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🪩┆ 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐞 ， she/her — '99 ִ ࣪𖤐 ˖ ✦ › @wendichester's main

[notmeolive]

　﹒　𓊆 𐚁 𓊇　⏖　 olivia 　｡　　﹗

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[notmeolive]

⋆｡ ˚ all the ways you come back

lowdown ☆ when the task force pulls you back into meachum’s orbit years after he shattered things, old wounds reopen just as a traitor in your life forces everything to the surface. ride or die ☆ mark meachum x intelligence-analyst!oc ( f ) miles ☆ 4758 ride style ☆ hurt / comfort danger on the trail ☆ canon-typical violence, hostage situation, knife/gun threat, blood/injury, betrayal, jealousy, mark’s brain tumor mentioned, light wound care, kissing, soft-ish ending

liv's log ☆ wrote this for the lovely @no-ordinary-girl (aka loml) and i missed meachum. it might be time to rewatch countdown .ᐟ 𐚁

the conference room is too cold. 

that’s the first thing you notice—it’s not the agents sitting around the table with their folders open and their attention half on you, half on the screen behind agent blythe. it’s not the case photos of burned-out vehicles and murdered informants. it’s not the map of los angeles lit up with red pins and ugly little clusters of dates—it’s the stupid air-conditioning. 

your arms are folded tight under your blazer, finger tucked into the sleeves even though you know it makes you look less composed than you wish to look. you hate that your body betrays you in dumb, ordinary ways. 

the department calls you in because you’re useful; because you can read interagency data trails the way other people read menus; because you know when a procurement log has been doctored and when a seizure report is missing one boring little digit—that turns out not to be boring in the slightest.

still, you’re standing there thinking about how you should’ve brought a cardigan. 

blythe introduces you with the briskness of a man who’s already wasted enough time on manners. “this is audrynne,” he says. “she’s been consulting with doj oversight on cross-agency corruption cases. she’s good at finding the fingerprints people don’t realize they left behind. the case’s slowing down, so she’s here to make us all look less stupid.” 

“high bar,” someone mutters. 

you glance before you can stop yourself. you know that voice. even muttered. even after years. you’d probably recognize it in a loud room without difficulty. 

mark meachum sits near the end of the table, one ankle hooked over the other, paper coffee cup in hand, looking exactly the way memory has been cruel enough to keep him—a little rougher around the edges, sure, but still the same hair mussed in a way that probably came from him dragging a hand throught it too many times; eyes sharper than they have any right to be; that old, maddening lean in his chair.

beside him, amber oliveras taps a pen against her folder and leans close enough to murmur something under her breath. mark grins. nothing too big or obvious. just the corner of his mouth—a tiny reward he used to give you when you said something mean enough to make him proud. 

your stomach does something embarrassing. you turn back to blythe. 

“happy to help,” your voice comes out smooth. thank god for small mercies and professional spite.

the briefing is ugly: three dead informants, one missing customs witness, confidential databases accessed with legitimate credentials from different agencies, each query buried under routine searches. the target keeps moving with too much precision, too much warning. whoever is feeding him knows when raids are coming and which warrants are being drafted before the ink even has the chance to dry. 

“so we’re looking at law enforcement,” agent bell says from the other side of the room. 

“or adjacent,” you add. “analysts, prosecutors, contractors, liaisons. anyone with enough clearance to see fragments from different pipelines.” 

mark looks at you across the table. “you always did love making a party bigger.” 

“only when the guest list is packed with potential criminals,” you don’t miss a beat as your eyes lazily find mark’s. 

“and exes,” amber adds barely under her breath.

your eyes cut to her. she doesn’t look sorry. if anything, she looks entertained. 

mark’s expression changes by half an inch. almost nothing, unless someone has spent a stupid number of years learning him. “oliveras.” 

“what?” amber says. “it’s in the air. i’m just saving everybody the awkward twenty minutes.” 

blythe looks between you and mark with the dead stare of a man who’s led task forces, survived bureaucracy, and still doesn’t believe adults choose to act this way in conference rooms. 

“is this going to be a problem?” he aks. 

“no, sir,” you reply calmly, even when everything in you wants to call out the stupid in his team. 

“nope,” mark says at the exact same time. 

it makes blythe squint harder. he closes his folder. “moving on.” 

you spend the next hour walking them through the access trail the team’s missed so far. you don’t go for the loud pieces. you tap into the quiet ones: a warrant used twice under slightly different timestamps; a vehicle impound report pulled thirteen minutes before a witness turns up dead; a federal badge credential that shouldn’t have touched a lapd gang database but still did at 2:17 in the morning on a sunday. 

you feel mark watching you. not constantly. he’s too good for that. he looks away when he should, asks questions when everyone else gets lost, plays the impatient cowboy only until the room starts underestimating him. that part still annoys you most. how sharp he is underneath the mess. how easy it’d be to hate him if he were actually stupid.

when the meeting breaks, chairs scrape back, phones come out, and blythe starts barking orders before anyone makes it to the door.

you gather your tablet and the stack of copies evan printed for you. 

“audrynne.” mark says your name differently than everyone else. less polished. lived in. it lands somewhere behind your ribs and starts touching things it has no permit to touch.

you don’t turn right away.  you slide the last folder into your bag. “detective.”

he makes a face. “we’re doing that?”

“doing what?”

“the whole title thing.”

“sorry. would you prefer asshole?”

amber coughs into her coffee. evan suddenly becomes fascinated by a laptop cable.

mark takes the hit with a tiny nod, lips pressed together. “fair.”

you look at him then and it’s awful, because he looks tired. there’s a worn-down edge to him that makes your anger stumble for one dumb second before you yank it upright again. he dumped you with a half-packed duffel on your bedroom floor and a tone so flat you kept waiting for the punchline.

you’re better off. 

this isn’t working. 

don’t make it a thing.

as if you’d invented the breaking.

“i need five minutes,” he says now.

“i’ve got work to do. you know, to help ya’ll look less stupid.”

his jaw shifts, but he doesn’t fire back. you can’t tell if he doesn’t have time or choose to shut his trap for the first time ever, because blythe calls from the doorway and leaves the moment broken.

“meachum. oliveras. with me.”

mark’s gaze flicks over your face, quick and frustrated. “later.”

“i can barely contain myself.” the words sound more bitter than sarcastic. 

he leaves with amber, shoulder brushing hers as they move through the hall. she says something that makes him huff a laugh, and you hate how young jealousy makes you feel. small. petty.

not that you’re jealous. you have a boyfriend. joshua texts you at 7:43, right as the bullpen thins and your coffee’s gone cold beside three pages of credential logs.

𝚒'𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎.

you pack up slowly because you refuse to look rushed. your hair catches under your bag strap, and you have to tug it free, the long dark fall of it sliding over your shoulder and down your back. 

amber notices from her desk. “how long does it take to brush that?”

you glance over. “long enough to develop grudges.”

“respect.”

you almost smile. then you decide to be childish one last time to compensate for her being bitchy without even knowing you, and simply nod before leaving. 

when you step outside, the night air is warmer than the building but still not enough. you can feel goosebumps rising along your forearms before you even spot joshua leaning against his car.

he’s handsome in that clean, expensive way. crisp shirt. government haircut. watch that costs more than your rent used to when you were twenty-two and pretending boxed pasta counted as a proper chef-level meal. he works intelligence compliance for homeland, which is less exciting than he makes it sound at parties and more powerful than people realize.

“there’s my girl,” joshua smiles, opening his arms.

you let him pull you in. his cologne sits heavy over the perfume you put on this morning, too sharp at the edges. he kisses your temple first, then your mouth, longer than usual. public. performative. his hand rests at your waist and tightens when footsteps sound behind you.

you already know. you don’t turn.

“meachum,” joshua says, pleasant as a knife wiped clean.

“josh.” mark’s voice is flat. “still wearing shirts a size too small?”

joshua smiles. “still confusing recklessness with charm?”

“only on days ending in y.”

you pull back from joshua, annoyed with both of them and yourself for being aware of mark’s gaze on your mouth.

“we’re leaving,” you say.

“you spying on me?” you can’t help the playfulness slipping into your tone.

“small world.”

mark steps closer by one pace. “not that small.”

oh, and there it is—the primitive little shoulder-square; the male animal nonsense of i was here first wearing a badge and a gun. you’d laugh if it didn’t scrape against all the wrong memories.

joshua kisses you again, shorter this time, his eyes staying open long enough to make sure mark sees. you let him, because you’re angry and tired and self-respect leaves the body at the first sign of unresolved history.

when you glance back before getting into the car, mark’s standing under the harsh lot lights with amber at the door behind him. she says something to him. he doesn’t answer.

the next two days are a war fought in fluorescent light.

you find a pattern in the dead informants’ case files. all three had been flagged in a shared federal-local intelligence portal within forty-eight hours of their deaths. someone with clearance is searching names, waiting for hits, then cleaning up before the task force can move.

mark keeps trying to corner you between updates.

“you skipping lunch now?” he asks once, leaning against the break room counter while you pour coffee you know will taste terrible.

“already ate.”

“cute. vending machine or are you considering coffee food now?”

“i’ve had worse coffee.”

he exhales through his nose, almost amused. “you still do that thing where you don’t eat when you’re stressed?”

you stir powdered creamer with a plastic stick until it bends. “you still do that thing where you pretend to care?”

“audrynne.”

“don’t.” you toss the stirrer into the trash. “you don’t get to remember small things and act like that makes you decent.”

his face closes.

oliveras clocks it from six feet away. later, while you’re pinning access logs to the board, she sidles up beside you with the casual danger of a woman who has spent fourteen years getting people to underestimate her.

“so,” she says. “you and meachum.”

“no.”

“i haven’t even made my point.”

“still no.”

she hums. “you know, for what it’s worth, whatever you think is happening with me and him—”

“i don’t think anything.”

“sure.” amber pins you with a look that’s way too knowing for someone you have no intentions of getting close to. “i like him. he’s a pain in the ass. he gets under my skin. sometimes i want to punch him in the mouth. that’s not the same thing.”

your thumb presses into the pushpin until the plastic bites.

amber’s voice drops. “he told you?”

you look back at her. confusion sinks, but it’s quickly followed by the annoyance of a potential secret. of her knowing more about him than you. 

you swallow once. “told me what?”

amber’s expression changes. regret, fast and real.

mark chooses that exact second to enter with blythe. you turn back to the board before the moment develops. 

twenty minutes later, blythe pairs you with mark, which proves either god has a cruel hobby or blythe does. “warehouse in vernon,” he says, tossing mark the keys. “old evidence transfer site. one of audrynne’s flagged badge pings connects there. go look. don’t start a gunfight unless there’s actually someone to shoot.”

mark catches the keys. “that takes all the romance out of it.”

“good,” blythe says. “i’m not paying you for romance.”

the car ride begins badly and gets worse.

mark drives with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, knuckles bruised from something he hasn’t bothered explaining. the city slides past in sodium-orange streaks and brake lights. you sit with your knees angled away from him, coat pulled over your lap, trying not to shiver in a car that refuses to heat fast enough.

after six minutes, he reaches forward and turns the temperature up.

you stare at the windshield. “oh, for the love of god.”

“you’re cold.”

“i didn’t ask you to fix the temperature.”

“doesn’t change the fact that you’re cold. funny thing, isn’t it? how two things can be true at the same time.”

you hate him a little. you hate that he knows your body’s habits better than joshua does. you hate that being seen by him still feels dangerous.

“you have no right to act jealous,” you say.

his eyes stay on the road but his cool fades with the weak scoff that tumbles from his lips. “jealous?”

“please. you and joshua looked two seconds away from comparing antlers in the parking lot.”

“guy’s a prick.”

“he’s my boyfriend.”

“yeah, i noticed. he made sure.”

you laugh once, mean and humorless. “you dumped me, mark.”

his grip tightens on the wheel.

“you dumped me,” you repeat, because now that the words are out, they come with teeth. “you stood in my room and looked at me like i was one more situation you had to clear before leaving. you don’t get to show up years later and make faces because another man touches me.”

“i know.”

“do you? because you’re acting confused.”

“i’m not confused.”

“then what are you?”

he pulls into the industrial district, warehouses rising around you in dark blocks, chain-link fences glinting under security lights. for a moment, you think he won’t answer. 

then he says, “pissed off.”

“at me?”

“at him. at myself. plenty to choose from.”

“that must be exhausting.”

