#A Light in the Window (1942) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mixolya · 3 months ago

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ᓚᘏᗢ — golden hours, golden hearts : epilogue !

(can be read without reading this smau ; appreciated if you read it though <3)

wc: 7k

#001. the letter in the attic

you found the box on a quiet sunday. dust clung to the cardboard like it had been waiting for decades, tucked away behind forgotten photo albums and unused blankets. it wasn't labeled, not really, just a small handwritten note on top, yellowing at the edges.

"to the one i wait for."

you sat on the attic floor, sunlight streaming through the single round window, and called for sae.

he climbed the creaky stairs barefoot, glasses low on his nose from reading downstairs. when he saw you with the box in your lap, legs folded like a child, his brow lifted, curiosity soft in his expression.

"what is it?"

you shrugged, careful as you peeled the top open.

inside were dozens of letters, all carefully folded, some still tied with old ribbons. the paper had browned at the edges, but the words were still legible. the ink was smudged in places, perhaps tears, perhaps rain. you picked up the first one.

May 4th, 1942

My beloved,

The moon hangs low tonight. I wish you could see it. It looks like it has been carved by longing itself, suspended just barely above the trees. There's a stillness in the air that reminds me of the mornings we spent on the porch, your head on my shoulder, the world soft and slow around us.

I write to you from a place where nothing grows. The land here feels old, exhausted by the weight of war. The birds don't sing like they used to back home. I miss the way you had hum to yourself while folding laundry, or how you had always forget where you left your book and blame me. Even your bad habits have become sacred to me.

My hands are shaking as I write. Not from fear - I am used to that now - but from this ache that settles in my chest each time I think of you. I have learned that longing is not just a feeling. It is a place, a house built inside the ribs where your name is carved into every wall. You are everywhere inside me.

I do not know when I will return, or if I will be allowed to return at all. But if time forgets me, promise you will not. Carry me in your laughter, in the way you butter your toast, in the music you play when it rains. Carry me in the way you stare out the window when you think no one is watching.

You were never just my home. You were the road, the stars, the whole damn map.

If this letter finds you, know that I loved you in every way a man can. In this life and the next. In every breath I take here and every silence that follows.

Yours until the stars fall,

you didn't speak for a long time. neither did sae.

there was something sacred about it. like you'd been entrusted with a secret. each letter in the box told a story, of longing, separation, and heartbreak. some were part of full conversations, written across decades. others were never sent. one letter even had a pressed wildflower between its pages.

you and sae read them on the rooftop that night, wrapped in a blanket, wine glasses untouched beside you. the sky war clear. endless. and for some reason, it felt like the universe was trying to say something, about how love finds a way to linger, even when the world changes shape a thousand times over.

you looked over at him, his profile against the moonlight, the man you had loved in a million different ways. and he was already watching you, one hand drifting toward yours without needing to ask.

"would you write me letters like that?" you asked, voice quiet.

he didn't even hesitate.

"i already do."

#002. letter, never sent

it had rained earlier that day.

not the kind of storm that ruins things, but the soft kind, warm and light, the air thick with petrichor and the scent of wet earth. the two of you had wandered into the small balinese town with no real purpose, just hand in hand, sleeves rolled up and hair damp from the drizzle. you'd stopped for fruit on the side of the road, laughed at how sae tried, and failed, to bargain in bahasa indonesia and ducked into a nearby café where the tea tasted like flowers and nostalgia.

the museum hadn't been planned. it was barely more than an old house, its walls sun-faded and cracked, a weather-worn sign hanging above the door with letters half-chipped away. sejarah kota kita - our town's history.

inside, it was quiet, dust hung in sunbeams. the rooms smelled like old wood, cloves and memory.

sae let go of your hand for a moment to study a black-and-white photograph of a rice harvest. you drifted toward the back, eyes skimming old textiles, faded postcards, a broken typewriter displayed like it had changed the world. and then, tucked between forgotten war relics and family photos, there was a letter.

just one.

tucked behind warped glass, sealed in a faded, unmarked envelope. you almost didn't notice it. but something about it pulled you in. like it was humming beneath the surface.

October 19th, 1956

To the one who will never read this,

I dreamed of you last night. Again.

You were standing at the edge of the sea, waves curling around your ankles, the wind tangling your hair just like it always used to. I called your name, and you turned, but only just. You didn’t smile. You never do in these dreams.

