about it but eventually said yes. She was young and brave, but she never wanted powers. She had superhuman strength and healed in minutes, seconds even, her bones were indestructible, and when your people ran the proper tests on her she was healthy as hell. Pity that her body wasn't enough to take in the injection of the new Anti-V prototype.

You read the last notes your assistant typed on the supe's profile.

Cause of death: sudden cardiac arrest caused by ventricular fibrillation; failure in electrical signaling within the heart.

You couldn't continue like this, not anymore. Nine months and nothing seemed to work out. Some supes died, some of them quit the program, and you didn't really blame them for it. The failures were growing bigger than the small steps close to creating the final antidote. The process was becoming an endless trial and error. With a tired face and a sigh, you left the tablet on a desk and walked out making your way to your office.

You took out your cell phone and dialed Grace, walking around the room worriedly. You needed to vent or talk. Anything. And gladly, she picked up by the third ring.

"Is everything okay?" she asked on the other line. She knew you too well.

"I- No, it isn't. But you already know that," you breathed. "Another supe died on trial today. I don't know how many we have-" your voice cut off abruptly and you sighed, composing yourself after a moment. "We keep losing a lot of people..."

Grace exhaled. "It's part of the job. It's your project, you know it was coming when I approved to do this."

"That makes it even worse, you're not helping me," you replied with a playful tone. "I've been thinking- I would like to try the cure."

"No. We need you to focus on this."

"And when I get him, when I get Soldier Boy's blood? He already takes powers of supes with the blast. Should be easier."

"He's your safest option for now. You'll find a way to get it, I trust you. But don't make stupid and hurried decisions, just wait for the right moment," the lady scolded. You smiled a little, like if she was watching you. "About that, how's he doing? Is he cooperating?"

"Not at all, that's my other problem," you fell back on your chair ungracefully, your back hurting at the thought of seeing him again that day. "I am trying to get him to talk, even using my cards of dressing up like I'm a fucking slut with tight skirts and all, but he's really backing up. Besides he's a fucking dick," your words made Grace chuckle for a bit.

"All supes we have dealt with are dicks, especially Vought. But Y/N, you got this," her words attempted to make you feel better. "This is one of our best options to take them down for once. I know you've been working on this way long before you talked to me, and that's the reason I know it's gonna work, doing whatever it takes."

"Thank you, Grace," you mumbled from your heart. Disappointing her was not on your list, and you hoped it won't happen anytime soon. So you switched the topic of the conversation. "And how have you been?"

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 9 days

Text

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part I)

Summary: After the events of the Seven Tower, you present Grace Mallory a new secret project you're working on already to develop a cure to Compound V. The only problem? You need Soldier Boy for that.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 1,536.

Notes: As soon as I saw him my feminism left my body immediately and my inner voice agreed that I'd let him take away my human rights with no question. He's an absolute idiot, would sleep with him 100%.

Heads up as English is not my native language sooo, yeah you know what follows. Lord pls give me inspo to finish this fic, amen.

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part I: For The Common Good

Two months.

Two months ago Grace Mallory decided to put the former greatest supe into sleep. Somehow, you managed to get in her head, explaining your new project to her and finding a new use for Soldier Boy, who had enough rest for 40 years.

You knew what happened at the Seven Tower, how Soldier Boy and Butcher's team ended up there to finally kill Homelander. Grace tried doing some shit against Vought before, but she never managed to win. It wasn't different this time. What was better then, that to develop a cure for supes like you, who didn't ask for it? People who never used their powers in public, nor seeked fame and money.

As a doctor in Chemistry, you were developing a cure for Compound V with a secret team. Suitable for you, you were in the same CIA tower Colonel Mallory decided to encapsulate Soldier Boy to, initially, spend the rest of his days in. You had luck Grace gave green light to the project, even though your team was already working on it without her approval anyway. But it was so much better if she found out properly.

Making your way to the super secured wing where Soldier Boy was held out of his sleep, you gripped the folder in your hands. You were scanned thoroughly before going inside a cold space, where two different crystal windows and metal doors separated the place. The armed guard guided you to the first room to check first through the window. You sighed, seeing a man sitting down, hands cuffed to a harsh steel table, gaze lost. It was him.

"The keys," you requested the guard by your side.

"Doctor-"

"I said, keys. He doesn't need to be cuffed."

He complied to your order, clearly annoyed but with a straight face and you walked to the closed door.

"If something happens, I can take care of myself. Don't let anyone inside understand?" you said.

He gave a nod. With that, he let you inside the room, the doors closing behind your back.

The prisoner observed you carefully as soon as you entered. His gaze was tired, but he seemed ready to attack, and it was completely hard to ignore his rough stare on you as you made your way to your seat in front of him. Soldier Boy observed you, placing the folder on the surface, and you held his gaze, not flinching for a second. Until you decided to talk first.

"I am glad you're awake. My name is Y/N, I am a doctor at the facility. Just wanna know how you're doing today," you spoke in a calm and soft way, so he could see you were not a threat.

He saw you roaming through the pages of the file, which he recognized as a copy of his file, and you took a pen from your lab coat to make some anotations.

"Not a smart move to let a fucking doctor here," he said with a deep voice, lips forming a straight line. "What do you want?"

"I want to help you."

"Cut the bullshit."

"I want to talk. If you let me, I will uncuff you so we can have a chat, like civilized people. Just don't try to escape, you won't go too far."

He raised an eyebrow as you reached his wrists and carefully, you set him free from the metal grip.

"I know what happened with Butcher and his boys," you said, confident that he would not try anything else. "About Homelander and your relationship with him."

"What the fuck do you know?" Soldier Boy tensed visibly hearing the name of the bastard. Still, he remained on his seat. "Want some info? You can lick Grace's pussy for that."

"She is, actually, the one who approved me to be here right now," you answered, brushing off his vocabulary. You used to deal with assholes like him all the time.

He scoffed. "Why?"

"Ben," you called his real name softly. "You've been sleeping for four decades. You deserve a second chance, I am offering you that. In some sort of way."