“you have no idea.”

you turn toward him. “whose fault is that?”

he looks at you then, quick, and there’s something cracked open in his face before he shuts it down. “you think i don’t know what i did?”

“i think you decided for both of us and still sleep peacefully at night.”

the car rolls to a stop near the curb across from the warehouse. mark kills the engine, and the sudden quiet presses close. 

“i had a tumor,” he says.

you go still.

he looks forward, not at you. “glioblastoma. inoperable. ugly little bastard. doctor gave me a speech about comfort and painkillers and making peace with things. i didn’t want you watching me turn into a hospice project.”

the cold in you changes shape. not gone. not forgiven. just altered, forced to make room for a fact too large to step around. “so you humiliated me instead?”

his mouth tugs in pain. “yeah. turns out dying doesn’t make you smart.”

your eyes burn, and you hate that too. “you should’ve told me.”

“i know.”

“you should’ve let me choose.”

“i know.”

“you made me feel disposable.”

mark drops his head back against the seat and closes his eyes for one second, maybe two. “i have loved you since i was twenty-three years old,” he says, rough and too fast, as if the words got out before he could tackle them. “you think i don’t see every side of you? you think i don’t know when you’re pretending? joshua isn’t—”

he cuts himself off right as your heart punches at your ribs.

mark opens his eyes. “loved,” he corrects, quieter. “i loved you. past tense.”

he looks embarrassed. genuinely. mark meachum, reckless cowboy, professional pain in your ass, staring out at a warehouse wall because his own mouth betrayed him.

“smooth,” you say, because if you say anything honest, you might break apart in his passenger seat.

he huffs. “yeah, well. i’m known for my elegance.”

“you’re known for concussions.”

“also true.”

the radio crackles before either of you can ruin yourselves further. blythe’s voice cuts through, asking for status.

mark answers, all business now. “outside the location. no visible movement. we’re going in.”

the warehouse is supposed to be empty. that’s what the records say. that’s what the property file says. that’s what the utility usage suggests, except for the tiny spike you found buried under a billing correction from three months ago.

mark moves first, gun drawn, body angled in front of yours without discussion. the air outside carries oil, damp concrete, and trash from the alley. 

inside, the warehouse is darker than it should be. rows of old shelving. plastic-wrapped pallets. the buzz of a light struggling somewhere in the back.

you stay close to mark, tablet tucked under one arm, flashlight in your hand.

“anything?” he asks.

“give me a second.”

“take half.”

“keep talking and i’ll take ten.”

“missed this.”

“i didn’t.”

he gives you a look. you ignore it and sweep the light across a stack of crates. your beam catches a partial plate through the far loading door window.

black sedan. government issue. clean. your pulse trips. “mark—”

you move toward the side window before he can stop you, wiping dust with your sleeve to see better. the car is parked crooked behind the building, trunk open. a man stands beside it, dragging something heavy wrapped in tarp.

then he turns his head. even in the bad light, you know his profile. your breath goes thin. 

“that’s joshua’s car,” you whisper.

mark is beside you instantly. “stay here.”

“no.”

“audrynne.”

“that’s his car.”

“which is why you’re staying here.”

the back door slams open before the argument can finish. a man stumbles inside, bloody, one hand pressed to his stomach. 

“help,” he chokes. it’s not joshua. this man looks older. terrified.

mark moves, but the shot comes from outside. the man drops. you flinch hard enough to hit the shelving behind you. mark shoves you down behind a stack of pallets as another bullet punches through metal with a shriek.

“where is he?” mark snaps.

you’re on your knees, palms gritty against the floor, ears ringing.

“audrynne, where is he?”

you force yourself to look. the loading entrance is open. joshua steps through with a gun in his hand. for one impossible second, your brain refuses him. wrong image. wrong file. joshua belongs in clean offices and lunch reservations and texts that show he cares. not here. not with blood on his cuff.

“baby,” he singsongs, and the word makes your skin crawl. “you weren’t supposed to come.”

mark’s gun is up. “drop it.”

joshua smiles at him. “you first.”

another shape moves behind the shelves and mark shifts to cover it. joshua lunges sideways, grabs you by the arm, and yanks you up so hard pain flashes through your shoulder. you slam back against him, his forearm locking across your throat, gun pressed cold beneath your jaw.

mark freezes with calculation held together by pure rage. “let her go,” he demands.

joshua’s arm tightens. “you always had main-character disease, meachum.”

you claw at his sleeve, trying to make space to breathe. his watch digs into your skin. your hair is trapped between your back and his chest, pulling at your scalp.

“josh—” you manage.

“quiet.” his mouth is near your ear. “you had to be clever, didn’t you? you had to follow the numbers.”

mark’s eyes flick over you. throat. hands. gun. joshua’s stance. the distance between them. “look at me.” 

you do.

“good,” mark tells you, voice low. “keep doing that.”

joshua laughs. “touching. really. no wonder she never shut up about you.”

your eyes sting.

mark doesn’t take the bait. “you’re done. blythe already has the logs.”

“blythe has whatever i let him have.”

as if on cue, sirens sound faintly outside. joshua hears them too. the gun presses harder.

mark’s expression changes into something terrifyingly calm. “don’t.”

“she’ll live if you back up.”

“no, she won’t,” mark says. “you’re too scared to leave witnesses.”

joshua’s breathing shifts. you feel it against your back. uneven now, faster, like something inside him has slipped out of control. his grip tightens for a fraction of a second, then loosens just enough for you to drag in a shallow breath that burns all the way down your throat. his pulse hammers where his arm presses against you, erratic and sharp, and you realize—too late, too suddenly—that he’s scared.

mark sees it too. you don’t know how you know, but you do. something in his posture changes, something precise and coiled, like a wire pulled taut to the breaking point. his eyes flick once to your face, joshua’s hand, the angle of the gun, and then settle, locked in.

“think it through,” mark’s eyes don’t move from joshua when he speaks, quieter this time, but it lands heavier, like a warning meant for both of you.

joshua’s breath stutters against your ear. for one suspended second, everything holds. then it breaks.

mark moves in the same second joshua does. it’s chaos—joshua jerking you sideways, his grip slipping as he tries to reposition, your heel catching on the uneven concrete, your balance gone before you can fight for it. mark lunges forward, faster than you’ve ever seen him move, his arm snapping up.

a crack splits the warehouse. the sound is deafening in the enclosed space, ricocheting off metal and concrete until it sinks inside your skull. your ears ring instantly, a high, piercing whine that drowns out everything else.

you hit the ground hard on your side, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. pain flares along your shoulder and hip, but it feels distant compared to the disorientation flooding your senses. the world tilts, spins, refuses to settle.

joshua’s body drops behind you with a heavy, final thud.

you lie there, stunned, your cheek pressed against the gritty concrete, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. your fingers twitch against the floor, searching for something to anchor.

the ringing in your ears swallows the world whole. and then—painfully—sound begins to bleed back in.

for a second, you can’t move. the concrete is cold against your cheek. your hand is wet. blood—yours, his, the dead man’s. your mind refuses to label it.

then mark’s there. “audrynne,” he drops to his knees so fast his gun skids a little when he sets it down. “hey—hey, look at me.”

you try, but everything shakes. your hands. your legs. the awful little muscles in your jaw.

“meachum?!” someone shouts outside. blythe.

mark turns his head and roars back, “in here! i’ve got her!”

mark pulls you into him, one arm firm around your back, the other hand cradling the side of your head so you don’t see what’s behind you. his jacket is rough under your cheek. you grab at it anyway.

“i didn’t know,” the words come out broken. “i didn’t know.”

“i know.” his hand moves over your hair once, careful, smoothing it back from your face. “i know, baby. you’re okay. you’re okay.”

“he was—”

“don’t look. look at me.”

you do, because his voice gives you somewhere to go.

his face is close. too close for the amount of ruin around you. his pupils are blown wide. he keeps scanning you, touching your shoulder, your arm, your throat, stopping himself from doing too much and failing every few seconds.

“meachum,” amber calls from nearby, softer than you expect. “ems is two minutes out.”

“she’s not waiting,” mark says. “i can check the cut.”

“cut?” you ask.

“your shoulder.” he looks back at you. “don’t argue with me for thirty seconds.”

“that’s ambitious.”

his eyes flick up—relief floods his expression, sharp and sudden, because you’re being difficult and difficult means alive.

he tears open a field dressing from amber’s kit and presses gauze to the scrape along your shoulder where the fabric ripped. his hands are steady. you curl your fingers into his sleeve, and he lets you.

blythe steps in, takes one look at joshua, then at you on the floor in mark’s arms. his voice lowers. “audrynne, we’ll need your statement when you’re cleared.”

mark glares. “not now.”

“i said when she’s cleared.”

later becomes a blur of blankets, paramedics, evidence bags, questions, and the metallic taste that won’t leave your mouth. your clothes are taken because blood and trace evidence don’t care about dignity. someone from the building’s lost and found produces replacements which results in you in a sweater twice your size with a cartoon snowman on the front even though it isn’t christmas. mark gets a rainbow-striped t-shirt that says fun run 2016 across the chest.

you stare at him in the precinct hallway, lips already pressed together. 

he stares back. “not one word.”

your mouth trembles.

“audrynne.”

you laugh.

it escapes before you can stop it, small and wrecked and a little hysterical. then you’re crying again, because your body has no sense of pacing. mark looks pained, standing there in that stupid rainbow shirt with dried blood on his forearm and his jacket folded over yours.

“come on,” he says gently. “i’ll drive you home.”

“blythe said—”

“blythe can file a complaint with my rainbow shirt.”

you’re too tired to fight.

the car’s quiet on the way back to your apartment. the heater runs full blast because mark turns it up, and you don’t tell him not to. your hands are tucked into the sweater sleeves. every few streets, his gaze flicks to your throat, then back to the road.

“stop checking,” you say.

“nope.”

you sigh and look out the window. los angeles passes in late-night fragments. neon signs. closed taco stands. a woman walking a tiny dog in pink boots. life having the nerve to continue.

“did you love me?” you ask and his hand tightens on the wheel. “past tense.” 

mark pulls up outside your building and parks, but he doesn’t turn off the engine right away. the dashboard lights paint his face in tired blue.

“i tried,” he says. he drags a hand over his mouth. “to make it past tense. i tried really hard. turns out i’m bad at that too.”

your throat hurts. bruised, yes, but also from holding back every sound you didn’t make in that warehouse.

“i was dying,” he says. “and i was a coward.”

“are you okay now?” you breathe out, shaky. 

he nods and reaches across the console, slow enough that you can move away but you don’t. his fingers close around the end of your oversized sleeve. “i’m sorry.”

it isn’t a pretty speech, but his voice is scraped raw, and he looks angry about needing the words. that helps more than it should.

you should get out of the car.

instead, you look at him in his ridiculous shirt, with his bruised knuckles and tired eyes and all the years sitting between you. you think about every way he’s come back tonight. through a conference room door. through a confession he tried to correct. through the warehouse dark. through a gunshot. through an apology that doesn’t fix everything but finally puts pressure on the wound.

“stay with me tonight,” you say. “not because everything’s fine—it isn’t. i don’t know what tomorrow looks like. i don’t even know what i’m feeling right now.”

“audrynne—”

“i just don’t want to walk inside alone.”

his eyes move over your face, careful now. “then you won’t.”

the engine turns off.

neither of you moves for a second.

then mark leans across the console and kisses you.

the angle’s a little awkward, your seatbelt digs into your hip, and one of your sweater sleeves gets trapped between you. his hand comes up to your cheek, careful of every bruise, and you make a small sound against his mouth that’s been waiting years to exist. he kisses you more, slower, then pulls back just enough to rest his forehead near yours.

“i’m still mad,” you whisper.

“yeah,” his thumb brushes along the edge of your cheek. “i figured.”

“good.”

“good,” he agrees.

you kiss him this time.

outside, the streetlamp hums softly, casting a dull glow across the car’s hood. inside, your fingers are tangled in the fabric of mark’s ridiculous rainbow shirt, your keys lost somewhere in your bag.

he walks beside you up the stairs, his hand resting at your back. not guiding—just there, steady and ready, if you need it.