I woke up with your name on my lips and salt in my throat. It has been eight years since you left, and I still set an extra cup at the table out of habit. You used to complain that tea never tasted as sweet unless I stirred in the sugar for you. Funny, I still do it the same way.

Do you remember the rain that summer in Venice? The whole city smelled like stone and sky. You said it was romantic, the way the world seemed to cry just for us. I wanted to tell you that I had never loved anyone the way I loved you then. I wish I had. I wish I had said a lot of things.

I carry your scarf in my coat pocket. The blue one you knitted poorly, one thread looser than the rest. It is falling apart now, just like the memory of your voice. Sometimes I speak to the scarf, pretending it hears me. Pretending you do.

I have learned that grief is not a wave. It is not something that crashes and fades. It is a slow burn, like the quiet glow of a candle you do not know how to blow out. I live in the flickering.

If there is another life after this one, meet me at the train station. Wear that ridiculous yellow coat. You said it made you look like a duck. I said it made you look like sunshine.

Until then, I will keep writing these letters. I will keep pretending the words might find you.

Yours, always,

"that's love," he murmured. "isn't it?"

you nodded. "yeah."

and then he turned to you with that quiet intensity he always carried but rarely showed. "promise me," he said, "if you ever have words you're too afraid to say... you'll write them. even if you never send them. write them anyway."

your chest ached.

"i will," you whispered. "only if you promise me too."

#003. to love you in the quiet.

the sun was just beginning to dip when he spoke.

golden light filtered through the trees like melted honey, spilling across your dress, catching in your lashes, setting fire to the warmth in your cheeks. sae stood in front of you, hair still tousled from where your fingers had been earlier. you'd picked a cliffside chapel with no walls, just wind and sky and the ocean breathing far below.

he hadn't cried all day. not once.

but when he looked at you, his voice broke a little at the start.

"i don't know how to be poetic," he began, eyes never leaving yours, "but you deserve something better than poetry anyway."

his hands were steady but his breath wavered as he continued.

"i used to think i'd never belong to anything. not a place, not a dream, not even a person. the world always felt too loud. people always wanted too much from me. and then you came into my life like you didn't need to fix it. you just sat in the quiet with me and somehow... that made all the noise disappear."

the guests were silent. even the ocean hushed itself for him.

"i love you in ways i'll probably never be able to explain. but i promise i'll spend my whole life trying. i promise to meet you in the quiet when the world is too loud. i promise to hold you when the lights go out, when the days get heavy, when we forget how to be anything but tired. i promise to be yours, not just when it's easy, or when you're ethereal and the world is clapping for us, but when it's hard, when you're afraid, when you think you're too much or not enough."

his eyes glistened, but the tears didn't fall.

"i promise to love you even when i don't understand you. especially then. because i know what it feels like to be misunderstood and i never want you to feel that way when i'm standing beside you."

then he smiled. soft. the one he reserved only for you.

"i don't need forever," he said, "but i want it if you're in it."

and then, after a beat, he added more quietly: "i choose you. every time. in every life."

and the wind blew around you, like it was trying to carry the words up to the sky.

#004. until i'm home again

author: sae itoshi written in a hotel in tokyo, folded neatly between clean shirts.

mi amor,

you'd laugh if you saw the room i'm in. too many lamps. strange pillows. not enough of your perfume in the air. i can't sleep, not really. i thought the sound of rain against the window might help, but even that reminds me of madrid, of you.

you know, i never cared much for travelling. i did it because i had to. because the world expected something of me. but ever since we moved to that quiet neighborhood near the harbor, i find myself missing home more and more. not because of the view. not even the food. it's because of you.

you in the mornings, humming songs you don't remember the words to. you in the kitchen, stealing bites of whatever i'm cooking before it's done. you in our bed, where your cold feet somehow always find mine.

and i know i'm not gone long. just a week, two at most. but even a night without your voice feels like too much. i can't call, i know you're sleeping by now, so i'm writing you a letter like i promised. i know you had that shoot today and you'll be exhausted, probably curled up in my clothes like you always are when i leave.

i wanted you to know that no matter how many stadiums i stand in, no matter how many fans chant my name, the only person i still look for in a crowd is you. always you.

you were the only thing in my life i ever chose freely. no coach, no manager, no pressure. just you.