"I'm not going to be part of that freakshow-"

"This has nothing to do with Vought," you cut his words, his tone rising and you knew perfectly why. "You just need to be here in the facility, awake, in a dignified place we will give you so you can learn everything you missed. We can give you therapy, a comfy room, anything you want that's legal, of course..."

His jaw clenched, feeling you would ask for something more. "In exchange of what?"

"I know it's hard, unfortunately you won't be able to get out, but you don't deserve to sleep forever again," you sighed. "I will pay you visits and follow your improvements because you're human, after all. That's all I ask from you," you gave him a smile for the first time.

For a few moments, he said nothing, as if making up his mind about it. "Alright, anything but coming back to that shit hole. I need reefer though."

"Lucky you, that's legal now. We can certainly make it happen."

He looked around the room as you let him go inside first. Not the fanciest, not the shittiest. It had the basics: a bed, a sofa, a TV, a closet, a bookshelf with different books, magazines and newspapers he wasn't sure would read any time, a separate door for a bathroom, enough privacy, and no windows though. It wasn't really a cell, but he did look and felt somehow like a hostage. Just a little less if he could say.

"This is what we have for now, I am all ears if you request something else to have in here," you began as he paced around and tested the bed, sitting down on the mattress.

Ben still wasn't convinced on why you offered this to him. Sceptic, he gave a good look at you, roaming his eyes at your standing figure in a fucking lab coat. Christ, he hated those. Too pretty for a doctor, but too dumb to be locked with a supe like him. He was so tired that he didn't try and hit on you like he normally would with any walking pussy that appeared in plain sight. He was too exhausted to even give a shit.

"Lemme think about it, doctor."

"Of course, take your time," you replied as he walked toward the bookshelf, scanning through the titles there were. He recognized only half of them.

"So, I will be imprisoned here instead of a fucking eggshell," Ben said, turning around to meet you. "Charming," he smirked, dragging the words out of his mouth. "Doing charity."

He watched your face drop as you shook your head. "It's not like that-"

"Then why keep me awake?" Ben insisted as he gave steps to get close to you. "I can't die, it's much easier to force my sleep in a capsule your boss made specially for me."

He stopped mere inches in front of you, your eyes never turned away from him. He thought you were fucking brave just by keeping his dark gaze.

"Ben, I told you I will be watching your progress. You can grow from all of this with our help-"

"What kind of doctor are you?"

"A psychiatrist. That's why I'm here."

Ben scoffed with a grin showing on his lips. He didn't believe in that kind of shit, but oh, well. What was he gonna do about it? He was tired of sleeping, Mallory captured him, and you were here, giving him a shelter for no cost, but his freedom. In his mind, that was temporary of course. With time, a plan would come. Right now, he just needed to keep up with the fucked up things of the modern world.

"I guess you would come and babysit me then," he said, going back to take a sit on the bed.

"Wouldn't use 'babysit you' but I will come to see you, that's for sure."

He nodded. Silence was his answer, so you continued.

"Just general rules. Our people will bring you three meals a day, if you're missing something that you need then just push the button by the door, there will be guards outside to assist you on that. Also, there are clothes your size on the closet and personal products so you can change and take a shower," he stayed silent again, just taking in your words. "If you don't need anything then I leave you to get comfortable," you said, about to leave.

"Wait. I do need something," he hesitated for a moment, but he continued anyway. "Don't use those lab coats when you come in."

Your eyes widened, he quickly realised you already knew why he was requesting that when you started to take off the coat, revealing your formal attire. You wrapped the coat on your arm and cleaned your throat.

"I totally understand, I will keep that in mind when I come tomorrow. And I will ask for your reefer too."

You flashed a final polite smile and left him to get settled. Ben breathed out. Fuck, he really needed a shower.

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 9 days

Text

Sweaty Palms 1

Warnings: this fic will include obsessive behaviour, possible non/ducbon, bullying, and other elements which may not be specifically triggered. Please be cautious in continuing on to the story.

Character: Curtis Everett

Summary: You start going to the gym to break old habits, but new things are scary.

Please reblog and leave some feedback, preferably in a reblog but you can always drop by my asks. I always love working in y'alls ideas with these AUs so I am so excited to hear from you.

As always, take care of yourself <3 be kind and be patient. Love you.

No tag lists. Please review my pinned and bio for guidelines.

You’ve never been to a gym before. You’ve never been to a lot of places. Crowds are not your forte, public places are your personal nightmare, and strangers make your nervous. Everything makes you nervous.

You can’t hide forever. That’s the conclusion you’ve come to. It's not a very comfortable one for you but if you don’t change, you’re always going to feel like this. Heavy, deflated, lost. It’s hard to put into words the feeling. The world just seems to pass you by, it functions around you, and sometimes you almost believe you’re not really there. Like a ghost, you just watch it without effect.

The extra fifteen dollars a month isn’t too much of a stretch. You can hold off on your Kindle addiction for the expense. That’s another thing, you need to start being smart, more practical with your money.

Planning. That’s something you’re working on. You didn’t come without one. You wouldn’t make it past the door without a set of steps to follow.

You stop by the front counter first. You ask the woman behind it about how to get into the gym. You bought a membership online. She brings up your profile and issues you a membership card, explaining how you can also download the app and register with your member number. You thank her and continue through.

You walk along the first floor, the leg machines and the rowing machines being worked by the regulars. You find your way to the dressing room on the second floor and enter with your head down. You try not to look anywhere but where you need to. You find a stall and change, packing away your street clothes, then go out to find a locker to shove your stuff in.

You emerge with your phone and your new smart watch strapped to your wrist. You glance at the face of it. Your heart rate is already elevated. You unlock your phone and tap the app you downloaded the day before. You flipped through the catalogue of beginners’ workouts but didn’t have any of the equipment to do it yourself. It’s cheaper to just come here.

You go to one of the spaces laid with mats and stop before one of the racks of weights. You stare at your phone in exasperation. You don’t understand, you’re connected to the wifi but the app just won’t connect. You could try on your own but you really don’t know what you’re doing.

Ugh, why did you even bother? This is just another failure. You try restarting the app and then your phone, aware of the activity around you. Does anyone notice how clueless you look?