☆ commission your own personalized story here ᢉ𐭩

[notmeolive]

Ignore this if you’re not comfy! What if you did a Drabble on the reader and Ben post series and the reader shaved and his reaction at that? “Domestic” Ben, (as domestic as he can get)

wait, baby, i’m a little confused 😭 did you mean reader shaving, or ben shaving his beard? because chapter 44 does mention him shaving, so i just want to make sure i’m understanding the scenario correctly before i answer!! either way, post-series “domestic” ben ( as domestic as that man is physically capable of being ) is always welcome in my brain 😌

also, to everyone who has sent me a little mouth like that drabble request: you’re not being ignored!! i’ve seen them, and i’ll start getting through them soon 🩷

[notmeolive]

This is not a question but I wanted to say thank you for giving us that beautiful and breathtaking story like "mouth like that" ❤️

I never was so involved in reading any story like this one. The way you wrote Ben, and dynamic between reader and him, the cliffhangers which I love so much, make it the best fic that I read about Soldier Boy - and I read a lot 💛🌻

So thank you once again and I can't wait for what comes next 👏🌻💛

oh sweetheart 🥹🌻🩷 thank you so so much!! saying mouth like that is the best soldier boy fic you’ve read is such an enormous compliment!! i might need to lie down for a moment 😭 i’m so happy ben felt right to you, that you loved the dynamic between him and reader, and that all my evil little cliffhangers kept you this involved 🤧

thank you for showing up for this story over and over again and loving it so deeply. i’ll miss our mlt update routine, but i’m so excited to have you here for whatever trouble comes next 🌻🩷

[notmeolive]

So, FIRST OF ALL, I don’t think there are any words to describe ur writing. ( There definitely are, I’m just not a poetic person, apparently. )

Mouth Like That was insanely good, it’s kind of bizarre how u write all the characters THAT accurately. Like, in my head? Every choice made, made perfect sense, in a way. And, I’ll definitely go back to that story.

U r a genuins.

Making a whole Character ( As in the reader, yk. ) up in ur head, and essentially rewriting a ‘world’ that already exists is a insane concept to me. And u kind of nailed it, like in every possible way.

Again, u r a genuins.

Thank u, for taking ur time and amazingly talented mind, and creating a masterpiece of a story.

All love from

💸 - anon

💸 anon, calling me a genuins twice means it’s officially my new professional title 🩷

but genuinely, thank you so much. what you said about every choice making sense is one of the best compliments you could give me, because i never wanted the characters to move just because the plot needed them to. i wanted every terrible decision, every argument, every soft moment, and every act of care to feel true to who they were. and reader was such a fun challenge because she had to feel like her own person without becoming so fixed that nobody could find themselves in her. building her into an already existing world and letting her change it without making the whole thing stop feeling like the boys was probably one of my favorite parts of writing the series. the fact that you think i nailed it and that you’ll go back to the story means everything to me.

thank you for giving 44 chapters of my messy little brain a home in yours 🥹 all my love right back, anon 💸 🩷

[notmeolive]

Oh man. Where do I begin.

First of all, I think the reason I tend to avoid fanfic series is because I’m a read the last page of a book before I buy it kind of person, but you can’t really do that! And on that note, I saw you posted the last chapter and I didn’t have time to read the whole thing then—BUT—I did scroll to the end and skim the chapter to see if you let Soldier Boy live. And boy was I ecstatic. I had to act normal at work after finding that out.

But I cannot begin to tell you how happy I am to have had the opportunity to read mlt!!!! It always kept me on my toes, and it always gave me something to look forward to. Usually you posted the chapters at the perfect time for me to read them on my break at work 😋

I loved reading your authors notes, seeing your responses to our disdain, excitement, and memes ofc 🙂‍↕️ It made me even more excited to read, knowing you seemed just as excited to write and talk about it!!

You made me experience all of these emotions:

But most importantly:

It does not feel like months of mouth like that. It does not feel like 44 parts. I’m going to miss it. Obviously. But I’m excited to see what you come up with! I’m excited to see more of Ben (and obviously Dean and Sam).

Anyways. Thank you for giving us this. I’m so glad people have been showing this series and you the love and appreciation you deserve. It’s great to see the little community growing over here!! 🫶

PS thanks again for not killing him off even though I know you live for the angst 🤍

baby cora 🥹🤍 first of all, you scrolling straight to the end to check whether soldier boy survived before properly reading is so funny 😭 the image of you finding out he lived and then having to act normal at work is killing me!!

but genuinely, this message means so much. i love that mouth like that became part of your work breaks and gave you something to look forward to. and i’m so happy the author’s notes, asks, theories, yelling, and memes added to the experience instead of it only being about the chapters themselves. talking to you guys throughout the series made writing it ten times more fun for me too. it felt like we were all experiencing the chaos together 🥹

and you’re right... it doesn’t feel like months or 44 chapters to me either. somehow it feels like i posted the first drabble yesterday, and also like ben and reader have occupied my entire life for several years 🤧 i’m going to miss the routine so badly, but i’m really proud of what it became and so grateful for the little community that grew around it! thank you for always being here, for the thoughtful messages, and for every absolutely deranged meme you attached to this ask lmao i’m very excited to keep you around for whatever ben, dean, and sam-shaped trouble comes next 😌🩷

and yes, you’re welcome for me resisting my natural urge to kill him for emotional impact. it required enormous personal growth

[notmeolive]

Hello!! I usually don't get on Tumblr to read anything "seriously" but MLT made me ANTICIPATE the next chapter like no other, it was my bedtime story. 😆 Your work needs to be praised, that's real talent💐 I"ll probably ramble now but I liked your overall writing, the way you describe images and emotions, I loved the way you write the characters,I can picture them exactly like on the show but I feel that we can also see your own interpretation of them. I could feel the emotions from each chapter and it got me HOOKED ! I loved the ending so much! A sad ending would ruin me even though I'm sure you would have written it perfectly, so thank you for the happy/open epilogue!! ❤️ please never stop writing !!

oh sweets, such a huge compliments!! knowing mlt became something you actively waited for makes all those late nights writing feel so worth it 🥹🩷 

and thank you for what you said about the characters!! that balance was so important to me, so hearing that it worked means everything!! i’m also very relieved you loved the ending 😭 i knew a sad ending could’ve fit the world, but after everything ben and reader dragged each other through, i wanted to leave them with something hopeful. not perfectly neat, not suddenly easy, but theirs 🤧

thank you for letting the story become something real to you, and for taking the time to praise all the little things. i’m not planning on stopping writing anytime soon, sweets 🩷

[notmeolive]

AHHHH! I've just read the last chapter for mlt and I think I'm gonna go drive off a bridge now.

Seriously, your work is amazing. Brilliant. Whatever synonyms you can come up with because there aren't enough.

You're such a great writer, and I've LOVED reading through this series! It's probably one of my favorites, really. I can't say I've been here from the beginning, but I CAN say the second I found this around chapter 39 or so, I went back and read everything up until now. I just wish I could have been here for it all.

I love you so much! Never stop writing, please, the world is so much better with you and your writing in it!

Much love <3

oh baby, first of all, please step away from the bridge!! the ending was meant to hurt a little (mostly soothe), not send you into oncoming traffic 😭🩷

but this is such a beautiful message. thank you so much for going all the way back and reading everything once you found mouth like that. chapter 39 is still plenty of time to become emotionally attached and let ben ruin your life lmao

and listen, maybe you weren’t here from day one of mlt, but you can absolutely be here from day one of whatever comes next 😌🩷 there will be more stories, more jensen-shaped problems, and probably several more opportunities for me to emotionally inconvenience you eheh

saying the world is better with my writing in it is such an enormous, tender thing to say. i’m holding that very close. thank you for loving the series, and thank you for finding me when you did!! love you so much too, sweets 🩷

[notmeolive]

omg im literally so sad from the england match but at least MLT had a happy-ish ending 🥹 needed it after the match i’m devastated i don’t even wanna talk about it cause i’ll be writing pages. also back to the story, i know ben is emotionally constipated but i’m glad he showed a bit (a BIT) of softness at the end. i thought he was going to say something sweet. maybe that would be a cute idea for a separate drabble about the series where he let’s a soft comment slip by accident and FMC teases him but feels warm about it.

thank you for writing this wonderful story, it’s been amazing to read. i usually don’t stay with fics for a while when they’re actively updating but following this story has been a great decision. you’re a great writer and i cannot wait to stick around and support all of your future works!

have a wonderful day <3

- 🎀

🎀 baby, thank god mlt gave us one small emotional victory afterward because football certainly did not.

and yes, ben gave us exactly one crumb of softness and then immediately acted as if nobody saw it lmao that drabble idea is adorable, though—something sweet slipping out before he can stop it, reader going silent for half a second because she actually feels it, and then teasing him until he threatens to take it back 😭🩷 noted!!

but genuinely, thank you so much for staying with the story while it was actively updating. thank you for trusting me, loving these two disasters, and wanting to stick around for whatever i write next 🥹 i’m so happy following the story turned out to be a good decision, sweets 🩷

[notmeolive]

I’ve got to ask:

With Mouth Like That done, and the ending ~occurring as it did~ did you…… (look below 👇 so as not to spoil for others)

Did you think about an ending that stays with the events of after the tower? Where SB and reader stay behind to try and finish HL? Where it aligns with the series finale?

not really!! when i realized mouth like that was evolving from a couple of drabbles into an actual series, this was immediately the ending i wanted!! ( spoilers of the boys s5 below )

mostly because i still wanted it to remain canon-ish. reader changes a lot, obviously, but mlt is set during season 3, and homelander doesn’t die until season 5. having ben and reader stay behind and successfully finish him there would’ve changed the entire timeline a little too drastically for the story i was trying to tell

i always knew i wanted the tower confrontation and the season 3 finale to matter, but i wanted reader’s presence to change ben’s ending rather than completely rewrite everyone else’s. so the goal became getting them out together and leaving whatever comes next open for you guys to imagine 🩷

[notmeolive]

girly thank you for the last chapter, I gotta disappear and go back to life now 🥲

Mouth like that was *chef’s kiss* 🤌🏻 I’m just looking forward to more Jensen fics from you 😭 your writing’s just unbelievable

girly, thank you for staying until the very end 😭🩷 now go. return to society. remember what sunlight feels like. rebuild your life after mouth like that lmao 🥲

but genuinely, i’m so happy you loved the ending and the series as a whole 🥹 and don’t worry—there will absolutely be more jensen fics. that man has unfortunately secured permanent residency in my brain, so none of us are escaping anytime soon 😌🩷

[notmeolive]

OLIVIA.

IM SO SENTIMENTAL RIVHT NOW YOU DONT UNDERSTAND

its the end of an era 🥲

honestly you couldnt have ended it in a more perfect way bc now we can all fantasize about them being together in the end 🥰🥰

this is one of those series that i will repeatedly come back and re read and i will never get over it omg

to continue on our tradition,

give me a hint of the next story you will be beginning to write

(i will be your no.1 hype girl 🤭)

im so bittersweet and sentimental over this story rn but atleast they got their happy ending

and i love the fact that i got to communicate and talk and bond with you over this story 😉

xoxo,

🎱 anon xxx

🎱 anon, baby, i’m sentimental too 😭🩷 it really does feel like the end of an era. all the hints, theories, panic, every-other-day updates... and now they’re finally allowed to exist somewhere beyond the story without me actively ruining their lives 🤭

i’m so happy the ending felt right to you. i wanted it to leave enough space for you guys to imagine what comes next for them 🥹 and saying this is a series you’ll come back to and reread?? that means everything to me. genuinely. thank you for being here, for hyping every chapter, and for letting us bond through all the emotional damage. i’ve loved talking to you just as much 🩷

as for the next story… no hints yet 😌 but 🎱 anon can come back next week and officially resume her duties as my number one hint collector and hype girl. tradition must continue ☝🏻🩷

[notmeolive]

muffin anon!! (lmao i feel so silly announcing myself like that) the relief i felt when i saw fluff in the description <33 congrats on finishing it and thank you for giving them a happy ending 🥺🥺 what a beautiful story!! cant wait to revisit all my favorite parts 🫶🏻

on a more personal note, that healed me after whatever the hell that match was lmao they cant keep getting away with it...

muffin anon!! please keep announcing yourself exactly like that, it’s adorable 😭🩷 and i’m so happy the fluff tag gave you immediate relief lmao thank you so much for sticking with mouth like that all the way to the end, for crying into your muffins, and for loving these two disasters enough to want to revisit all your favorite parts 🩷🩷🩷

and yes, i’m glad the happy ending managed to heal at least some of the psychological damage caused by whatever the hell that match was 😭 they truly cannot keep getting away with it. not sure i’ll even bother watching the last game tbh

[notmeolive]

