#b. writes

Home was an unfamiliar word to John. If you know anything about his past (you do, more than he likes to admit) you'd know what a shit show it was. Dead mother, a sister who grew up way too soon, and a bastard excuse for a father. Not the kind of picturesque stuff you can slap onto a Hallmark card.

So when the relative peace sets in, it activates his suspicion. John has always been a paranoid man, but it doubles down tenfold when you both are settling into your new residence.

Chaos?  He can handle.  Spikes his blood pressure, but he's at least familiar with it.  But peace and quiet?  It strikes a nerve.  John doesn't trust it.  This is always when things go tits up.

And so he waits.  And waits...but that moment where everything comes crashing down never comes.

Which makes his fear worse.  As in: 'going through multiple packs a day' worse.

So you suggest that he indulge in a simple routine.  Something he can do methodically that he has complete control over to keep some semblance of comfort.  Ergo: John takes to washing the dishes after each meal.  A fair enough trade: you cook and he cleans up after.   (Besides, he's British.  We all know his cooking is Shit with a capital S).

And just like any kind of vice, it becomes a habit the more he partakes in it.  From dishes, to eventually vacuuming the rugs, cleaning the windows, dusting the shelves, you name it.  First phase complete: housekeeping.

You joke that he needs a maid skirt to go along with his newfound cleaning hobby (don't tempt him-).

Second phase: Errand runs.  A bit of integration with the non-magical, mundane world is just the cold water he needs after a rough week.  Though supermarkets are often their own kind of hell in disguise.  You make a habit of accompanying him window shopping.  You make the whole ordeal tolerable.

The third phase (he's in deep now) is gardening.  It starts off as stubborn determination at first: so often he's used to those associated with him ending up in the grave, so this might be the chance to turn things around.

Truth be told, he's not great at it.  But he manages to keep some mint and sage alive long enough to pluck.  Plus, the bloke looks pretty hot with rolled up sleeves and sweating in the sun, so who are you to complain?

The final stage of his descent into domesticity: an honest to god attempt at cooking.  Without sugar coating it, it's an uphill battle.  We're talking about the same man who lived on a diet of questionable takeout, booze, and cigarettes.  His father wasn't exactly a shining example of parenthood, so any of all recipes he knows is from his memories of meals shared with his older sister or his exes.

John's more perceptive than he lets on, ergo, he'll memorize the ingredients and steps you take to prepare a dish.  Although for his actual execution?  Questionable at best.

Slowly, very slowly he'll get the hang of it.  A cookbook or writing down a recipe might be helpful.  Also a whopping heap of patience.  (Please advise the man to not skimp out on the seasoning, I beg of you-)

But he truly does care about making you happy at the end of the day.  Seeing you satisfied after taking a bite of a meal he spent time on?  Worth every curse as oil nearly scorches him from the pan.  

You notice the changes too: while not completely without paranoia, your partner seems more relaxed these past couple months.  Seems in a slightly better mood when he greets you in the morning with a beverage of your choice.

The John that used to sleep in till noon with a hangover?  Replaced with this new John who wakes up early to get a head start at making breakfast for you both.  

When you point out this shift, he laughs you off and jokes if you'd prefer the older him.  Truth is, you loved him during his lowest and as so, he to you back.

But-  You don't mind this version of your beloved either.  The one who laughs more freely and wears his heart on his sleeve more often than not.  The one who concerns himself with grocery lists, what to make for dinner, and how to tell Karen from the HOA to piss off.  

Just don't be surprised when he spills to you during a quiet evening in that he's taking a step back from the occult nonsense.  Time for someone else to clean up the world's messes, he has a much more important job he'd rather dedicate his livelihood to...

your teammates are far away, abandoned you in favor of a quick escape. you're lying on the ground, holding onto your ankle which you twisted during your attempt at fleeing.

gooseberry watches you writhe in pain, hissing to yourself. only after a few seconds do you realize she's there. watching you silently.

her expression is unreadable for this moment. for once the whirring of the metallic drill is silent. nothing but the faint echo of carnival music and the constant humming of the facility to be heard.

she takes a step closer. you've never seen her so quiet before.

you both don't say a word. she eyes your ankle, all bruised and bent at an odd angle. she looks back at you, and you can see a flicker of recognition in those eyes of dark irises of hers.