do you remember our first night in the house? we slept on the floor because the movers were late. you kept apologizing, even though you had nothing to be sorry for and i told you "i could live with nothing as long as i had you".

that hasn't changed. it never will.

i'll be home soon. i'll bring you that silly mug you wanted from the airport shop. i'll make you tea and pretend not to judge how you drink everything in one go. i'll kiss your forehead and act like it doesn't still make me nervous after all these years. i'll fall asleep beside you and hope the bed never feels too big again.

i love you, y/n. more than i say. more than i even know how to say.

sincerely yours,

sae

#005. you never left me

author: y/n itoshi written on a paper, tucked between pages of his favorite book.

my beloved sae,

you always had a way with timing. i found your letter while you were asleep beside me, your hair still damp from the shower, your arm draped over my waist like it had always belonged there. it was early. the sky was barely blue. i should've gone back to sleep but i stayed up reading your words again and again until the sun kissed your face.

you always made it hard to believe you were real.

even after all this time.

do you remember the first time you left for a game after we moved here? i tried not to let it show but i cried after you closed the door. the house felt too big, the walls echoed. i lit a candle in every room just to feel less alone. that night, i slept in one of your old jerseys, clutching your pillow like a fool in love.

but maybe i was. maybe i still am.

there's a kind of peace in loving you now. it's quieter. maybe softer. like the tide pulling back. but it's still deep. still endless.

you've become a rhythm in my life, familiar and constant. like how i always wait for the kettle to click before pouring your tea. or how i leave your side of the bed cold until you come home to warm it again. even when you're gone, i know your love stays behind.

i think that's the thing about us. we never really leave each other.

you, with your quiet hands and steady presence. me, with my messy hair and louder heart.

some days i watch you from the balcony, your profile softened by golden light, your eyes somewhere far away. i wonder if you know how much i've loved watching you live. watching you try. watching you grow. i've been lucky enough to love you through every version of you, and i would choose you again in every version of me.

thank you for your letter.

thank you for your absence, too. but only because it makes your presence that much more beautiful.

come find this letter when you miss me again. i'm right here.

forever yours,

y/n <3

#006. the quiet after

author: y/n itoshi written late at night, left on sae's pillow under the soft lamp glow.

my beloved,

the house is finally quiet. the kids are asleep, our daughter tucked against her stuffed fox, our son somehow sideways across his bed with his foot still dangling off the edge (he's lowkey like you when he sleeps). there are crumbs on the counter from the cookies we made tonight and your jacket is still thrown over the kitchen chair. you told me you'd hang it up later. you didn't.

i'm writing this because i'm full. not of anything dramatic or poetic, really. just... full in the way you are after a warm meal and a long laugh. full in the way you feel when everything in your life has finally slowed down enough for you to look around and realize "this is it". this is the dream we didn't dare speak out loud when we were 21 and too in love and too scared and too young to think we'd get here.

and yet, here we are.

do you ever wake up and look around, wondering how we got so lucky? not just with the house or the garden or the sleepy mornings and movie nights, but with each other. because God, some days i look at you and still feel like i'm back in my early twenties, heart skipping, unsure whether to kiss you or cry from how much i want to hold your face in my hands.

you are the calm in this house, the steady, the anchor. the one who kneels to tie shoelaces and carries sleepy bodies upstairs and makes quiet breakfasts without ever needing thanks. you still don't talk too much. still raise your brow when i cry during disney movies. still steal bites of my food when you think i'm not watching (i am.).

and i know i'm loud sometimes. and perhaps messy. and sometimes i forget the laundry in the machine for too long. but i hope you know that no matter how much time passes, i will always be soft for you.

i will always kiss your hands when they're tired. i will always trace the lines near your eyes that laughter and love gave you. i will always watch you with the same wonder i did when i first realized you were mine.

we built this life together. from the bottom up. and even on the hard days, even when the baby cried and the dishes piled and our tempers snapped, especially on those days, i chose you. again and again.

there is no other version of this life i want to live. not without you. not even for a second.

come to bed soon. i'll keep your side warm.