⋆｡ ˚ mouth like that ⁴⁴

lowdown ☆ after the tower, you’re left with the fallout and the road ahead. ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f ) miles ☆ 2436 ride style ☆ fluff 😌 danger on the trail ☆ post-finale aftermath, injury, temp v use, emotional distress, toxic dynamics, the end of a fucking era!!! notes at the end 😭

𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩

the radio barely works.

it keeps cutting in and out beneath the rain, old guitar and static slipping through the speakers in broken pieces. every few seconds, a man’s voice finds the melody, holds it for half a line, then disappears again.

you should turn it off. you hum instead, low under your breath, because the car feels too quiet without something filling it. because if you stop humming, you’ll hear the tower again. glass giving way. annie shouting. ryan screaming. soldier boy’s roars, rough and ruined.

your hands stay locked around the steering wheel. 

your wrist's swollen where the cuff bit in. your throat burns when you swallow, skin bruised beneath your jaw in the shape of homelander’s fingers. there’s blood under one sleeve, not all of it yours, and temp v still crawls ugly through your veins, leaving your skin too cold and your heartbeat too fast.

the highway stretches ahead, dark and wet. somewhere behind you, soldier boy is unconscious across the backseat. you check the mirror again. he’s too big for the car. boots jammed awkwardly against the door, one arm hanging half-off the seat, shield shoved into the footwell because you couldn’t leave it behind even though dragging it nearly made you sob from pure exhaustion.

his face's turned toward the window, slack in a way that still looks wrong on him. soot and blood mark the side of his neck. his armor's cracked open at the chest. breathing, though. you keep checking. breathing. that has to be enough for now.

the road blurs. you blink hard until the lines sharpen again. “not yet,” you whisper.

your fingers tremble on the wheel, so you grip tighter. ten and two, absurdly proper for a woman driving a stolen car with a wanted supe unconscious in the backseat. the thought almost makes you laugh, bur the sound doesn’t make it out.

the radio catches another few notes. you hum along badly. behind you, leather creaks. soldier boy jerks upright. not at all like waking. one second he's deadweight, and the next he's moving, sharp and violent, dragging air into his lungs like he's come up from underwater with his hand already reaching for a weapon.

you scream. “jesus, what the fuck?” the car swerves across the lane. tires hit the rumble strip with a grinding roar. your heart kicks into your throat.

soldier boy grabs the back of the passenger seat, eyes wild in the dashboard glow, and that only makes the wheel slip harder in your hands. “where the fuck—”

“sit down!”

“keep the car on the road!”

“i was doing that before you resurrected in my fucking backseat!” 

you yank the wheel back. the car lurches, corrects, then straightens beneath the rain. for three seconds, neither of you speaks. the wipers scrape across the windshield. the radio hisses.

then he says, “pull over.”

you laugh once, too sharp. “of course. sure. already barking orders.”

“stop the fucking car.” the way he says it is different the second time. not barked. not cruel. strained.

you glance at him in the mirror and see that his eyes have dropped to your throat. then your wrist. then your shaking hands. your grip tightens around the wheel until your knuckles hurt. “fine.”

you pull onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires, and shove the car into park. cold rain hits you the second you open the door. it feels good for half a breath, then awful. you climb out anyway.

your legs nearly fold. you catch yourself against the car. soldier boy's already out on the other side, unsteady for maybe one second before pride straightens him. he looks around the empty road, the wet fields, the dark line of trees beyond the shoulder. then he looks at you. 

“where are we?” he asks.

“somewhere in pennsylvania. maybe ohio by now.” your voice comes out rough from homelander’s hand.

his eyes stay on your throat. “what happened?”

“a lot.” you swallow, and it hurts. “everyone’s alive.”

he goes very still. the rain ticks against the roof of the car. somewhere far away, a truck passes on another road, low and lonely through the night.

“even maeve?” he asks.

your chest tightens. you nod. “i think. she was breathing when they found her.”

his jaw works once. “homelander?”

“alive.” that hits worse. of course it does. 

his face closes, and for a second he looks back toward the road behind you like he might try to walk all the way to new york with broken armor and blood in his hair.

“ryan’s alive too,” you add. “butcher. annie. hughie. mm. frenchie. kimiko. me...” his eyes come back to you. you almost make a joke. you’re too tired. “i’m here.”

he steps closer. “you took it.”

“i did.”

his expression hardens. “after i told you not to.”

“after you cuffed me to a radiator and destroyed the vial in my face.”

“to keep you alive.”

“that wasn’t your choice.”

he flinches. small. almost nothing. but you see it, and some mean, hurt part of you is glad.

“you left me there,” the words come out quieter than you expect. worse because of it. “after i promised. after i told you. you made me watch you walk away.”

rain runs down his face. he doesn’t wipe it. “i know.”

“do you?”

his eyes meet yours. there's no joke waiting in them now. no dirty comment. no easy cruelty to hide behind. “yeah,” he says. “i do.”

that fixes nothing. still, your throat tightens.

you look away first, toward the highway. toward anywhere that is not his face.

for a while, the only sound is the rain. then he asks, “in the tower. did you—”

“not on you.” the answer's immediate.

his jaw tightens.

you take one step toward him, even though your body protests. “i could have. when you were charging, when everyone was still too close, when i thought the whole floor was going to come down. the word was right there.” your voice cracks. “i didn’t say it.”

he looks away.

“i promised you,” you say. “and i kept it.”

his hand flexes at his side. you almost wish he would argue. it would be easier than watching him stand there with the truth pressing into him from every side.

“i used it on them,” you continue. “after.”

his eyes return to you.

“they were going to take you back.”

his face empties so fast it makes your stomach turn. “freezer?”

“nobody said the word.” you fold your arms, then stop because your ribs ache. “they didn’t have to.”

for a second, he's not on the highway with you. he's somewhere colder. somewhere metal. somewhere locked. you hate them for it, suddenly and completely, even though part of you understands. even though you saw him light up that room. even though you know how close everyone came to dying. you still hate them.

“you were unconscious,” you say. “maeve was down. homelander was gone. butcher was bleeding all over the floor and still trying to stand. mm was calling for containment. frenchie had the gas...” your throat tightens again. “annie looked at me like she was sorry.”

his voice is flat when he asks, “what did you say?”

you remember it too clearly. your knees on broken glass beside him. your hand against his chest, checking for breath. butcher swearing from somewhere behind you. mm reaching for your shoulder. annie saying your name in warning. frenchie’s face pale above the mask canister. your own voice cutting through all of it.

“i told them to stay back,” you say.

he watches you. “and they did?”

“yes.”

“all of them?”

“yes.”

“butcher?”

“especially butcher.”

something dark and almost satisfied crosses his face before pain swallows it.

“you carried me out?”

“dragged you. carried you a little. cursed your entire bloodline.” you glance toward the car. “took the shield too. you’re welcome.”

he doesn’t answer. he's looking at your wrist again. the cuff mark's ugly. red and swollen, rubbed raw in places from where you fought the radiator, then the door, then the whole goddamn world to get to him.

his hand lifts. you stiffen before you can stop yourself.

slowly, he lets his hand fall. the absence hurts more than the reach. “i’m not going to grab you."

“good,” you answer. “because i might hit you with the car.”

“with your driving, i don't doubt it."

it slips out before either of you can stop it. a tiny, stupid sound leaves you. not a laugh. close enough to hurt.

his face shifts like that sound does something to him. then his hands come up to your face. slowly. giving you time. you should step back. you're still angry. your wrist throbs because of him. your throat hurts because of homelander. your veins feel poisoned because you had to take the vial alone after he took your choice and called it love. but his palms settle against your cheeks, big and careful, and you're too tired to pretend it doesn’t almost break you. 

his thumbs rest beneath your cheekbones. “you shouldn’t have come."

your eyes burn. “you shouldn’t have left me.”

his face tightens. “i know.”

it isn't enough. but it's the closest he has come.

“i’m still mad,” you whisper.

“yeah.”

“i might be mad for a while.”

“figured.”

“and if you ever handcuff me to something again, i’m commanding you to shave your beard.”

his face goes so still that, despite everything, a laugh breaks out of you. his eyes narrow. “that a threat?”

“a promise.”

“you promised not to use it on me.”

“tempt me.”

the old rhythm flickers between you, bruised and weak but alive. you feel it and hate yourself a little for needing it.

his gaze drops to your mouth. 

the rain keeps falling.

“where are we going?” he asks, voice lower now.

“sioux falls.”

his brows draw together. “why?”

“i have family there. an aunt. sort of. long story.” you breathe in carefully. “small house outside town. old garage. she minds her business if i tell her to. we can stay a few days. figure out where we go next.”

“where we go next?”

your throat tightens.

there it is. the small, stupid word with teeth.

“unless you have somewhere better to be.”

his hands tighten on your face for half a second. “no.”

his thumb drags once along your cheek, wiping rain or tears or both.

“you stole me,” he says.

your mouth trembles around a smile that doesn’t fully form. “rescued.”

“stole.”

“fine. i stole you.”

“from all of them.” his eyes stay on yours. “why?”

there're a dozen answers. because they were going to freeze him. because you were angry. because he was breathing. because after everything, after every ugly choice and every wrong word and every time one of you used teeth because tenderness felt too dangerous, you still couldn't leave him on that floor.

you say the smallest true thing. “because i wasn’t done with you.”

his face changes. not much. never much. but you know him now, and it is enough. then he kisses you. it isn't gentle at first. not careful enough to turn the night pretty. he kisses you like he's furious at the rain, at the tower, at the fall, at your bruises, at himself. his hands hold your face the whole time, and that's the part that ruins you. not the force. not the heat. the holding.

you grip the torn front of his suit. then he makes a sound against your mouth, low and wrecked, and you melt. stupidly. completely. he kisses you until the rain is cold on your back and the car engine ticks itself quiet beside you.

when he pulls away, his forehead stays pressed to yours. neither of you says anything. there's nothing clean enough to say.

then he looks down at you and his face hardens again. “you're shaking. get in the car. i’m driving.”

you pull back. “absolutely not.”

“you almost put us in a ditch.”

“because you scared me.”

“women shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”

you stare at him. rain drips from his hair. he looks half-dead, bruised, burned, impossible, and completely serious. 

you slap his chest. he doesn’t move. your hand hurts. “ow,” you mutter.

his mouth twitches. “that was pathetic."

“i'm withdrawing.”

“explains the driving.”

you point at him. “do not make me regret stealing you.”

“too late.”

you hate that it makes you smile. small. exhausted. real. you drop the keys into his open hand before you can change your mind. “one misogynistic comment about my navigation and i leave you at the next gas station.”

“you’d come back.”

“unfortunately.”

he closes his fingers around the keys and walks around the car with only a slight limp. you notice. he knows you notice. neither of you says anything.

you slide into the passenger seat and immediately regret sitting because every bruise introduces itself at once. soldier boy gets behind the wheel, adjusts the seat with an annoyed grunt, and glares at the dashboard like the car's personally disappointed him.

“piece of shit,” he mutters.