“Hit it or quit it, little girl,” a man startles you as he brushes by you and grabs a large set of dumbbells, the thirty on the side catching your eye. You shift out of the way and press your phone against your chest, the smooth fabric of your shirt causing it to vibrate as if you tapped the screen. “This isn’t the phone club, it’s a gym.”

“Sorry, I...”

“There’s a cafe across the street, you can go play candy crush there,” he scoffs, “seems more your speed.”

“Must feel real big, huh?” A gritty voice nears from your other side, “real heavy lifting there, pushing around a woman.”

“Huh?” The first man narrows his eyes as he grips the set of dumbbells at his sides and faces the other man.

He’s taller than you, muscular but not too bulky. His head is shaved and a dark short beard lines his jaw. Similar hair peeks out from the top of his tee shirt and dusts his toned arms. He slips past you, inserting himself between you and the gym watchdog.

“Bro,” the first guy sneers, “don’t even start with me. You think you can step up.”

“I’m not stepping up,” the other man defies, “I’m telling you to mind your business. Take your weights and leave her alone.”

“Pfft, this some sort of date? You know, this isn’t the Olive Garden--”

The second man crosses his arms, his back to you as he postures at the other man. He’s silent as he stares him down. You can’t see his face but you can feel the tension roiling off of him. There’s a thick lull as both men stand in a deadlock.

“Got something to say, bud,” the first guy drops the weights and they boom against the floor. You wince and step back, “go on, I could use the work out.”

“I said it,” the second man utters flatly, unyielding as he looms like a wall between you.

“Fucking loser,” the other spits back, “you’re really gonna fuck around for that? Have you seen the skin around her?.”

The man doesn’t respond. He stays as he is, an unmoving sentinel. The other man growls in frustration.

“Fucking chicken shit, why don’t you speak up, dude?”

Still no answer. Just a glare. You clutch your phone against your chest, frozen in horror and confusion. You didn’t mean to start a fight. You hate confrontation.

Suddenly, the man before you jerks as he’s grabbed by the large man. His back hits you slightly and you drop your phone as he latches onto the other man. Everything happens so fast. The man who came to your defence has the other man on his back on the mat in seconds, a knee on his chest as his fists clasp around the top of his tank top. He bends over him and snarls.

“Christ, bro, get the fuck off of me,” the man on the floor shoves on his arm helplessly.

You glance around and notice the audience forming around you. Oh no. You look back to the two men. You step forward and tap the closest man on the shoulder, the one who defended you.

“Please,” you croak nervously, “I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

He turns his head, glancing back at you with powder blue eyes made bright by the dark row of his lashes. He exhales and lets go of the other man. He stands and puts his arm out as if to keep your behind him.

“You really want me to repeat myself?” He sneers down at the other man.

The larger man pushes himself up and scowls, shaking his head and he turns to stalk off muttering, leaving behind his forgotten dumbbells. The other man bends to pick them up and returns them to the rack. You look down at your empty hands then search the floor.

You reach for your phone but it’s plucked up before you. The man brings it up between you and holds it out. You take it with a thank you.

“No problem,” he rasps.

“I... you didn’t have to--”

“That guy’s an—he's not nice,” he corrects himself and drags his hand over his mouth and chin, “I don’t like bullies.”

“It’s my fault,” you shrug, “I was in the way. But er, thanks. I'm... I’m sorry.”

You turn away and look back at your phone. The app isn’t working. It says it needs another update.

“You need help with something?” The man asks.

“I...” you peek at him over your shoulder, “yeah, I... I don’t... I don’t usually... it’s my first time.”

He nods and hums as he steps closer. You face him and show him your phone. You’re jittery as it trembles in your grip. He’s a stranger. Your whole plan was to avoid those.

“I got this app to help but it’s not working,” you frown.

“Try the update?” He points his thick, long finger at the screen.

You tap and keep the phone visible. The app shop comes up and the update button is grayed out. Underneath, italics read ‘this update is not available for this device’. You frown and bring the screen closer to your face.

“It won’t let me,” you pout and flick your lashes, mortified. How are you this helpless? Why did you have to have a witness? Several. You look around, some eyes darting in your direction.

“Hm, well, what are you trying to do? You said this is your first day?” He prompts, “I could... I could help out a little. If you need. I’m no trainer, I just do my own thing but I could try.”

You bat your lashes up at him then look back at your phone. You don’t know what else to do. Your whole plan has fallen apart because your operating system is outdated.

“I... I’m not very... athletic,” you explain, “so I can’t go very fast.”

“That’s okay,” he assures you, “I can go slow.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can figure it out.”

“I know I don’t have to,” he shifts and peers over his shoulder, “but how about I stay close anyway,” he moves and you can see the guy from earlier staring daggers from a chest press, “just in case.”

“Oh, I... I’m sorry,” you tuck your phone into the pocket of your leggings, “I made him mad.”

“Let him be mad. Got nothing to do with you,” he turns back to you again, “I could take you through some stretches and basics; lunges, squats, stuff like that. As best I can.”

“Erm, I guess... I don’t wanna be in the way,” you rub your neck.

“Not in my way,” he says evenly, “lets grab some weights first.”

He directs you to the rack and without a thought you go to it. He approaches beside you as you realise, you didn’t say yes, you didn’t agree to this, but you don’t know what else to do.

“Start with some twos,” he advises, “and if you’re not getting a good burn, we can up it later.”

“Oh, okay,” you grab the dumbbells with the large twos on the side. He grabs the twenties. You feel totally inadequate.

“So let’s get out space,” he backs up and looks around the mat, “here should be good.” He bends and sets down his weights, "for now, let’s put these aside and start our stretches. You don’t wanna pull anything.”

You nod and place your weights beside you. You stand and stare at him. He’s in good shape. Great shape. He makes you even more conscious of your neglect. You already feel breathless.

“I’m Curtis by the way,” he steps forward and offers his hand.

“Oh, uh,” you shake his hand and give your name.

“Pretty,” he says as he squeezes before letting you go. His hand is huge compared to yours and the gap in your strength is obvious just in that small gesture.

“Alright, easy, slow, arms out,” he extends arms, “roll your shoulders and your head, loosen up.”