"You poor thing..."

you flinch as she reaches for your leg. against all expectations, her touch is gentle. she inspects your leg curiously, as if assessing the damage underneath her gloved fingertips.

despite your racing heart and the sweat beading down your neck, a tinge of hope builds in your gut. maybe, just maybe she's garnered some sense of reason. maybe you're not utterly fucked. maybe there really is a need deep within her who wants to help.

"Stay still dearie, mother will help. Don't move a muscle-"

you don't register the pain right away. there's a second delay before a hot flash jolts through your body. sharp, all consuming. making every other cut and bruise inconsequential in comparison.

you scream as the woman towering above you flexes your joint further. firm and deliberate like she's done this a million times over. likely has.

dr. futterman blathers out some crude comment, but you can hardly hear anything besides the ringing in your ears and your own howls of pain. tears spring out as eyes, coating your grime-stained cheeks in a slippery, moist surface. they taste salty entering your mouth.

delightful giggles echo from above. you are just barely able to make out the silhouette of gooseberry cooing at you like a broken toy. the raggedy goose puppet on her right hand not easing your discomfort at all, especially as he berates you for crying. you've never felt so pathetic in your life.

you start blubbering out broken, half-coherent pleas. you aren't even aware for what: mercy? death? does it even matter anymore?

"Let mother make it all better. Me and Dr. Daddy will take care of you, won't we?"

her words can only be described as sickeningly sweet. her breaths come out hot and heavy. and somewhere deep down, you both know she enjoys seeing you like this. helpless, in agony, afraid, in need.

and what better person to aide than a mother?

somewhere off in the distance, the jarring buzz of the shuttles echo off the walls. your teammates are long gone by now, returning back to the temporary sanctitude of their sleep rooms.

but you're still here.

"Now why the long face? We're here to have fun! No child ever gets left behind!"

somewhere between then and now you felt your body be lifted off the ground.

your limbs feel like jelly, dangling onto the floor as the woman drags you off to god knows where. while drifting in and out of consciousness, you can't help but to lament you feel like a child again. one whose being carried off to bed after a long, long day.

"What the hell are they feeding people these days?" Was his first thought seeing your head graze the damn door frame walking in the motel room.

He's convinced that Vought had injected you with something special, some kind of intensified version of Compound V to explain your height which dwarfs over everybody else in the room (including him). Or that maybe you're just, in his words, "a fucking gargantuan freak".

🙄

Regardless of whatever reasoning (whether you're a supe with powers or just born with the genes) it pisses Ben off. Because suddenly, he's not the biggest and strongest in the room anymore.

Me smells insecurity

He scoffs at the notion; first, he wakes up to find he's been sold out and he's displaced in the middle of the goddamn 21st century; now suddenly giants walk the earth.

Overall speaking, how he'd treat you largely concedes with your actual personality. Though I do see some distinct differences here.

If you're masc-presenting:

Definitely feels threatened by your very existence. Which, hey, is in of itself an accomplishment.

challenges you at every possible opportunity. Like he's some gymrat trying to show off his gains. To whom you may ask? No-one except his own ego. Let's be honest.

Expect lots of arm wrestling, rough-housing, competitive/ combative training... i'm running out of ideas for 'manly hobbies', drinking? Just so the guy can prove he's still superior or whatever.

And he's weirdly hostile to you and Hughie specifically? Lots of nicknames concerning your height or calling you an overgrown pussy. It gets old pretty fast.

Like I say, he feels more challenged by you than anything when all you do is breathe and exist within his vicinity. Toxic masculinity/ repressed bisexuality goes crazy here.

If you're femme-presenting:

The question you should be asking yourself when forced to baby-sitting the war relic is, how much can you handle flirting as subtle as a freight train?

With being frozen for 40 something odd years, Soldier Boy is still pound-town central. Man's is horny to put it simply.

So naturally, this correlates to one with the pair of longest legs in the room.

of course he's going to throw you every petname in the book and all the sexual innuendos he can think of. No subtlety at all. (would definitely call you an "Amazonian godess" or some corny shit)

Asks if you're a model, if you've ever considered being a model, that he's been with plenty models back in his day, how you'd look so damn fitting on the cover of Vogue with those legs of yours.

He really likes your legs, if it's not fucking obvious already.

Regardless of your gender, whether you think his comments are amusing/ annoying/ comedic/ endearing/ gross, one thing is for certain: you have to put him in his place.