“free piece of shit.”

he starts the engine. the radio wakes with a burst of static, then finds the old song again. faint guitar. a voice you still don’t recognize. rain under the tires as he pulls back onto the highway.

for a while, neither of you speaks. behind you, new york is sirens and broken glass and people who will turn the whole thing into headlines by morning.

terrorist attack. supe disaster. vought tragedy.

they won't call it what it was. they won't know about the radiator. the second vial. the word you didn't say. maeve’s arms around him as the sky went white. your knees on broken glass while everyone stepped back because you told them to. his hands on your face in the rain.

they won't know that the world ended and kept going anyway.

sioux falls is still too far. temp v still burns under your skin. homelander's alive. butcher's alive. everyone you left behind's alive and furious and probably already hunting for the stolen car.

but soldier boy's breathing beside you. you're breathing beside him. for tonight, that has to be enough.

the radio clears for a few seconds, and you start humming again, quieter now. soldier boy glances over as one hand leaves the wheel. he extends it toward you, palm open, waiting. you slip your hand into his.

the road stretches out ahead of you, dark and endless beneath the rain, and this time, neither of you lets go.

liv's log ☆ and here we are... the last chapter of mouth like that 🙂‍↕️ i don’t really know how to write this without getting a little emotional, because this genuinely feels like the end of an era for me. i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember. since i understood myself as someone with too many feelings and nowhere else to put them, i’ve been putting them into words. writing has always been mine in that way. but this was different. tumblr wasn’t new to me, and writing wasn’t new to me, but having this much love and support for something i created? that was new. seeing your comments, your asks, your reblogs, your tags, your theories, your yelling, your suffering—it made me feel giddy in a way i genuinely don’t think i can explain without sounding insane. some days, it felt like being high. some days, when real life was awful and heavy and exhausting, i would open tumblr and read what you guys had said, and it would make me happy. actually happy. and i know i made you suffer. i know the angst was evil. i know there were moments where it probably felt like things were going to be bad forever. but the fact that so many of you stayed with this story anyway means more to me than i can say. mouth like that was supposed to be one drabble. one silly, stupid little scenario that got stuck in my head and refused to leave me alone. somehow, that turned into this huge, messy, emotional, unhinged thing with over 150 people on the taglist, and i still don’t know how to wrap my head around that. i am so so grateful to every single one of you who read it, commented on it, reblogged it, screamed at me about it, recommended it, or quietly came back chapter after chapter. i’m also grateful for the friends i made because of this story. that might be the most special part of all. this isn’t goodbye to soldier boy. i’m never going to stop writing for him/jensen, because apparently i have a sickness and the only cure is putting that man in increasingly deranged situations. but mouth like that will always be special to me. it was my first project that really became something bigger than i expected. my first story that made me feel that kind of support. my first “holy shit, people are actually here for this” moment. so, from the bottom of my very dramatic little heart: thank you! thank you for reading. thank you for caring. thank you for suffering with me. thank you for making this story feel alive. i’m gonna stop crying now. here’s to more soldier boy stories, more unhinged nonsense, and whatever emotional damage comes next 🩷

taglist ☆ @bleuatlas ☆ @lydia-caldwell-writes ☆ @benders-diamond-earring ☆ @stethosc0pe ☆ @spectacu-lacular ☆ @cutlive ☆ @tomorrowwnevercame ☆ @giorgxx ☆ @manly-man-whore ☆ @whatstruthgottodowithit ☆ @selfixsworld ☆ @jensenpie8 ☆ @crescent-z ☆ @saberlight1 ☆ @usernamelli ☆ @angelicentity98 ☆ @pupwrites ☆ @rubyverone ☆ @casuallymaliciousnecromancer ☆ @suzucain ☆ @ranispell ☆ @welikeclownsinthishouse ☆ @mffies ☆ @mirarobin ☆ @jnvisbl6 ☆ @sassygypsypirate ☆ @soullessambs ☆ @littleredwolfnerd ☆ @sweet-cherry-kisses ☆ @jacqueweebersunglasses ☆ @kimxwinchester ☆ @sweetlustkiller ☆ @spectralgalaxygauntlet ☆ @amelya5567 ☆ @kqtholins ☆ @whyyouegg ☆ @coolbeans-17 ☆ @lxdystxrdustt☆ @zestiang ☆ @soldierboyscumdoll ☆ @magic-sprinkled-daydreams ☆ @fand0mh0pper ☆ @angel1withacigarette ☆ @biurzelf ☆ @missdahlia03 ☆ @spacelew ☆ @angvlicbleu ☆ @radiozerohead ☆ @mkat529

[notmeolive]

@tweebylamb ☆ @singersammie ☆ @sidvishass ☆ @husbandb3at3r ☆ @padfootlovesyou ☆ @yesbluerain ☆ @one-of-castiels ☆ @seraphinezz ☆ @y49n ☆ @beakaleak32 ☆ @mwltwo ☆ @design8ed-driver ☆ @fawnlynndoe ☆ @jensen-slut ☆ @fitvonne ☆ @strwbebe ☆ @rorawinchester ☆ @januaryyjailer ☆ @moosewithabackstory

[notmeolive]

⋆｡ ˚ mouth like that ⁴⁴

lowdown ☆ after the tower, you’re left with the fallout and the road ahead. ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f ) miles ☆ 2436 ride style ☆ fluff 😌 danger on the trail ☆ post-finale aftermath, injury, temp v use, emotional distress, toxic dynamics, the end of a fucking era!!! notes at the end 😭

𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩

the radio barely works.

it keeps cutting in and out beneath the rain, old guitar and static slipping through the speakers in broken pieces. every few seconds, a man’s voice finds the melody, holds it for half a line, then disappears again.

you should turn it off. you hum instead, low under your breath, because the car feels too quiet without something filling it. because if you stop humming, you’ll hear the tower again. glass giving way. annie shouting. ryan screaming. soldier boy’s roars, rough and ruined.

your hands stay locked around the steering wheel. 

your wrist's swollen where the cuff bit in. your throat burns when you swallow, skin bruised beneath your jaw in the shape of homelander’s fingers. there’s blood under one sleeve, not all of it yours, and temp v still crawls ugly through your veins, leaving your skin too cold and your heartbeat too fast.

the highway stretches ahead, dark and wet. somewhere behind you, soldier boy is unconscious across the backseat. you check the mirror again. he’s too big for the car. boots jammed awkwardly against the door, one arm hanging half-off the seat, shield shoved into the footwell because you couldn’t leave it behind even though dragging it nearly made you sob from pure exhaustion.

his face's turned toward the window, slack in a way that still looks wrong on him. soot and blood mark the side of his neck. his armor's cracked open at the chest. breathing, though. you keep checking. breathing. that has to be enough for now.

the road blurs. you blink hard until the lines sharpen again. “not yet,” you whisper.

your fingers tremble on the wheel, so you grip tighter. ten and two, absurdly proper for a woman driving a stolen car with a wanted supe unconscious in the backseat. the thought almost makes you laugh, bur the sound doesn’t make it out.

the radio catches another few notes. you hum along badly. behind you, leather creaks. soldier boy jerks upright. not at all like waking. one second he's deadweight, and the next he's moving, sharp and violent, dragging air into his lungs like he's come up from underwater with his hand already reaching for a weapon.

you scream. “jesus, what the fuck?” the car swerves across the lane. tires hit the rumble strip with a grinding roar. your heart kicks into your throat.

soldier boy grabs the back of the passenger seat, eyes wild in the dashboard glow, and that only makes the wheel slip harder in your hands. “where the fuck—”

“sit down!”

“keep the car on the road!”

“i was doing that before you resurrected in my fucking backseat!” 

you yank the wheel back. the car lurches, corrects, then straightens beneath the rain. for three seconds, neither of you speaks. the wipers scrape across the windshield. the radio hisses.

then he says, “pull over.”

you laugh once, too sharp. “of course. sure. already barking orders.”

“stop the fucking car.” the way he says it is different the second time. not barked. not cruel. strained.

you glance at him in the mirror and see that his eyes have dropped to your throat. then your wrist. then your shaking hands. your grip tightens around the wheel until your knuckles hurt. “fine.”

you pull onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires, and shove the car into park. cold rain hits you the second you open the door. it feels good for half a breath, then awful. you climb out anyway.

your legs nearly fold. you catch yourself against the car. soldier boy's already out on the other side, unsteady for maybe one second before pride straightens him. he looks around the empty road, the wet fields, the dark line of trees beyond the shoulder. then he looks at you. 

“where are we?” he asks.

“somewhere in pennsylvania. maybe ohio by now.” your voice comes out rough from homelander’s hand.

his eyes stay on your throat. “what happened?”

“a lot.” you swallow, and it hurts. “everyone’s alive.”

he goes very still. the rain ticks against the roof of the car. somewhere far away, a truck passes on another road, low and lonely through the night.

“even maeve?” he asks.

your chest tightens. you nod. “i think. she was breathing when they found her.”

his jaw works once. “homelander?”

“alive.” that hits worse. of course it does. 

his face closes, and for a second he looks back toward the road behind you like he might try to walk all the way to new york with broken armor and blood in his hair.

“ryan’s alive too,” you add. “butcher. annie. hughie. mm. frenchie. kimiko. me...” his eyes come back to you. you almost make a joke. you’re too tired. “i’m here.”

he steps closer. “you took it.”

“i did.”

his expression hardens. “after i told you not to.”

“after you cuffed me to a radiator and destroyed the vial in my face.”

“to keep you alive.”

“that wasn’t your choice.”

he flinches. small. almost nothing. but you see it, and some mean, hurt part of you is glad.

“you left me there,” the words come out quieter than you expect. worse because of it. “after i promised. after i told you. you made me watch you walk away.”

rain runs down his face. he doesn’t wipe it. “i know.”

“do you?”

his eyes meet yours. there's no joke waiting in them now. no dirty comment. no easy cruelty to hide behind. “yeah,” he says. “i do.”

that fixes nothing. still, your throat tightens.

you look away first, toward the highway. toward anywhere that is not his face.

for a while, the only sound is the rain. then he asks, “in the tower. did you—”

“not on you.” the answer's immediate.

his jaw tightens.

you take one step toward him, even though your body protests. “i could have. when you were charging, when everyone was still too close, when i thought the whole floor was going to come down. the word was right there.” your voice cracks. “i didn’t say it.”

he looks away.

“i promised you,” you say. “and i kept it.”

his hand flexes at his side. you almost wish he would argue. it would be easier than watching him stand there with the truth pressing into him from every side.

“i used it on them,” you continue. “after.”

his eyes return to you.

“they were going to take you back.”

his face empties so fast it makes your stomach turn. “freezer?”

“nobody said the word.” you fold your arms, then stop because your ribs ache. “they didn’t have to.”

for a second, he's not on the highway with you. he's somewhere colder. somewhere metal. somewhere locked. you hate them for it, suddenly and completely, even though part of you understands. even though you saw him light up that room. even though you know how close everyone came to dying. you still hate them.

“you were unconscious,” you say. “maeve was down. homelander was gone. butcher was bleeding all over the floor and still trying to stand. mm was calling for containment. frenchie had the gas...” your throat tightens again. “annie looked at me like she was sorry.”

his voice is flat when he asks, “what did you say?”

you remember it too clearly. your knees on broken glass beside him. your hand against his chest, checking for breath. butcher swearing from somewhere behind you. mm reaching for your shoulder. annie saying your name in warning. frenchie’s face pale above the mask canister. your own voice cutting through all of it.

“i told them to stay back,” you say.

he watches you. “and they did?”

“yes.”

“all of them?”

“yes.”

“butcher?”

“especially butcher.”

something dark and almost satisfied crosses his face before pain swallows it.

“you carried me out?”

“dragged you. carried you a little. cursed your entire bloodline.” you glance toward the car. “took the shield too. you’re welcome.”

he doesn’t answer. he's looking at your wrist again. the cuff mark's ugly. red and swollen, rubbed raw in places from where you fought the radiator, then the door, then the whole goddamn world to get to him.

his hand lifts. you stiffen before you can stop yourself.

slowly, he lets his hand fall. the absence hurts more than the reach. “i’m not going to grab you."

“good,” you answer. “because i might hit you with the car.”

“with your driving, i don't doubt it."

it slips out before either of you can stop it. a tiny, stupid sound leaves you. not a laugh. close enough to hurt.

his face shifts like that sound does something to him. then his hands come up to your face. slowly. giving you time. you should step back. you're still angry. your wrist throbs because of him. your throat hurts because of homelander. your veins feel poisoned because you had to take the vial alone after he took your choice and called it love. but his palms settle against your cheeks, big and careful, and you're too tired to pretend it doesn’t almost break you. 

his thumbs rest beneath your cheekbones. “you shouldn’t have come."

your eyes burn. “you shouldn’t have left me.”

his face tightens. “i know.”

it isn't enough. but it's the closest he has come.

“i’m still mad,” you whisper.

“yeah.”

“i might be mad for a while.”

“figured.”

“and if you ever handcuff me to something again, i’m commanding you to shave your beard.”

his face goes so still that, despite everything, a laugh breaks out of you. his eyes narrow. “that a threat?”

“a promise.”

“you promised not to use it on me.”

“tempt me.”

the old rhythm flickers between you, bruised and weak but alive. you feel it and hate yourself a little for needing it.

his gaze drops to your mouth. 

the rain keeps falling.

“where are we going?” he asks, voice lower now.

“sioux falls.”

his brows draw together. “why?”

“i have family there. an aunt. sort of. long story.” you breathe in carefully. “small house outside town. old garage. she minds her business if i tell her to. we can stay a few days. figure out where we go next.”

“where we go next?”

your throat tightens.

there it is. the small, stupid word with teeth.

“unless you have somewhere better to be.”

his hands tighten on your face for half a second. “no.”

his thumb drags once along your cheek, wiping rain or tears or both.

“you stole me,” he says.

your mouth trembles around a smile that doesn’t fully form. “rescued.”

“stole.”

“fine. i stole you.”