You watch him and hesitate to follow his direction. You hate that there’s so many people around. You don’t want to look stupid. You’re so ungainly and awkward.

“Try not to think about it too much. We’re all just here to work out, right?” He says and you shy away, embarrassed that he noticed your discomfort. You raise your arms and start the stretches, “good, you’re doing good, angel. Make sure to breath, alright?”

You roll your shoulders and head and blow out a breath. Your nerves are pinging all over and your muscles are shaky. This isn’t what you expected at all. Your plans fallen to pieces and yet, it’s not entirely a lost cause.

“Arms up,” he guides you into the next exercise, “on your toes, reach as far as you can...”

You obey, letting his voice guide you. His deep, calm timber is almost comforting. The even tenor is a stark contrast to chaotic nervously. You can get through this.

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 10 days

Text

Called to Duty 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, abandonment, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Summary: You struggle to move on from the biggest mistake of your life but find it hard to forget among the whispers of a small town.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You’re tired. You’re always tired these days, but you gotta do what you gotta do. That’s going to be your life from now on. Not what you want, but what you need.

You wait in line at the grocery store. Their in-store sourdough isn’t as good as the bakery but you can’t spare the extra dollars. You have your essentials; chicken, rice, some broth for those days when you can’t quite keep solid food down. Some fruits too for the mornings, and a sneaky pack of cookies.

The woman behind the counter packs up here bag. She rubs her hip as you swipe your card, as if she can feel your pain. You suppose she has few aches and pains from years of standing behind that till. She hands you your receipt and asks if you need help. It’s two bags, nothing too heavy. You slide them into the rolling bag you dragged down with you and head out.

You’re almost breathless as you get through the front doors. You get dizzy spells but the doctor says it’s just a dip in your blood pressure. You sit on a bench outside the grocery store and rub your stomach as you wait for it to pass.

As you close your eyes against the springtime sunlight, a familiar tone nestles behind your ear. The timbre sends a shiver up your spine and your hug your middle out of instinct. You don’t look over as Thor’s rolling baritone wafts through the air.

You stand and pull your bag in the other direction, as fast as you can. The wheels hit a line in the pavement and twists, the handle falling from your hand. It clatters to the ground and you hurried scramble to pick it back up as an apple rolls close to the top. You squat halfway and lift the handle, glancing over as silence pervades.

Your eyes meet his and you cringe. You quickly turn away as he pulls the phone away from his ear and tilts his head. You touch your stomach again. Did he notice? Did he care? He hadn’t before.

“Eh, been a while, kitten,” he purrs after you as his footfalls quickly descend, “where are you off to?”

You ignore him, turning towards the curb as you look up and down the street. You need to get out of here. He stands beside you and you flinch as he puts his hand on your lower back.

“Why’re you running away?” He says.

You scoff, “don’t tell me I’m the one running away.”

You drop your arm and drag the bag off the curb and across the street, as quickly as you can move yourself. You know he’s following. You know him better than he thinks you do. You turn down towards the pharmacy.

“You look good. Healthy,” he remarks, “you’ve... filled out.”

“Get away from me,” you hiss.

“Don’t be rude. I’m just checking in on you, as any good person should.”

You stop short and face him defiantly. His cheek dimples and reflects a memory back at you. The day you told him. The day he asked who you thought the father was. The day he shrugged off his responsibility on the back of rumours.

‘Couldn’t possibly be mine. How could you know for sure? How could anyone?’

That grin. That taunting grin.

“You shouldn’t be worried about being a good person, you should be a good father,” you sneer, a crack in your voice. “And you are neither.”

He laughs, “you always were dramatic, kitten, but the way you meow for me... I hear the hormones make you wild--”

He reaches to touch your cheek and you swat him away, “don’t.”

“One last time, for old time’s sake,” he coaxes.

“You are so gross,” you snip.

“You can’t be mad at me because you opened your legs--”

You push him. Stupidly. You shove him in the stomach with one hand. He barely reacts as you turn and stomp away with your groceries rolling at your heels.

Your eyes sear hotly as you swallow back the protest. It was only him. There was no other possibility. No one believes. Who knows who she slept with? She was always down at the bar, wasn’t she?

“I miss those claws, kitten,” he calls after you.

You grit your teeth and storm towards the brick facade of the pharmacy. You shake as you try to fish out your keys. You let go of the rolling bag in frustrating as you dig down in your purse. The cart falls over again and your keyring jangles out onto the pavement with it.

You let out a grunt and stand, staring at the catastrophe as the apple rolls out of the bag. You lower your head and steel yourself for the reach. Even at four months, with just a bit of belly, everything is so uncomfortable.

A thick hand scoops up the keys then the apple. Sy hooks two fingers around the handle of the bag and stands. You look at him, lip quivering, and quickly bat away your tears. You dab your eyes with your knuckles.

“Here,” he stands the bag up and drop the apple inside, then holds out your keys.

You sigh, “you.”

He frowns as you take the keyring, “me? I was only helping--”

“Yeah, because you feel bad for me. Please,” you shove your keys in the door, “don’t.”

“Feel bad? No. That’s not why... I... people should help each other. Especially those in need.”

“Yeah, yeah, I need to close my legs. I need to figure it out,” you huff and pull the bag through the door and shove it through, “thanks. I’m good.” You take a step inside and stop, angling back to him, “you forgot your stuff at the pharmacy. They’re holding it at customer service--”

“It’s yours--”

“Stop,” you put a hand up, “okay? Just stop. You can go get your money back then.”

His thick brows draw together and he grazes his hand over his buzzed hair, “I saw you talking to Thor.”

You snort, “yeah, I ran into your buddy. So what?”

He crosses his arms and shifts his stance, his works boots dragging loudly, “you’re mad at him.”

You close your eyes and suck in a breath, “I don’t want to talk about this, especially with you. Fine, go back to him, tell him how pathetic I am--”

“Why would I do that?” He sounds genuinely confused.

“I’m not stupid. You were always down at The Horn together. Whatever this is, I’m not falling for it.”

He squints then looks past you. Your turn and inch the door towards the frame. He steps forward and slaps a hand against the other side, holding it open.