love always,

y/n <3

#007. a promise across distance

author: sae itoshi written late one evening, found buried in the back pocket of his jeans where the day's exhaustion seemed to linger

mi amor,

i see your sneaky ways, hiding a letter in my underwear drawer, really? you thought you could get away with it but i'll have you know it took me quite a bit longer than expected to find it. guess i'm not as sharp as i used to be. but when i did find it, well... it hit me in a way i didn't expect. the truth is, there were a hundred things i could've done before coming to this, a thousand other moments that didn't need to be written, didn't need to be said aloud. but you still found a way to get through to me. you always do.

i was planning on responding right away but you know how i am. sometimes, i take my time to figure things out. i wanted to think about what you said. you have a way of making me feel everything all at once. i guess it's not just about what you've built for us. it's about everything that's come before it, too.

i've been thinking about the past a lot lately. you asked if i ever wake up and wonder how we got so lucky. and yeah, sometimes i do. but not for the reasons you think. you know that part of me, the part i never let anyone to see? it's always wondering whether i've done enough to deserve it. it thinks about the time we fought, a long time ago, over things that now seem so small.

that fight... it was stupid. i don't know what got into me. maybe it was the pressure of everything, having too many people's expectations on me, pushing me towards something that didn't feel right. i was so caught up in being the good son, the one who did everything he was supposed to. i'd tried to make everyone happy, except myself. and that led to mistakes. big ones. things i can't take back. and i should've told you about it from the start. long before they almost ruined everything God gave us both. but you forgave me. and i can't even begin to tell you how much that means to me.

there's something about how you always stay so grounded, always so sure, even when things feel like they might crumble. you're the constant in this life of mine that seems to spin so quickly. even with all the uncertainty, even with the ghosts of the past trying to creep back in, you were the one who pulled me back. and i'll never be able to repay you for that.

but i think you already know that.

i don't talk about it much but i've been thinking about rin a lot lately. i don't think i ever properly told you this. i don't know if i made the right choice when i left him when he was just a teenager. he was everything to me. we wanted to be the best strikers, us both, next to each other. but i destroyed those dreams. do you know why? it's because i wanted him to be the best striker of the world with me being the best midfielder. it seems like my dream came true. but does it really matter if i achieved mine by destroying someone else's dream? at the end of the day, he still achieved his dream, just without me. i understand why he still resents me. but i have to live with it. at least his wife is your friend.

so yes, mi amor, i wake up some mornings still unsure, still wondering how we ended up here. but then i remember, we chose each other, again and again. we've been through things that others would have never survived. but here we are, with our family, with our future. with you beside me, still the same, still as radiant as ever.

and in the end, maybe that's all that matters.

you say you keep my side warm while i'm away. just so you know, my side isn't quite as warm without you.

come back to me soon. i'll be waiting, as always.

with all my love,

sae.

#008. the letter never sent

author: y/n itoshi written late at night, tucked away in a small box, never meant to be read.

my beloved sae,

i don’t know why i’m writing this now. but tonight, as i sit here, i’m thinking about everything. about the life we’ve built, the way things have unfolded, the quiet moments where everything felt perfectly, beautifully aligned. there’s something about this age, about these years, that make me feel like i'm finally seeing things clearly. it’s almost as if i’ve lived enough to understand the beauty in the small things: the way our son still tries to sneak cookies before dinner, how our daughter insists on sitting next to me when we watch movies, or the way you always know exactly when i need to be pulled out of my head and just… live in the moment.

i’m so full, sae. full of memories. full of gratitude. full of love for you.

i don’t think i've ever told you enough how thankful i am. i used to tell myself that if i said it too often, it would lose meaning. but i don’t think that’s true. i think i just didn’t know how to say it in the right way. i guess this is me trying to get it right.

the truth is, i’m still the same girl who fell in love with you when i was too young to understand how much love i could have for someone. but i understand it now. i understand how much it hurts to love someone and how much it heals, how much it changes you. i understand that love doesn’t mean perfection. it means making mistakes and learning, it means patience and growth, and above all, it means choice. i’ve chosen you every day, sae, and i’ll keep choosing you for as long as i live.

sometimes, i look at you, just like I did back then, and i still feel the same flutter in my heart. i still feel like i’m falling in love with you all over again, even after all these years, even with everything we’ve been through. and i wonder, do you ever feel the same way? do you ever look at me and think about all the moments we’ve shared, the love we’ve fought for?