I mean he's called Soldier Boy, not 'Man' for a reason, right? Or any iteration of this line is a surefire way to get on his nerves.

Maybe you're not as strong as Ben is, or maybe you are if you're a fellow supe, but regardless you're able to put up a hell of a fight when training outside.

Ben is...begrudgingly impressed. Not even his old team, those Payback cocksuckers, were able to hold their own without needing to see a medic by the end of their training sessions together.

But that red flag behavior is story for another day :))))

Like I said, it's a begrudging respect. Still lots you got to work on, but you aren't completely useless in his eyes.

Late at night though when not even booze or drugs can lull him to sleep, Ben's mind wanders.

He thinks back to the way you moved earlier: how confident and surefire you were, sweat beading off your forehead and causing whatever clothes to cling onto your like a spandex suit, your limbs were strong and had heft to them. And how you looked looming over him that one time you managed to knock him over, looking down at him with that satisfied gleam in your eye like he wasn't America's hero anymore, just a man, a man in need of someone to put him in his proper place on the ground and-

Yeah, he needed a cold shower. Or maybe more drugs. Probably both.

Her diet mainly consists of meat. Her teeth are more canine like than your average human.

She isn't looking to indoctrinate as many people as possible into her circle. Quality > Quantity for her. Most of which involves those who were raised in a similar environment as she was: exploited, abandoned, abused, etc. Women in her circles are (generally) treated better than men, who are seen as more disposable.

She had to teach herself how to read/ write. Her handwriting is fairly chicken scratch looking, save for her name which is signed in a nice penmanship.

She prefers orchestral music, with a bit of Latin choir mixed in. Particularly I associate Liliya with string instruments such as violins, cellos, and harps.

When wandering around Eastern Europe, she was intrigued by the ballerinas she would see in windows at their dance studios. Perhaps in another life she might've liked to become one...that is until she sees the way the instructors and higher-ups treated them. Maybe it was for the best she wasn't given that chance.

Has a slightly hunched posture due to her years of being locked in a cage by her mother. It's subtle but it's there.

Is more resilient to cold temperatures than most people.

A light sleeper. Wakes up at the slightest changes in sounds, movements, changes in light, etc. Once deeming her surroundings are safe, drifts back to sleep.

Doesn't often have dreams but when she does, claims they are her holy visions.

Has a very...complex relationship with sex and intimacy. All she knows is that sex with men disgusts her but not so much with women. Her past S/A experience with the German officer who tried to arrest her certainly didn't help with that. At times, she even feels repulsed by the idea of physical intimacy itself. She's above that after all. She's a Messiah. Though at times I can see her being curious about the act, spying on others to see how it's done. Overall though, I see her drive being quite low. Sex is a tool and tactic, yes, but not one she wants to be in the spotlight of.

My personal headcanon is that Lilliya is a sapphic asexual. But that's just me. She doesn't put a label on herself since she's y'know, a holy savior and all.

Speaking of, I don't think she's a fan of the outfit Murkoff gave for her. The head piece she's alright with, very biblically accurate angel-esque. But a skin-tight suit with a corset? I think what we see in the comics: a simple black robe is much more her style. I think Murkoff gave it to her knowing her past experience with S/A so they're hoping to put her in the mindset of being a sexualized object again. (just my opinion though, one could argue she doesn't care or that her outfit isn't inherently sexual, but i've seen enough guys' comments on reddit to think otherwise-)

I hate to burst anyone's bubble here: but Liliya doesn't smell great. None of the PA's do. How can you when you're in the Sinyala facility? While she's certainly not the worst-smelling PA, it's still not pleasant- Think rusted metal mixed with dried blood, body odor, and grime. She smelled worst when in her 'lost years' surviving Eastern Europe where she really had to use dirt and musk to have her blend in with the woods.

I do think she would take showers, cold ones. To cleanse herself both physically and spiritually.

If a TV exists in her vicinity, she doesn't watch it. Those tainted messages and sinful moving pictures...her words are the only scripture one could ever need.

Very rigid sense of morals and ideals that are specific to her view of the world. Both as ways to justify her actions and inflict 'righteous punishment' onto others. Unlike Coyle who only half believes the violence he dishes out, Liliya fully believes what she's enacting is justice.