“He is not a man or a friend if he’s done this to you,” he says. You arch a brow as his blue eyes meet yours, “you deserve better.”

He eases the tension in his arm as you lean on the door. He lets it snap shut and you wince at the click. You grasp the latch but don’t turn it as you listen through the wood. The friction of his hand drags down the wood.

“I will give you better,” you barely make out his mutters as the tread of his boot scrapes on the pavement. You twist the lock and fall back against the wall. What is he doing? It has to be a trick. It has to.

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 10 days

Text

Called to Duty 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, abandonment, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Summary: You struggle to move on from the biggest mistake of your life but find it hard to forget among the whispers of a small town.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You shift on your feet. Your arches kill and your hips feel like they're splitting apart. For all you know, they are. Every day is a new fun side effect.

You lean on the counter, standing vigil at the customer service till. Unlike the pharmacists and their assistants in the back, you don't get a chair. You refuse to complain, you know it would only add venom to their gossip. Even here, you're not safe from the whispers.

The break room is a nest of snakes. You learned that one day as you walked in on a conversation that couldn't stop soon enough. You know they talk about you, there really isn't much else to do around Hammer Ford. Even if it's only borne of boredom, their words still hurt.

The pharmacy is quiet but for the fuzzy noise of the overhead speakers playing outdated songs on repeat. You reach to rub your lower back. You’re not that big. Not as big as you will be but you don’t know how much longer you can stand in the same spot for eight hours.

You stare at the till, the blue border on the screen blazing into your vision. You can’t help but drift into you even less glorious future. This won’t change. You’ll be stuck here, working hour after hour, only you’ll be poorer and more tired. You’ll have a whole other person to take care of and look how you’ve done just taking care of yourself.

Your chest rents and you let out the breath trapped beneath your dread. Something clacks onto the counter and shakes you back to reality. You face, the customer, your vision slowly narrowing back to focus.

You glance at sigh then down at the bottle on the counter. He has one of the novelty stuffed rabbits in his hand and a jar of cream. He puts those down too and you squint at them curiously. You take the bottle of vitamins and wave them towards the scanner.

“I read you should take iron and folic acid. Those have both,” he says, “you also should be sitting down.”

“What?” You frown, the bottle still in your hand, and stare at him.

“This cream should help with the dry skin. The book said as you grow, you’ll get itchy--”

“What are you talking about?” You put the bottle down and cross your arms.

“Do you have a belly belt?”

“Sy,” you say his name firmly, “are you... are you trying to give this to me?”

He huffs and pulls out his wallet, “you need it.”

“How do you know I don’t have it already?” You ask, thoughts scrambling at his kind, thought it edges along presumptuousness.

“Do you? What do you need then? Stuff for the nursery?” His eyes roll upward, “not much room up there for a baby.”

You want to shrink into nothing. You straighten your arms and grip the edge of the counter, “I know. Sy, this is a nice gesture but... I barely know you. It's too much. Not your responsibility.”

“Mm, and where’s the man who should be taking responsibility?” He reaches to pluck up a chocolate bare from shelf on the other side of the till. He drops it on the counter, “you got cravings too?”

You shake your head. Ugh, you hate how quickly your hormones have your heart racing and your eyes misty. It’s so nice of him despite being completely off putting. No one else, not even your own mother, even tried to help you.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, “sore? Tired? You got morning sickness?”

“Sy, please,” you raise a hand and set your tone, “really, I can’t... I can’t. Okay, it’s not... it’s not right.”

“Isn’t. He should be here--”

“Please,” you pull the stuff towards you, “I’ll put all this back on the shelf and you can just go--”

“I got money,” he slips his thumb into his wallet, “I wanna buy it.”

You blink at him. Daye, the manager, watches from down aisle. She looks less than impressed. Shoot.

“Okay, do you want a bag?” You ask as you ring in the items.

“Be easier for you to carry,” he says as he offers a hundred dollar bill, “not too heavy.”

You cringe and take it, stretching it out and checking with the marker. All larger bills have to be throughout vetted. You put it in the drawer and count his change and hold it out to him.

“That’s for dinner. Get some protein--”

“No, take it,” you insist, “what are you doing?”

His forehead lines and he looks back and forth, “what he should be doing.”

He doesn’t take the money so you put in on the counter. You unfold a paper bag and put the items inside and push it towards him. Your skin is hot with embarrassment. Worse than any judgment is pity. Does he think some vitamins and stuffed bunny is going to solve your issues?

“I want you to take it and go please,” you say quietly as you notice another customer coming towards the counter.

It’s old Ed Parriser; his wife, Ginny, is in line with the town gossip, Lynette. He has a bottle of advil and heartburn medicine. You wonder if those are symptoms of his marriage.

“There you are,” you shove the receipt in the top of his bag, “I need to help the next customer.”

He lingers then reluctantly grabs the bag, crumpling the top in his large hand. He gather up the money and closes it in his fist. Reluctantly, he backs away, looming just at the end of the counter as Ed puts down his haul.

“Hello, sir, how are you today?” You ask.

“Eh, I’m doin’ okay,” he answers in his wheezy way, “ha,” he scoffs as he watches you scan, “I thought Ginny was tellin’ one of her stories again.”

“Oh yeah?” You look up curiously, putting on a sunny smile, “what did she say?”

“Said you got yourself knocked up like a floozy,” he chortles, “maybe I’ll just start listening to her--”

Ed grunts as suddenly he’s grabbed by the collar of his plaid shirt. Sy has him in a death grip knuckles rolled into the flannel as he snarls down at the man, “keep talking and you’ll need those pills. I’ll split your fucking head open.”

You stand, dumbfounded by his surge of anger and his threat. He’d only ever been soft spoken, even if he was huge, but he’s rabid like a wolf in that moment. Ed smacks his forearm and wriggles.

“Let go of me, you lump--”

“Sir, excuse me,” Daye’s smoker’s creak rises from her throat, “is there a problem? Do I need to call the sheriff?”

Sy puffs through his nose, chest rising and falling as you watch him weighing his options. He wants to keep going. His blue eyes flick over to you and he lets go, raising his hands.

“Nothing,” he grits out.