“from all of them.” his eyes stay on yours. “why?”

there're a dozen answers. because they were going to freeze him. because you were angry. because he was breathing. because after everything, after every ugly choice and every wrong word and every time one of you used teeth because tenderness felt too dangerous, you still couldn't leave him on that floor.

you say the smallest true thing. “because i wasn’t done with you.”

his face changes. not much. never much. but you know him now, and it is enough. then he kisses you. it isn't gentle at first. not careful enough to turn the night pretty. he kisses you like he's furious at the rain, at the tower, at the fall, at your bruises, at himself. his hands hold your face the whole time, and that's the part that ruins you. not the force. not the heat. the holding.

you grip the torn front of his suit. then he makes a sound against your mouth, low and wrecked, and you melt. stupidly. completely. he kisses you until the rain is cold on your back and the car engine ticks itself quiet beside you.

when he pulls away, his forehead stays pressed to yours. neither of you says anything. there's nothing clean enough to say.

then he looks down at you and his face hardens again. “you're shaking. get in the car. i’m driving.”

you pull back. “absolutely not.”

“you almost put us in a ditch.”

“because you scared me.”

“women shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”

you stare at him. rain drips from his hair. he looks half-dead, bruised, burned, impossible, and completely serious. 

you slap his chest. he doesn’t move. your hand hurts. “ow,” you mutter.

his mouth twitches. “that was pathetic."

“i'm withdrawing.”

“explains the driving.”

you point at him. “do not make me regret stealing you.”

“too late.”

you hate that it makes you smile. small. exhausted. real. you drop the keys into his open hand before you can change your mind. “one misogynistic comment about my navigation and i leave you at the next gas station.”

“you’d come back.”

“unfortunately.”

he closes his fingers around the keys and walks around the car with only a slight limp. you notice. he knows you notice. neither of you says anything.

you slide into the passenger seat and immediately regret sitting because every bruise introduces itself at once. soldier boy gets behind the wheel, adjusts the seat with an annoyed grunt, and glares at the dashboard like the car's personally disappointed him.

“piece of shit,” he mutters.

“free piece of shit.”

he starts the engine. the radio wakes with a burst of static, then finds the old song again. faint guitar. a voice you still don’t recognize. rain under the tires as he pulls back onto the highway.

for a while, neither of you speaks. behind you, new york is sirens and broken glass and people who will turn the whole thing into headlines by morning.

terrorist attack. supe disaster. vought tragedy.

they won't call it what it was. they won't know about the radiator. the second vial. the word you didn't say. maeve’s arms around him as the sky went white. your knees on broken glass while everyone stepped back because you told them to. his hands on your face in the rain.

they won't know that the world ended and kept going anyway.

sioux falls is still too far. temp v still burns under your skin. homelander's alive. butcher's alive. everyone you left behind's alive and furious and probably already hunting for the stolen car.

but soldier boy's breathing beside you. you're breathing beside him. for tonight, that has to be enough.

the radio clears for a few seconds, and you start humming again, quieter now. soldier boy glances over as one hand leaves the wheel. he extends it toward you, palm open, waiting. you slip your hand into his.

the road stretches out ahead of you, dark and endless beneath the rain, and this time, neither of you lets go.

liv's log ☆ and here we are... the last chapter of mouth like that 🙂‍↕️ i don’t really know how to write this without getting a little emotional, because this genuinely feels like the end of an era for me. i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember. since i understood myself as someone with too many feelings and nowhere else to put them, i’ve been putting them into words. writing has always been mine in that way. but this was different. tumblr wasn’t new to me, and writing wasn’t new to me, but having this much love and support for something i created? that was new. seeing your comments, your asks, your reblogs, your tags, your theories, your yelling, your suffering—it made me feel giddy in a way i genuinely don’t think i can explain without sounding insane. some days, it felt like being high. some days, when real life was awful and heavy and exhausting, i would open tumblr and read what you guys had said, and it would make me happy. actually happy. and i know i made you suffer. i know the angst was evil. i know there were moments where it probably felt like things were going to be bad forever. but the fact that so many of you stayed with this story anyway means more to me than i can say. mouth like that was supposed to be one drabble. one silly, stupid little scenario that got stuck in my head and refused to leave me alone. somehow, that turned into this huge, messy, emotional, unhinged thing with over 150 people on the taglist, and i still don’t know how to wrap my head around that. i am so so grateful to every single one of you who read it, commented on it, reblogged it, screamed at me about it, recommended it, or quietly came back chapter after chapter. i’m also grateful for the friends i made because of this story. that might be the most special part of all. this isn’t goodbye to soldier boy. i’m never going to stop writing for him/jensen, because apparently i have a sickness and the only cure is putting that man in increasingly deranged situations. but mouth like that will always be special to me. it was my first project that really became something bigger than i expected. my first story that made me feel that kind of support. my first “holy shit, people are actually here for this” moment. so, from the bottom of my very dramatic little heart: thank you! thank you for reading. thank you for caring. thank you for suffering with me. thank you for making this story feel alive. i’m gonna stop crying now. here’s to more soldier boy stories, more unhinged nonsense, and whatever emotional damage comes next 🩷

taglist ☆ @bleuatlas ☆ @lydia-caldwell-writes ☆ @benders-diamond-earring ☆ @stethosc0pe ☆ @spectacu-lacular ☆ @cutlive ☆ @tomorrowwnevercame ☆ @giorgxx ☆ @manly-man-whore ☆ @whatstruthgottodowithit ☆ @selfixsworld ☆ @jensenpie8 ☆ @crescent-z ☆ @saberlight1 ☆ @usernamelli ☆ @angelicentity98 ☆ @pupwrites ☆ @rubyverone ☆ @casuallymaliciousnecromancer ☆ @suzucain ☆ @ranispell ☆ @welikeclownsinthishouse ☆ @mffies ☆ @mirarobin ☆ @jnvisbl6 ☆ @sassygypsypirate ☆ @soullessambs ☆ @littleredwolfnerd ☆ @sweet-cherry-kisses ☆ @jacqueweebersunglasses ☆ @kimxwinchester ☆ @sweetlustkiller ☆ @spectralgalaxygauntlet ☆ @amelya5567 ☆ @kqtholins ☆ @whyyouegg ☆ @coolbeans-17 ☆ @lxdystxrdustt☆ @zestiang ☆ @soldierboyscumdoll ☆ @magic-sprinkled-daydreams ☆ @fand0mh0pper ☆ @angel1withacigarette ☆ @biurzelf ☆ @missdahlia03 ☆ @spacelew ☆ @angvlicbleu ☆ @radiozerohead ☆ @mkat529

[notmeolive]

@hu41 ☆ @furrygladiatorpeach ☆ @ilovejohnnyknoxvilleee ☆ @mkat529 ☆ @but-the-moon-is-out ☆ @steviaorsugar ☆ @lbl252003 ☆ @kaileyr123 ☆ @katiejade ☆ @randompers0nsthings ☆ @lyds247 ☆ @mypoorsanity ☆ @scarletthx01 ☆ @angel444riley ☆ @privatengel ☆ @jhnmrstn ☆ @mentallyillbuttotalychill ☆ @spitmaxxing ☆ @rileyy444 ☆ @getschwifty0510 ☆ @sachi-pyon ☆ @sodavrr ☆ @starryhiraeth ☆ @roxyym ☆ @angrydragon90 ☆ @angelstarosix ☆ @littlebitb ☆ @cwberus ☆ @popecodysblog ☆ @kateclarls ☆ @snicker-doodle-cookies ☆ @gingermars830 ☆ @viktosins ☆ @delulu4bucky ☆ @pinkestprincessangel ☆ @salemslostwitch ☆ @insomnia2love ☆ @bloglarper ☆ @etherealgosling ☆ @pleaseimastarv2 ☆ @nsjjsjdbdb ☆ @isaspn ☆ @mollyisnotreal ☆ @jajouska ☆ @eve-lilith ☆ @angelpixied ☆ @obsessiveslug ☆ @lmillsy97 ☆ @sophiaboww

[notmeolive]

⋆｡ ˚ mouth like that ⁴⁴

lowdown ☆ after the tower, you’re left with the fallout and the road ahead. ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f ) miles ☆ 2436 ride style ☆ fluff 😌 danger on the trail ☆ post-finale aftermath, injury, temp v use, emotional distress, toxic dynamics, the end of a fucking era!!! notes at the end 😭

𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩

the radio barely works.

it keeps cutting in and out beneath the rain, old guitar and static slipping through the speakers in broken pieces. every few seconds, a man’s voice finds the melody, holds it for half a line, then disappears again.

you should turn it off. you hum instead, low under your breath, because the car feels too quiet without something filling it. because if you stop humming, you’ll hear the tower again. glass giving way. annie shouting. ryan screaming. soldier boy’s roars, rough and ruined.

your hands stay locked around the steering wheel. 

your wrist's swollen where the cuff bit in. your throat burns when you swallow, skin bruised beneath your jaw in the shape of homelander’s fingers. there’s blood under one sleeve, not all of it yours, and temp v still crawls ugly through your veins, leaving your skin too cold and your heartbeat too fast.

the highway stretches ahead, dark and wet. somewhere behind you, soldier boy is unconscious across the backseat. you check the mirror again. he’s too big for the car. boots jammed awkwardly against the door, one arm hanging half-off the seat, shield shoved into the footwell because you couldn’t leave it behind even though dragging it nearly made you sob from pure exhaustion.

his face's turned toward the window, slack in a way that still looks wrong on him. soot and blood mark the side of his neck. his armor's cracked open at the chest. breathing, though. you keep checking. breathing. that has to be enough for now.

the road blurs. you blink hard until the lines sharpen again. “not yet,” you whisper.

your fingers tremble on the wheel, so you grip tighter. ten and two, absurdly proper for a woman driving a stolen car with a wanted supe unconscious in the backseat. the thought almost makes you laugh, bur the sound doesn’t make it out.

the radio catches another few notes. you hum along badly. behind you, leather creaks. soldier boy jerks upright. not at all like waking. one second he's deadweight, and the next he's moving, sharp and violent, dragging air into his lungs like he's come up from underwater with his hand already reaching for a weapon.

you scream. “jesus, what the fuck?” the car swerves across the lane. tires hit the rumble strip with a grinding roar. your heart kicks into your throat.

soldier boy grabs the back of the passenger seat, eyes wild in the dashboard glow, and that only makes the wheel slip harder in your hands. “where the fuck—”

“sit down!”

“keep the car on the road!”

“i was doing that before you resurrected in my fucking backseat!” 

you yank the wheel back. the car lurches, corrects, then straightens beneath the rain. for three seconds, neither of you speaks. the wipers scrape across the windshield. the radio hisses.

then he says, “pull over.”

you laugh once, too sharp. “of course. sure. already barking orders.”

“stop the fucking car.” the way he says it is different the second time. not barked. not cruel. strained.

you glance at him in the mirror and see that his eyes have dropped to your throat. then your wrist. then your shaking hands. your grip tightens around the wheel until your knuckles hurt. “fine.”

you pull onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires, and shove the car into park. cold rain hits you the second you open the door. it feels good for half a breath, then awful. you climb out anyway.

your legs nearly fold. you catch yourself against the car. soldier boy's already out on the other side, unsteady for maybe one second before pride straightens him. he looks around the empty road, the wet fields, the dark line of trees beyond the shoulder. then he looks at you. 

“where are we?” he asks.

“somewhere in pennsylvania. maybe ohio by now.” your voice comes out rough from homelander’s hand.

his eyes stay on your throat. “what happened?”

“a lot.” you swallow, and it hurts. “everyone’s alive.”

he goes very still. the rain ticks against the roof of the car. somewhere far away, a truck passes on another road, low and lonely through the night.

“even maeve?” he asks.

your chest tightens. you nod. “i think. she was breathing when they found her.”

his jaw works once. “homelander?”

“alive.” that hits worse. of course it does. 

his face closes, and for a second he looks back toward the road behind you like he might try to walk all the way to new york with broken armor and blood in his hair.

“ryan’s alive too,” you add. “butcher. annie. hughie. mm. frenchie. kimiko. me...” his eyes come back to you. you almost make a joke. you’re too tired. “i’m here.”

he steps closer. “you took it.”

“i did.”

his expression hardens. “after i told you not to.”

“after you cuffed me to a radiator and destroyed the vial in my face.”

“to keep you alive.”

“that wasn’t your choice.”

he flinches. small. almost nothing. but you see it, and some mean, hurt part of you is glad.