The reason why she doesn't care about the other PA's -

I too was a bit disappointed to know she wouldn't have lines about the others. I get that due to her overlapping voices, it'd take forever for her VA to voice all the lines. So I'll try to give my own reasoning as to why.

As I said earlier, quality > quantity for Liliya. Her followers are hand-chosen by her specifically. And these roaming the facility with her? Don't fit into her vision at all. A racist cop, a perverted mobster, a delusional children's show host, serial killers who look down on the poor...yeah, she'll pass.

It's unique, it's a culmination of both your hard work and all the money you've saved up, it's a testament to how far you two have come, it's a testament to the life he never thought he could have someday.

After the war, of course most of America was busy celebrating.  Many were busy getting hitched. As for you two?  Well, living together properly seemed to be as good a start as any.

Years ago Peter would've never dreamed of such a thing, convinced that the only way to keep you safe was to push you away.  He thought he was doing the right thing, when in actuality he was cutting himself off leaving you to practically chase after this self sacrificing man.

It has not been easy getting here, not one bit, but all the guy knows is that he looks at your smile as if you had hung all the stars in the sky for him.

The two of you rented out a decent sized studio apartment, the best that money could afford.  Or as much as the two of you were willing to shell out that is.  Fitted with only the best hand-me-downs and thrifted furniture, a mix of both newly borrowed and old favorites. 

Sure it was no lavish estate of some wealthy metropolitan, but it was home. 

Given that it was still an apartment and all, you couldn't exactly put in nails or paint the walls.  Which is a bummer since Peter wanted to coat them with a soothing lilac color, so instead you opted for a compromise: wallpaper.  It took a whole afternoon and then some, but you both managed to get a good chunk of the space covered so it wasn't so dreary and drab inside. 

Pictures adorned the walls and the wooden shelves of the hallway.  Some captured of you two back when, some of Peter's family, and some of yours as well.  The really precious photos you had developed were kept safe in a little heart shaped box underneath your shared bed.

Little knick-knacks were scattered throughout the apartment as well: from airplane models, to little souvenirs, the occasional half finished puzzle or two, and houseplants galore.  No lilies however, not good for your guys' cat.

Speaking of which, with all this time spent together in a blissful domesticity, it could get a man thinking.  The choice in the end is ultimately yours, but if you'd be willing, he'd want to start a family with you. He really doesn't care for whatever gender but he'd melt if you would name one of the kids after his late Uncle Benjamin.

If you're not a fan of children, that's not a problem, he's more than content to simply adopt a couple more felines under your shared roof.  Regardless if you have a biological family or not, you two are bound to take in a few extra strays over the years.  Your home is practically a second safe haven for these animals.

On the weekends you'd blast out tunes on your beloved record player, enjoying the sounds of smooth jazz or blues.  You'd hold potlucks inviting your friends and family, his Aunt May bringing her infamous wheat pancakes.  She adored you so, glad that you made his nephew happy in a way that he hasn't been in a damn long time.

Yes, your home isn't some five-star hotel suite.  Nor is it a glamorous penthouse or a cottage out of a cozy fairytale.  But that mattered little.  Your home now was a place of love, a place of warmth and refuge.  Of snuggling up under a blanket after a day out in the blistering cold. 

And then, Reader using their skills for animals onto their S/O: positive reinforcement, gentle boundaries, speaking in a calm/ clear yet authoritative voice, repetition of tasks, praise when they do something right, etc.

It becomes so ingrained that the change in their S/O is visible by others. The way they constantly look to Reader for guidance and that little bit of praise to ensure they did a good job. Extra strange if said S/O used to be a bit of a rebel/ standoff-ish before.

More of this in the bedroom. Maybe you even go so far as to put a leash on them. They're practically already wearing one with you at the handle, why not make it a reality?