“That’s right, nothin’,” Ed rubs his neck with a cough, “he just protecting this--”

“Keep going,” Sy’s rolls dangerously low as he towers over him. The old man snaps his mouth shut so his jowls tremor. He looks at you then Daye.

“Know what,” Ed clears his throat, “I think Ginny was here yesterday. I don’t need all this.”

As Daye nears, the old man hobbles around Sy’s fuming form. The larger man sneers at the manager as she nears, her phone in hand. He points it at him, “leave. Now.”

He sends you one last look, his cheek ticking. He spins on his heel and marches out. You bite your lip and look down at the two bottles in front of you. You grab them and gulp.

“I’ll just put these back,” you offer.

“You keep your drama out of this store,” Daye warns, “or I’ll talk to Willard.”

You sniff at her threat. Willard gave you a good deal on the upstairs apartment but people weren’t happy about. Even if the faucet is leaky and the fridge rattles.

“It wasn’t--”

“Keep it out,” she snaps and snatches the bottles from you, “if you can lean, you can clean.”

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moonknight-s-cumdump · 10 days

Text

Called to Duty 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, abandonment, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Summary: You struggle to move on from the biggest mistake of your life but find it hard to forget among the whispers of a small town.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You rub your lower back as you enter the bakery. You focus on the simple task; just a loaf of bread. You have a weak spot for the sourdough there. Just thinking about it, you could salivate.

You wait behind another customer. You think she works at the bank but you’ve never been very good with faces, even in a small town like Hammer Ford. Others don’t seem to have that issue as your name easily rolls off their tongues. The whispers are getting louder now that you can’t hide as easily.

The bank clerk sidles along the counter and glances over her shoulder as you shuffle forward. She sends you a judgmental look but you reserve any of the same. Everyone knows she’s sneaking around with the manager down at her branch.

You tug your shirt down as it threatens to ride further up your stomach. Everything’s too tight these days. Everything’s uncomfortable. Your fingers linger on the hem, touching the taught flesh beneath. Four months now.

“Hi,” you greet the woman behind the till, “can I get a loaf of the sourdough. I’ll take the day old for the discount if you got it.”

She smiles brightly and repeats your order, asking if there’s anything else. You say no. You budgeted for the bread, even a tea would put you too close to the line. She grabs you a loaf and she keys in the day-old discount.

You pay as she slips the wrapped loaf into a paper bag. Before you can turn away, she stops you, “have a cookie,” she points to the plate of shortbread beside the small specials sign. “They’re not moving.”

“I can’t,” you argue.

“You’re doing me a favour. I don’t like to throw them away,” she insists.

You smile sheepishly and take a cookie, hugging the bag above your stomach as you turn and nibble on the cookie. You cross to the door, juggling your armload as you open it, and leaving without a look back. You hear your name again before the door closes.

Who’s the father…

That’s the big question. You’re not married, not dating, so who could it be? The same question got you kicked out of your mother’s house. The pharmacy let you the dingy bachelor above as you spend your days working a till at the front.

You won’t say it, even to dispel the murmurs. You know it wouldn’t solve anything, only add fuel to the fire. ‘She should’ve known better. The golden prince of Hammer Ford is a known playboy. Why wouldn’t she be safe? Why wouldn’t she be responsible?’ They wouldn’t ask the same of him.

As you turn onto the street, your arm hits someone else and you drop the cookie. It cracks on the pavement and you look down, leaning forward to see the ruins. You deflate. Oh well, it was free, after all.

“Sorry,” a voice draws your attention from the spoiled shortbread. You look up at the man. You know him, you think. Again, you’re no good with faces.

He runs his hand over his shaved head then drags it around his beard, “I’ll get you another.”

“No, you don’t have to,” you wave him off, “I should go…”

“Miss, it’s the right thing to do,” he insists.

“Really, it’s okay,” you assure him, “I should’ve looked where I was going.”

“Me too,” he agrees.

You tilt your head and push a shoulder up, “well, have a good one.”

You turn to cross the road, looking both ways. As you step down from the curb, the man does the same. Why can’t you remember his name? You swear you ran into him before. Down at The Horn with… him.

He walks parallel to you as you cross the street. You stop and look at him, confused.

“Just seeing you across, miss.”

“Uh, thanks, that’s very nice but you don’t have to do that,” you chuckle nervously.

“I know. Just what I’m trained to do.”

You remember, he’s a soldier. Yeah, Thor mentioned that. Just thinking his name stings.

“Right, well, thanks, I appreciate that,” you put your hand on your stomach and haul the bag higher, turning toward the pharmacy just a shop down.

You hear him follow you again. It makes you nervous. Is he going to the pharmacy? It could be a coincidence, it’s a small town. Still, it’s very odd.

You go to the door just past the store entrance and take out your key. He comes right up and watches you, looming strangely at your shoulder. You hold onto your key and face him.

“You’re pregnant,” he says as if you don’t know.

“Uh, yeah,” you nearly laugh, “I am.”

“Shouldn’t be carrying all that,” he says.

“Just bread,” you answer.

“That father should be getting you bread,” he argues.

You’re put off by his demeanour. He speaks as if he’s giving orders to the world around him. You guess that’s just his nature.

“He won’t be doing that,” you shake your head. “I’m fine, really.”

“You don’t remember me,” he adds, “I remember you. You were dancing and drinking.” He looks again at your stomach. You put your hand over it defensively.

“I wasn’t like this then.”

“You weren’t,” he frowns then points to your finger, “no ring?”

This is awkward. Where everyone else in Hammer Ford is happy to whisper behind their hands, he’s interrogating you in the street. You shake your head and look down.

“Must not be a real man who did that,” he comments, “I’m Sy, just to remind you.”

“Sy,” you sniff, “right, I–”

He says your name first, “I remember.” He taps his temple, “I won’t forget.”

You swallow and the bag crinkles against your chest, “I’m… gonna go, uh, Sy, my feet hurt.”

“Be safe,” he commands.

“Thanks,” you utter awkwardly and stick your key in the slot. He stands staunchly as he is and as you pull the door open, he reaches to open it all the way and holds it, “got it.”