“you left me there,” the words come out quieter than you expect. worse because of it. “after i promised. after i told you. you made me watch you walk away.”

rain runs down his face. he doesn’t wipe it. “i know.”

“do you?”

his eyes meet yours. there's no joke waiting in them now. no dirty comment. no easy cruelty to hide behind. “yeah,” he says. “i do.”

that fixes nothing. still, your throat tightens.

you look away first, toward the highway. toward anywhere that is not his face.

for a while, the only sound is the rain. then he asks, “in the tower. did you—”

“not on you.” the answer's immediate.

his jaw tightens.

you take one step toward him, even though your body protests. “i could have. when you were charging, when everyone was still too close, when i thought the whole floor was going to come down. the word was right there.” your voice cracks. “i didn’t say it.”

he looks away.

“i promised you,” you say. “and i kept it.”

his hand flexes at his side. you almost wish he would argue. it would be easier than watching him stand there with the truth pressing into him from every side.

“i used it on them,” you continue. “after.”

his eyes return to you.

“they were going to take you back.”

his face empties so fast it makes your stomach turn. “freezer?”

“nobody said the word.” you fold your arms, then stop because your ribs ache. “they didn’t have to.”

for a second, he's not on the highway with you. he's somewhere colder. somewhere metal. somewhere locked. you hate them for it, suddenly and completely, even though part of you understands. even though you saw him light up that room. even though you know how close everyone came to dying. you still hate them.

“you were unconscious,” you say. “maeve was down. homelander was gone. butcher was bleeding all over the floor and still trying to stand. mm was calling for containment. frenchie had the gas...” your throat tightens again. “annie looked at me like she was sorry.”

his voice is flat when he asks, “what did you say?”

you remember it too clearly. your knees on broken glass beside him. your hand against his chest, checking for breath. butcher swearing from somewhere behind you. mm reaching for your shoulder. annie saying your name in warning. frenchie’s face pale above the mask canister. your own voice cutting through all of it.

“i told them to stay back,” you say.

he watches you. “and they did?”

“yes.”

“all of them?”

“yes.”

“butcher?”

“especially butcher.”

something dark and almost satisfied crosses his face before pain swallows it.

“you carried me out?”

“dragged you. carried you a little. cursed your entire bloodline.” you glance toward the car. “took the shield too. you’re welcome.”

he doesn’t answer. he's looking at your wrist again. the cuff mark's ugly. red and swollen, rubbed raw in places from where you fought the radiator, then the door, then the whole goddamn world to get to him.

his hand lifts. you stiffen before you can stop yourself.

slowly, he lets his hand fall. the absence hurts more than the reach. “i’m not going to grab you."

“good,” you answer. “because i might hit you with the car.”

“with your driving, i don't doubt it."

it slips out before either of you can stop it. a tiny, stupid sound leaves you. not a laugh. close enough to hurt.

his face shifts like that sound does something to him. then his hands come up to your face. slowly. giving you time. you should step back. you're still angry. your wrist throbs because of him. your throat hurts because of homelander. your veins feel poisoned because you had to take the vial alone after he took your choice and called it love. but his palms settle against your cheeks, big and careful, and you're too tired to pretend it doesn’t almost break you. 

his thumbs rest beneath your cheekbones. “you shouldn’t have come."

your eyes burn. “you shouldn’t have left me.”

his face tightens. “i know.”

it isn't enough. but it's the closest he has come.

“i’m still mad,” you whisper.

“yeah.”

“i might be mad for a while.”

“figured.”

“and if you ever handcuff me to something again, i’m commanding you to shave your beard.”

his face goes so still that, despite everything, a laugh breaks out of you. his eyes narrow. “that a threat?”

“a promise.”

“you promised not to use it on me.”

“tempt me.”

the old rhythm flickers between you, bruised and weak but alive. you feel it and hate yourself a little for needing it.

his gaze drops to your mouth. 

the rain keeps falling.

“where are we going?” he asks, voice lower now.

“sioux falls.”

his brows draw together. “why?”

“i have family there. an aunt. sort of. long story.” you breathe in carefully. “small house outside town. old garage. she minds her business if i tell her to. we can stay a few days. figure out where we go next.”

“where we go next?”

your throat tightens.

there it is. the small, stupid word with teeth.

“unless you have somewhere better to be.”

his hands tighten on your face for half a second. “no.”

his thumb drags once along your cheek, wiping rain or tears or both.

“you stole me,” he says.

your mouth trembles around a smile that doesn’t fully form. “rescued.”

“stole.”

“fine. i stole you.”

“from all of them.” his eyes stay on yours. “why?”

there're a dozen answers. because they were going to freeze him. because you were angry. because he was breathing. because after everything, after every ugly choice and every wrong word and every time one of you used teeth because tenderness felt too dangerous, you still couldn't leave him on that floor.

you say the smallest true thing. “because i wasn’t done with you.”

his face changes. not much. never much. but you know him now, and it is enough. then he kisses you. it isn't gentle at first. not careful enough to turn the night pretty. he kisses you like he's furious at the rain, at the tower, at the fall, at your bruises, at himself. his hands hold your face the whole time, and that's the part that ruins you. not the force. not the heat. the holding.

you grip the torn front of his suit. then he makes a sound against your mouth, low and wrecked, and you melt. stupidly. completely. he kisses you until the rain is cold on your back and the car engine ticks itself quiet beside you.

when he pulls away, his forehead stays pressed to yours. neither of you says anything. there's nothing clean enough to say.

then he looks down at you and his face hardens again. “you're shaking. get in the car. i’m driving.”

you pull back. “absolutely not.”

“you almost put us in a ditch.”

“because you scared me.”

“women shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”

you stare at him. rain drips from his hair. he looks half-dead, bruised, burned, impossible, and completely serious. 

you slap his chest. he doesn’t move. your hand hurts. “ow,” you mutter.

his mouth twitches. “that was pathetic."

“i'm withdrawing.”

“explains the driving.”

you point at him. “do not make me regret stealing you.”

“too late.”

you hate that it makes you smile. small. exhausted. real. you drop the keys into his open hand before you can change your mind. “one misogynistic comment about my navigation and i leave you at the next gas station.”

“you’d come back.”

“unfortunately.”

he closes his fingers around the keys and walks around the car with only a slight limp. you notice. he knows you notice. neither of you says anything.

you slide into the passenger seat and immediately regret sitting because every bruise introduces itself at once. soldier boy gets behind the wheel, adjusts the seat with an annoyed grunt, and glares at the dashboard like the car's personally disappointed him.

“piece of shit,” he mutters.

“free piece of shit.”

he starts the engine. the radio wakes with a burst of static, then finds the old song again. faint guitar. a voice you still don’t recognize. rain under the tires as he pulls back onto the highway.

for a while, neither of you speaks. behind you, new york is sirens and broken glass and people who will turn the whole thing into headlines by morning.

terrorist attack. supe disaster. vought tragedy.

they won't call it what it was. they won't know about the radiator. the second vial. the word you didn't say. maeve’s arms around him as the sky went white. your knees on broken glass while everyone stepped back because you told them to. his hands on your face in the rain.

they won't know that the world ended and kept going anyway.

sioux falls is still too far. temp v still burns under your skin. homelander's alive. butcher's alive. everyone you left behind's alive and furious and probably already hunting for the stolen car.

but soldier boy's breathing beside you. you're breathing beside him. for tonight, that has to be enough.

the radio clears for a few seconds, and you start humming again, quieter now. soldier boy glances over as one hand leaves the wheel. he extends it toward you, palm open, waiting. you slip your hand into his.

the road stretches out ahead of you, dark and endless beneath the rain, and this time, neither of you lets go.

liv's log ☆ and here we are... the last chapter of mouth like that 🙂‍↕️ i don’t really know how to write this without getting a little emotional, because this genuinely feels like the end of an era for me. i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember. since i understood myself as someone with too many feelings and nowhere else to put them, i’ve been putting them into words. writing has always been mine in that way. but this was different. tumblr wasn’t new to me, and writing wasn’t new to me, but having this much love and support for something i created? that was new. seeing your comments, your asks, your reblogs, your tags, your theories, your yelling, your suffering—it made me feel giddy in a way i genuinely don’t think i can explain without sounding insane. some days, it felt like being high. some days, when real life was awful and heavy and exhausting, i would open tumblr and read what you guys had said, and it would make me happy. actually happy. and i know i made you suffer. i know the angst was evil. i know there were moments where it probably felt like things were going to be bad forever. but the fact that so many of you stayed with this story anyway means more to me than i can say. mouth like that was supposed to be one drabble. one silly, stupid little scenario that got stuck in my head and refused to leave me alone. somehow, that turned into this huge, messy, emotional, unhinged thing with over 150 people on the taglist, and i still don’t know how to wrap my head around that. i am so so grateful to every single one of you who read it, commented on it, reblogged it, screamed at me about it, recommended it, or quietly came back chapter after chapter. i’m also grateful for the friends i made because of this story. that might be the most special part of all. this isn’t goodbye to soldier boy. i’m never going to stop writing for him/jensen, because apparently i have a sickness and the only cure is putting that man in increasingly deranged situations. but mouth like that will always be special to me. it was my first project that really became something bigger than i expected. my first story that made me feel that kind of support. my first “holy shit, people are actually here for this” moment. so, from the bottom of my very dramatic little heart: thank you! thank you for reading. thank you for caring. thank you for suffering with me. thank you for making this story feel alive. i’m gonna stop crying now. here’s to more soldier boy stories, more unhinged nonsense, and whatever emotional damage comes next 🩷

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[notmeolive]

@laliceee ☆ @castielusive ☆ @pawtrifiedd ☆ @xxorazz ☆ @elektraswife ☆ @jensensswthrt ☆ @delightfulmusictiger ☆ @deadpooltrash ☆ @dearguiltydreamer ☆ @phera-money ☆ @saga808 ☆ @joelsminx ☆ @twilightdance-minerva ☆ @hermitcrabs-1 ☆ @overtheremary ☆ @paige0103 ☆ @1love2read4fun ☆ @kittytwilightsparkles ☆ @rosie-posie08 ☆ @lexforeverr ☆ @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger ☆ @blueberrymuffin13 ☆ @kathypellar ☆ @aaaashiiii ☆ @ladynoc ☆ @ctsiekat ☆ @night-daily ☆ @angellscent ☆ @unknownhuman102 ☆ @ladyperduame ☆ @babesplzreadthz ☆ @leosouls06 ☆ @mistalli ☆ @halcyon72 ☆ @c1garettesduringsex ☆ @takeabreathdeath ☆ @biodegradable-glitter-fest ☆ @crawlerdonut ☆ @bequillin ☆ @itsmenickiandari ☆ @violets-library ☆ @lunam1s ☆ @idontcareforausernamesblog ☆ @wandabillywrites ☆ @sydpostsstuff ☆ @itztamar ☆ @celleryxo ☆ @physlara

[notmeolive]

⋆｡ ˚ mouth like that ⁴⁴

lowdown ☆ after the tower, you’re left with the fallout and the road ahead. ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f ) miles ☆ 2436 ride style ☆ fluff 😌 danger on the trail ☆ post-finale aftermath, injury, temp v use, emotional distress, toxic dynamics, the end of a fucking era!!! notes at the end 😭

𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩

the radio barely works.

it keeps cutting in and out beneath the rain, old guitar and static slipping through the speakers in broken pieces. every few seconds, a man’s voice finds the melody, holds it for half a line, then disappears again.

you should turn it off. you hum instead, low under your breath, because the car feels too quiet without something filling it. because if you stop humming, you’ll hear the tower again. glass giving way. annie shouting. ryan screaming. soldier boy’s roars, rough and ruined.

your hands stay locked around the steering wheel. 

your wrist's swollen where the cuff bit in. your throat burns when you swallow, skin bruised beneath your jaw in the shape of homelander’s fingers. there’s blood under one sleeve, not all of it yours, and temp v still crawls ugly through your veins, leaving your skin too cold and your heartbeat too fast.

the highway stretches ahead, dark and wet. somewhere behind you, soldier boy is unconscious across the backseat. you check the mirror again. he’s too big for the car. boots jammed awkwardly against the door, one arm hanging half-off the seat, shield shoved into the footwell because you couldn’t leave it behind even though dragging it nearly made you sob from pure exhaustion.

his face's turned toward the window, slack in a way that still looks wrong on him. soot and blood mark the side of his neck. his armor's cracked open at the chest. breathing, though. you keep checking. breathing. that has to be enough for now.

the road blurs. you blink hard until the lines sharpen again. “not yet,” you whisper.

your fingers tremble on the wheel, so you grip tighter. ten and two, absurdly proper for a woman driving a stolen car with a wanted supe unconscious in the backseat. the thought almost makes you laugh, bur the sound doesn’t make it out.

the radio catches another few notes. you hum along badly. behind you, leather creaks. soldier boy jerks upright. not at all like waking. one second he's deadweight, and the next he's moving, sharp and violent, dragging air into his lungs like he's come up from underwater with his hand already reaching for a weapon.

you scream. “jesus, what the fuck?” the car swerves across the lane. tires hit the rumble strip with a grinding roar. your heart kicks into your throat.

soldier boy grabs the back of the passenger seat, eyes wild in the dashboard glow, and that only makes the wheel slip harder in your hands. “where the fuck—”

“sit down!”