Overstimulating galore. No releasing unless you give permission to. As in Pavlov's experiments, good behavior is reimburse and rewarded. But when their S/O tries to regain control or finishes too early? Well, that can be up to Reader to decide if they'd want to punish said behavior or do nothing. Sometimes the worst one can do is leaving their poor S/O high and dry after all.

john who takes your last name. not like he's had much of a reason to be attached to his. his family lineage is…muggy to say the least. he doesn't want to be apart of that anymore. besides, he'd much rather have something of yours than have anything belonging to his late bastard of a father.

john who opts for cozy pull-overs and open cardigans over his usual trench coat. don't worry, he still has it hanging up on a hook in the closet, but it hasn't been in use for quite some time. he keeps it for sentimental reasons and all that mush.

john who by some miracle, actually has a decent hand in cooking. not perfect mind you (he's still British at the end of the day) but is able to provide you both with a decent meal and not have the kitchen burn down/ have the food properly seasoned. its the little victories.

john who hate watches reality tv. complains about how over-the-top, obviously staged, and asinine these shows are. you still catch him tuning in for new episodes.

john who wears glasses now. technically he's been needing them for a while, but now that his life has quieted down some he puts them on when reading/ just around the house. they make him look like a dorky old man. but you like em.

john who needs to keep busy with his hands. from his little hobbies such as assembling miniature and sketching in pencil, to folding clothes and scrubbing dishes. just because he's retired doesn't mean he's some lazy slob. his mind has always ran a mile a minute but chores like these help him ground himself in the moment.

john who has petty beef with one of the neighbors. a person so vile that only lucifer himself could spawn, in his words. this neighbor has complained ONCE about you making too much noise after curfew, and a silent war was waged that day. they exchange pleasantries when passing but through thinly veiled insults and strained smiles. it's honestly not that deep. you find it hilarious, he doesn't.

john who amalgamates an army of cats seemingly overnight. he feeds one, and the whole rest of the lot show up next time. some are neighborhood cats with the collars on, others are comprised of strays of various ages. you end up taking one in (and maybe a few more if y'all don't have anything else to do).

john who invites old friends over to catch up. no funny business, no last minute saving-the-world bullshit. he's done with that. purely for chatting and connection. you've become close with them as well. chas comments how john seems happier here with you than he's been in the past decade or so. zatanna teases how domesticity oddly suits him.

john whose never forgets his past. time has helped to ease some of the scars but it can never fully erase the extent of what happened. you both know that. he still occasionally wakes up in a cold sweat remembering newcastle, still stays paranoid of any potential danger coming back to drag him (or you) down, still smokes a bit too much and has the occasional breakdown when his thoughts start to spiral. but you're there. you're always there. you're in it for the long haul with him, whatever god (or lack thereof) be willing.

john who doesn't look the same as before. more wrinkles across his forehead and eyes, some smile lines, and now some streaks of grey in his hair (yum!😋). his once toned physique and skinny legs have now softened up. he's a lil' pudgy in the middle. a proper dad bod (regardless if y'all have any kids or not). half from lack of running and half from the good food he eats now. it used to bother him a bit, but he doesn't mind so much anymore.

john who collects the dumbest aprons. the absolute corniest sayings that make a person cringe: "kiss the cook", "caution: hot stuff", and "no bitchin' in my kitchen". he smirks when all you can do is roll your eyes. still a lil' shit but at least he's yours now.

john who tries so damn hard for you. he loves you. too much for his own good. he thinks you deserve some kind of award for still shacking up with him after all these years. he fully knows he's not the easiest person to get along with, or trust. he's no saint. but hey, neither are you. he was never really afraid of commitment, just afraid of mucking it up somehow.

john who says "i love you" now. before the words had to been practically wrestled out of him in a chokehold (not that he would be opposed to that, anyways-). it's the typical scene where you're heading off to work for the day, he chimes in a quick 'i love you', swapping some smooches, and off you go. and oh god, he loves it. life is precious and unpredictable. and while it may be more stable now, he doesn't want a day to go without saying the one thing he really means.

john who shows up. for you? always. truth is, he's always been a caring individual at heart. it shows up tenfold now that he's in a much healthier headspace/ relationship. whether big or small: be it your job promotion party or the wedding of one of your cousin's you got dragged into. he's present and by your side. not perfect mind you (never will be), but at least he's entertaining company to have at these things.

john who learns to slow down. everything was about survival before. or the next adrenaline rush. survival, pleasure, save the world from certain doom, repeat. things are different now. when things are too quiet, when he gets that tiniest itch that maybe he should dip back into the supernatural business; he walks around the house. simple as that. walks around and takes a second to marvel at the life he has now for himself. he sees your favorite throw blanket, the failed crochet project he attempted tucked into a corner, the leftovers in the fridge made by his hands, the little knick-knacks you two have collected over the years, he sees your presence in every aspect of your home together.