You keep the fragile smile on your lips and bow inside. He lets it close slowly and you pause to make sure he’s on the other side. You twist the lock into place and recoil. That was very weird.

346 notes · View notes

moonknight-s-cumdump · 12 days

Text

Unraveled 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: thanks for waiting on this one.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The carriage stops outside a brick building. A walk-up in Marleybone, just along Upper Baker Street. An address you couldn’t even dream of living near, let alone within. You peer up at the facade, the orange brick unstained by the coal and smoke of the backstreets.

Gavin appears to open the door and sets a step down before you can emerge. He offers his hand gallantly and you let him assist you down to the road. You thank him as you peer up at the arched front door of 221b.

“You need only knock, miss,” Gavin goes to pat the horse’s haunch as it kicks. “Ask for Mr. Holmes, he is expecting you.”

You grip your bag tight and set your chin. You might not belong but only you are troubled by it. You climb the steps alongside the iron rail and lift the heavy knocker mounted on the thick wooden door. It’s clang rattles even you.

You wait, both hands on the handles of the bag. Gavin appears behind you with the rolls of fabric, breathless as he struggles to keep them from touching the ground. You return your attention to the door as it opens.

“Hello, I’m looking for Mr.--”

“Holmes,” the very man you’re seeking stands before you, “forgive me, my housekeeper... resigned.”

“Not to worry, sir,” you assure him.

“Come in,” he backs up, gesturing you within with his large hand. “And how was your journey? I hope you didn’t come upon any scoundrels.”

“Only upon her destination, sir,” Gavin japes as he steps in behind you.

“Eh,” Holmes tilts his head at the driver, “allow me.”

Holmes takes the rolls of fabric from Gavin. He hugs them effortlessly in on arm as he faces you again, dismissing the driver with no more than a nod. You stand rigidly by the wall, hesitant to go any further. The door closes and the click makes you flinch.

“Allow me to show you around,” Holmes offers, looming in the tight space of the entryway.

“I need only see your sister,” you insist.

“Ah, yes, Enola, you will, but it only polite to get you acquainted with the space,” he rebuffs.

“With respect, sir, I’ve come out of my way and without warning to this appointment. More work does await me at my shop,” you squeeze the leather handles until they squeak, “it is a lovely home, I’m sure, but I’ve come upon business, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but it wouldn’t take very long,” he counters, “yet, if you’d rather keep this formal, by all means, I will take you to my sister.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You bite down, wondering if perhaps you were more curt than you should be. The apartment is rather far from your neighbourhood and the travel time alone will impose upon your ongoing commissions. You don’t expect he considered that. He does seem the type to command rather than ask.

He directs you to the stairs, just across from the door, and waves you onward. He follows as your skirts brush the top of your boots with each step. The wallpaper is tightly decorated with framed newspapers and portraits, cluttered together but not garishly so.

You get to the top and he advises you to go left. You obey as he keeps pace.

“Did you... discover what led to that woman’s fate? Or who she was?” You ask as you take measured steps.

He isn’t demure as he walks next to you, crowded against you as his broad figure allows for little space, “sadly, yes and no. Not her name. Only that she was a factory woman. I won’t say much on the matter as it is ongoing and confidentiality is a part of my contract, I would only gird you to keep your doors locked and yourself alert.”

You chew on his answer. It makes you nervous. You know the woman was found close to your shop and home. The news has been whispered for blocks.

“I will be sure to hede your advice,” you say.

You walk past a door as he stops to knock on it. You spin back, skirts swirling around you, and he glances at you as he plants his hand on the door frame. There is activity from within, scratching and creaking. He sighs and stands straight as he slides his hand down the pillar. He raps with his knuckles again.

“Enola,” he booms through, his voice shaking you. “I told you to be ready.”

You hear furious footsteps and the lock flicks back with similar furor. It opens and a young woman with a slumping bun greets Mr. Holmes. Strands fall loose from the clip and her blouse is half untucked as her sleeves are rolled to her elbows. She has a long oval face, flushed as she shows her teeth.

“I told you, I’m busy--”

“Not so busy that you would waste this good woman’s time,” Holmes insists, “she traveled all this way. We discussed this.”

She flutters her lashes and huffs. Her eyes flit over to you and she softens her expression, “if her time is wasted, it is hardly my fault.”

“Hm,” he hums flatly, “isn’t it? It wasn’t I who fed your dresses to the furnace.”

She smiles, a smug look that pinches her cheeks, “I was cold.”

“Sister,” he warns dangerously, crossing his arms, his breadth wider than ever.

“You know what, I welcome her company. Much preferable to your own,” the woman sneers and turns her shoulder to her brother, “come on, then. Suppose I need a dress for the banquet.”

You inch forward. A flare of resent burns in you at the position Mr. Holmes has put you in. Plainly, this appointment was not upon his sister’s behest. She holds the door for you and her brother exhales deeply.

“All you need do is stand still, I’m certain you can handle that, sister,” he rebukes, “do let me know when you are finished and I will call the carriage.”

“Thank you,” you utter without looking at him. He sets the rolls just inside the door and backs up to watch you.

You enter the bedroom and find it cluttered and cramped. There are books in stacks with more littered around the bottom. A dried-up paint palette and an easel draped over with several jackets and unpaired stockings. There is a four-post bed with scrambled covers and a canopy twisted around the poles. Vials upon vials line shelves and an inkwell stands uncapped over untidy sheets of paper.

“Very well,” the woman shuts the door, “I am Enola, the famous detective’s ne’er do well sister and you are the seamstress who will make me a peacock.”

You stare at her and swallow tightly. You offer your name before you begin, “I’ve only come upon his request--”

“Ah, yes, I’m certain you have. He’s still trying to make a lady of me. I see through his guise, though he doesn’t think it. He underestimates me, see. He lies but I will go along for I will more easily avoid his snare if I do.”

You nod and narrow your eyes. The wealthy can always afford to be so eccentric. You don’t think any woman you know would view a new dress as such a curse. She is young, she cannot know.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll only take your measurements,” you offer, “I can always fit upon the dress form.”

“Do what you must,” she sighs, “shall I strip down?”