“keep the car on the road!”

“i was doing that before you resurrected in my fucking backseat!” 

you yank the wheel back. the car lurches, corrects, then straightens beneath the rain. for three seconds, neither of you speaks. the wipers scrape across the windshield. the radio hisses.

then he says, “pull over.”

you laugh once, too sharp. “of course. sure. already barking orders.”

“stop the fucking car.” the way he says it is different the second time. not barked. not cruel. strained.

you glance at him in the mirror and see that his eyes have dropped to your throat. then your wrist. then your shaking hands. your grip tightens around the wheel until your knuckles hurt. “fine.”

you pull onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires, and shove the car into park. cold rain hits you the second you open the door. it feels good for half a breath, then awful. you climb out anyway.

your legs nearly fold. you catch yourself against the car. soldier boy's already out on the other side, unsteady for maybe one second before pride straightens him. he looks around the empty road, the wet fields, the dark line of trees beyond the shoulder. then he looks at you. 

“where are we?” he asks.

“somewhere in pennsylvania. maybe ohio by now.” your voice comes out rough from homelander’s hand.

his eyes stay on your throat. “what happened?”

“a lot.” you swallow, and it hurts. “everyone’s alive.”

he goes very still. the rain ticks against the roof of the car. somewhere far away, a truck passes on another road, low and lonely through the night.

“even maeve?” he asks.

your chest tightens. you nod. “i think. she was breathing when they found her.”

his jaw works once. “homelander?”

“alive.” that hits worse. of course it does. 

his face closes, and for a second he looks back toward the road behind you like he might try to walk all the way to new york with broken armor and blood in his hair.

“ryan’s alive too,” you add. “butcher. annie. hughie. mm. frenchie. kimiko. me...” his eyes come back to you. you almost make a joke. you’re too tired. “i’m here.”

he steps closer. “you took it.”

“i did.”

his expression hardens. “after i told you not to.”

“after you cuffed me to a radiator and destroyed the vial in my face.”

“to keep you alive.”

“that wasn’t your choice.”

he flinches. small. almost nothing. but you see it, and some mean, hurt part of you is glad.

“you left me there,” the words come out quieter than you expect. worse because of it. “after i promised. after i told you. you made me watch you walk away.”

rain runs down his face. he doesn’t wipe it. “i know.”

“do you?”

his eyes meet yours. there's no joke waiting in them now. no dirty comment. no easy cruelty to hide behind. “yeah,” he says. “i do.”

that fixes nothing. still, your throat tightens.

you look away first, toward the highway. toward anywhere that is not his face.

for a while, the only sound is the rain. then he asks, “in the tower. did you—”

“not on you.” the answer's immediate.

his jaw tightens.

you take one step toward him, even though your body protests. “i could have. when you were charging, when everyone was still too close, when i thought the whole floor was going to come down. the word was right there.” your voice cracks. “i didn’t say it.”

he looks away.

“i promised you,” you say. “and i kept it.”

his hand flexes at his side. you almost wish he would argue. it would be easier than watching him stand there with the truth pressing into him from every side.

“i used it on them,” you continue. “after.”

his eyes return to you.

“they were going to take you back.”

his face empties so fast it makes your stomach turn. “freezer?”

“nobody said the word.” you fold your arms, then stop because your ribs ache. “they didn’t have to.”

for a second, he's not on the highway with you. he's somewhere colder. somewhere metal. somewhere locked. you hate them for it, suddenly and completely, even though part of you understands. even though you saw him light up that room. even though you know how close everyone came to dying. you still hate them.

“you were unconscious,” you say. “maeve was down. homelander was gone. butcher was bleeding all over the floor and still trying to stand. mm was calling for containment. frenchie had the gas...” your throat tightens again. “annie looked at me like she was sorry.”

his voice is flat when he asks, “what did you say?”

you remember it too clearly. your knees on broken glass beside him. your hand against his chest, checking for breath. butcher swearing from somewhere behind you. mm reaching for your shoulder. annie saying your name in warning. frenchie’s face pale above the mask canister. your own voice cutting through all of it.

“i told them to stay back,” you say.

he watches you. “and they did?”

“yes.”

“all of them?”

“yes.”

“butcher?”

“especially butcher.”

something dark and almost satisfied crosses his face before pain swallows it.

“you carried me out?”

“dragged you. carried you a little. cursed your entire bloodline.” you glance toward the car. “took the shield too. you’re welcome.”

he doesn’t answer. he's looking at your wrist again. the cuff mark's ugly. red and swollen, rubbed raw in places from where you fought the radiator, then the door, then the whole goddamn world to get to him.

his hand lifts. you stiffen before you can stop yourself.

slowly, he lets his hand fall. the absence hurts more than the reach. “i’m not going to grab you."

“good,” you answer. “because i might hit you with the car.”

“with your driving, i don't doubt it."

it slips out before either of you can stop it. a tiny, stupid sound leaves you. not a laugh. close enough to hurt.

his face shifts like that sound does something to him. then his hands come up to your face. slowly. giving you time. you should step back. you're still angry. your wrist throbs because of him. your throat hurts because of homelander. your veins feel poisoned because you had to take the vial alone after he took your choice and called it love. but his palms settle against your cheeks, big and careful, and you're too tired to pretend it doesn’t almost break you. 

his thumbs rest beneath your cheekbones. “you shouldn’t have come."

your eyes burn. “you shouldn’t have left me.”

his face tightens. “i know.”

it isn't enough. but it's the closest he has come.

“i’m still mad,” you whisper.

“yeah.”

“i might be mad for a while.”

“figured.”

“and if you ever handcuff me to something again, i’m commanding you to shave your beard.”

his face goes so still that, despite everything, a laugh breaks out of you. his eyes narrow. “that a threat?”

“a promise.”

“you promised not to use it on me.”

“tempt me.”

the old rhythm flickers between you, bruised and weak but alive. you feel it and hate yourself a little for needing it.

his gaze drops to your mouth. 

the rain keeps falling.

“where are we going?” he asks, voice lower now.

“sioux falls.”

his brows draw together. “why?”

“i have family there. an aunt. sort of. long story.” you breathe in carefully. “small house outside town. old garage. she minds her business if i tell her to. we can stay a few days. figure out where we go next.”

“where we go next?”

your throat tightens.

there it is. the small, stupid word with teeth.

“unless you have somewhere better to be.”

his hands tighten on your face for half a second. “no.”

his thumb drags once along your cheek, wiping rain or tears or both.

“you stole me,” he says.

your mouth trembles around a smile that doesn’t fully form. “rescued.”

“stole.”

“fine. i stole you.”

“from all of them.” his eyes stay on yours. “why?”

there're a dozen answers. because they were going to freeze him. because you were angry. because he was breathing. because after everything, after every ugly choice and every wrong word and every time one of you used teeth because tenderness felt too dangerous, you still couldn't leave him on that floor.

you say the smallest true thing. “because i wasn’t done with you.”

his face changes. not much. never much. but you know him now, and it is enough. then he kisses you. it isn't gentle at first. not careful enough to turn the night pretty. he kisses you like he's furious at the rain, at the tower, at the fall, at your bruises, at himself. his hands hold your face the whole time, and that's the part that ruins you. not the force. not the heat. the holding.

you grip the torn front of his suit. then he makes a sound against your mouth, low and wrecked, and you melt. stupidly. completely. he kisses you until the rain is cold on your back and the car engine ticks itself quiet beside you.

when he pulls away, his forehead stays pressed to yours. neither of you says anything. there's nothing clean enough to say.

then he looks down at you and his face hardens again. “you're shaking. get in the car. i’m driving.”

you pull back. “absolutely not.”

“you almost put us in a ditch.”

“because you scared me.”

“women shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”

you stare at him. rain drips from his hair. he looks half-dead, bruised, burned, impossible, and completely serious. 

you slap his chest. he doesn’t move. your hand hurts. “ow,” you mutter.

his mouth twitches. “that was pathetic."

“i'm withdrawing.”

“explains the driving.”

you point at him. “do not make me regret stealing you.”

“too late.”

you hate that it makes you smile. small. exhausted. real. you drop the keys into his open hand before you can change your mind. “one misogynistic comment about my navigation and i leave you at the next gas station.”

“you’d come back.”

“unfortunately.”

he closes his fingers around the keys and walks around the car with only a slight limp. you notice. he knows you notice. neither of you says anything.

you slide into the passenger seat and immediately regret sitting because every bruise introduces itself at once. soldier boy gets behind the wheel, adjusts the seat with an annoyed grunt, and glares at the dashboard like the car's personally disappointed him.

“piece of shit,” he mutters.

“free piece of shit.”

he starts the engine. the radio wakes with a burst of static, then finds the old song again. faint guitar. a voice you still don’t recognize. rain under the tires as he pulls back onto the highway.

for a while, neither of you speaks. behind you, new york is sirens and broken glass and people who will turn the whole thing into headlines by morning.

terrorist attack. supe disaster. vought tragedy.

they won't call it what it was. they won't know about the radiator. the second vial. the word you didn't say. maeve’s arms around him as the sky went white. your knees on broken glass while everyone stepped back because you told them to. his hands on your face in the rain.

they won't know that the world ended and kept going anyway.

sioux falls is still too far. temp v still burns under your skin. homelander's alive. butcher's alive. everyone you left behind's alive and furious and probably already hunting for the stolen car.

but soldier boy's breathing beside you. you're breathing beside him. for tonight, that has to be enough.

the radio clears for a few seconds, and you start humming again, quieter now. soldier boy glances over as one hand leaves the wheel. he extends it toward you, palm open, waiting. you slip your hand into his.

the road stretches out ahead of you, dark and endless beneath the rain, and this time, neither of you lets go.

liv's log ☆ and here we are... the last chapter of mouth like that 🙂‍↕️ i don’t really know how to write this without getting a little emotional, because this genuinely feels like the end of an era for me. i’ve been writing for as long as i can remember. since i understood myself as someone with too many feelings and nowhere else to put them, i’ve been putting them into words. writing has always been mine in that way. but this was different. tumblr wasn’t new to me, and writing wasn’t new to me, but having this much love and support for something i created? that was new. seeing your comments, your asks, your reblogs, your tags, your theories, your yelling, your suffering—it made me feel giddy in a way i genuinely don’t think i can explain without sounding insane. some days, it felt like being high. some days, when real life was awful and heavy and exhausting, i would open tumblr and read what you guys had said, and it would make me happy. actually happy. and i know i made you suffer. i know the angst was evil. i know there were moments where it probably felt like things were going to be bad forever. but the fact that so many of you stayed with this story anyway means more to me than i can say. mouth like that was supposed to be one drabble. one silly, stupid little scenario that got stuck in my head and refused to leave me alone. somehow, that turned into this huge, messy, emotional, unhinged thing with over 150 people on the taglist, and i still don’t know how to wrap my head around that. i am so so grateful to every single one of you who read it, commented on it, reblogged it, screamed at me about it, recommended it, or quietly came back chapter after chapter. i’m also grateful for the friends i made because of this story. that might be the most special part of all. this isn’t goodbye to soldier boy. i’m never going to stop writing for him/jensen, because apparently i have a sickness and the only cure is putting that man in increasingly deranged situations. but mouth like that will always be special to me. it was my first project that really became something bigger than i expected. my first story that made me feel that kind of support. my first “holy shit, people are actually here for this” moment. so, from the bottom of my very dramatic little heart: thank you! thank you for reading. thank you for caring. thank you for suffering with me. thank you for making this story feel alive. i’m gonna stop crying now. here’s to more soldier boy stories, more unhinged nonsense, and whatever emotional damage comes next 🩷

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