You put your bag on a chair as she unbuttons her blouse, “not-- if you--” You look up at her as she reveals a corset and reaches to undo her skirt. You focus on your bag and scoop out your measuring tape.

You approach her as her skirt heaps at her feet. She is tall, her legs on long, her figure lithe. You begin your work silently. She raises her arms as you request and puts them back down.

“Suppose if I wasn’t here, I might’ve become a dressmaker. I always enjoyed stitching,” she muses as you scribble down each number, “it seems lonely work. Quiet work.”

“It’s work,” you say as you take out the envelope and unfold the page to examine the dress again. You hold it up and glance past it at Enola.

“May I see that?” She asks but doesn’t await an answer before she snatches the paper. “Oh, is this really what he chose? No, no, no, this won’t do. I want my shoulders covered.”

You slip the envelope back in your bag, “it is only what I was given. If you prefer adjustments, it is your dress.”

“Yes, my dress and my body,” she crumples the paper and tosses it onto the rug.

You close up your notebook and go to the rolls of fabric, “would it be too much for me to do some piecework?”

“If you insist,” she pouts.

You take out your scissors and turn your back to her. She isn’t rude, per se, but you’re not in the habit of associating with this sort of clientele. You get numbers on a sheet and you sew. A living form is not quite your forte.

-🪡

When you finish, you can sense Enola’s agitated impatience. You don’t blame her. It’s plain she didn’t want the dress or your visit. It is more so upon the shoulders of her brother. Mr. Holmes. You’re similarly irked that he would put you in this position.

Enola is already fiddling with some instrument before you can go. You emerge and pull the door shut after you. You stand in the hallway, bag at the crook of your elbow as you hug the fabric. You move with hampered steps towards the stairs. As the top creaks beneath your weight, your name is called from further down the hallway.

“Ah, are you set then?” Mr. Holmes asks as he stops just outside a door, “I was thinking, to make up for your efforts, you might want to stay for tea.”

You look down at your armful and back to him, “that’s very generous, but--”

“I believe I paid an adequate fee for the appointment,” he strides slowly towards you, “but I am open to a barter if it was not sufficient.”

You feel the heavy sovereign tucked into your jacket. You crook your lips and raise your chin, “no sir, it will do for today and the making of the dress. The fabric... I don’t have any as rich as the style requested.”

“Another service I may require of you. If you wouldn’t mind to select the material, I would be happy to reimburse the expense.”

“Would there be a colour? A fabric preferred? Velvet? Satin? Chiffon?” You prompt, “I solely work in cotton and wool, as I forewarned.”

“Perhaps we might find a fabric seller at Covent Garden? You could accompany me on my next sojourn--”

“I don’t know if I would have the time. I could write down some fabrics which would suit the silhouette we agreed upon,” you offer.

“Mmm,” he hums, “you are rather professional. How about tea, then? Melinda from across the road sent some mutton over.”

“The hour should see me back to my shop,” you shift your bag.

“You are fastidious,” he stops before you and puts a hand on the fabric, “please, allow me, you are overburdened.”

“I’m--”

You can’t argue as he takes the fabric from you. You let him have it if only to avoid disaster you lean back on your heel. He angles the rolls under his arm easily and grins. A curl strays down his forehead.

“I suppose you are right, given recent events, it would be best to see you home before the evening sets,” he says, “I would gladly see you home safe, miss.”

He is overly polite, or perhaps you aren’t used to it. It is his home, he supplied the carriage, and he has paid generously. It makes each denial feel trite.

“If you must, but I would be just fine on my own comportment,” you accept.

“It isn’t any fuss, I will fetch a jacket and the driver,” he extends his arm past you, “after you.”

You spin on your heel and face the staircase. You descend with your hand on the railing. As you come to the bottom, you wander towards the entry way and take in the fineness of the decor. Is much more becoming than your slanted rooms.

Mr. Holmes places the rolls just beside the door and takes a jacket from the rack. He pulls it on and tells you to wait before he disappears outside. You linger as you are, sliding your bag down to your hands.

When he returns, he reaches within to retrieve the fabric first. “Gavin is bringing up the carriage,” he declares and offers his free arm, “shall we?”

You consider him. You wouldn’t want to be unkind. You step through the door, pulling it shut as you accept his bent arm, your hand in the crook. He accompanies you down the narrow steps, each step crowded by his.

Gavin appears in the driver’s seat and reins the horse to a halt. The beast looks miserable. Mr. Holmes escorts you to the door and releases you to open it. He helps you with a strong hand and you sit within with your bag on your lap. He shoves the fabric in ahead of him, his head bowed as he fits through the small door.

He closes it with a snap and settles on the bench on the other side of you. You stare across at the cotton, expecting he’d have taken that seat instead. His leg is on your skirt.

You keep your hands on your bag. He knocks on the ceiling and the carriage rumbles into motion. You rock with it along the street, silent as you wring the leather handles.

“I hope my sister did not cause too much stress. I know she can be a lot but she’s old enough now. She should start behaving as a lady,” he spreads a large hand across his thigh. “Perhaps, once she finds a husband, that will be easier.”

You nod, uncertain of a proper response.

“Not to mean... I don’t mean to assume, I am known however for my observations, and I have concluded you are not married,” he continues, “I gather if it were the case, you might not have a shop to sew in.”

“Suppose not,” you reply dully.

“It is only to say that my opinion of my sister isn’t general. A woman such as yourself is admirable.”

“A spinster?” You supply.

“I didn’t--”

“I’ve chosen not to marry, that is true. I am not bothered by that fact,” you say, “isn’t that what you deal in, detective, facts?”

“Fair,” he shifts on the bench, “but not everyone can detach emotion from facts.”

“And why should I be emotional about that fact? I am much more happier than any woman could be with a husband,” you stare at the opposite wall of the carriage. “And I will assume, sir, as I am no detective, that you have neither taken to the altar.”

He curls the fingers on his left hand, “I have not.”

“And I’m certain you enjoy your bachelor lifestyle in your grand apartment,” you return, “while my own is not so extravagant, I find solace in it. On that, I think you might understand me.”

He takes a breath and lets it out with a thoughtful hum, “I suppose we are similar in some way.”

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