but the truth is, i’ve been thinking about the fights we’ve had too. we’re not perfect, and there have been times when our hearts were heavy, when words were spoken that shouldn’t have been. the time we argued because of the tension between us, the misunderstandings that nearly pulled us apart… i regret those moments. i regret the hurt, the silence that followed. i wish i could take back the things i said during those fights. but even then, in the hardest moments, i still chose you. i still knew that our love was bigger than those arguments.

do you ever think back to those days? the day we fought over things we should’ve just said out loud? the way i let my anger get in the way of my love for you? i hope you know that i never meant to hurt you. i just couldn’t see past my own fear, my own insecurities.

but now, looking back, i realize that even in those moments of doubt, we were still writing our story. every argument, every moment of hurt, every moment of joy, it all brought us to where we are now. and that’s a life i'm so proud of. i never imagined we’d have this, my love. i never imagined our little family, our home, this life that we’ve created together.

i think about rio, and how he’s growing into such a kind, thoughtful man. and rei, who has this fierce love for the world, so much like you, it almost makes my heart ache. i know they’ll carry what we’ve given them, the lessons we’ve taught them, even when we’re no longer here to remind them. i can see them growing into people who will make the world a better place.

but tonight, my love, as i sit here, i wish i could slow time. i wish i could hold on to this moment, this peaceful, contented moment, forever. i know time moves so fast, sometimes too fast. and in the quiet of the night, with the weight of everything on my heart, i wonder if we ever really get enough of it.

maybe that’s why I’m writing this, even though i don’t know how to put it all together. i just want you to know, sae, that i love you. i love you more than i can express. i've loved you in ways i never thought possible. and no matter how much time passes, no matter how much changes, that will never change.

and if there ever comes a time when i’m no longer here, i want you to know: i’ve never regretted a moment of this life we’ve built. i've never regretted loving you, even through all the highs and the lows.

i will always love you, sae. always.

forever yours,

y/n <3

#009. the silence that echoes

author: sae itoshi written on a quiet evening with only the hum of the clock for company.

mi amor,

i can’t say i was prepared for this quiet. the kind of silence that stretches out so long it becomes a presence of its own. it’s not the peace i thought i'd welcome. not the stillness that comes with calm. instead, it’s the kind of quiet that fills every corner of the house and reminds me of the noise i miss.

i’ve always said that i'd cherish the moments of solitude, the breaks, the time when things slow down. but now that it’s here, i realize that everything i've ever wanted, the success, the peace, the quiet nights, isn’t enough without you beside me.

i found myself standing in the kitchen today, just… standing. staring at the counter. i didn’t even notice how much time had passed, how the world outside moved on, how everything continued without us. it was strange, in a way, to be in this house without the usual hum of life around us. our grandchildren are growing fast. aiko's voice is already changing, and akira's practically outgrowing the house.

it’s funny, isn’t it? how we don’t realize how much we take for granted until it’s quiet. until the house feels empty. i always thought i’d be ready to handle this, to see the kids growing up, to move into a new phase of our lives. but i wasn’t ready for this.

i found your jacket today, thrown over the chair, the way you always leave it. it’s funny how such little things, things you never even think twice about, are the ones that remind me you’re still here. even when the kids are gone, even when the noise has died down, i feel you in those small details. i see you in the way the couch cushions are still shaped like they always are when you get up in the middle of the night for water.

i know i’ve spent too many years running after everything, making sure things are in their place, trying to keep the pace. i guess it’s true what they say, you don’t realize how fast time flies until it’s almost gone. and, honestly, sometimes i wish i’d taken more time to appreciate the simple things. to hold on to those quiet mornings when we’d share a cup of tea and just exist in the same space without saying a word. to remember how i felt when i first realized you were mine. how could i have missed that? how did we let it slip by?

but now, here i am, sitting in the quiet of this house, trying to figure out what comes next. i guess i never thought i’d need more than what we built, but there’s a part of me that’s afraid of what comes after this. i know things can’t stay the same. time moves forward, and we have to change with it. but I’m not ready to let go. not yet.

i still think about the fights, the ones we had, when we were younger, when everything felt like it was falling apart. those days when it seemed like we were so different, too many things between us. but even in those moments, when we were at our worst, i knew deep down that we were meant for something more. and look at us now. together. here. after everything. it’s a miracle, really.

maybe that’s what i'm trying to say. you’re my miracle, amor. the one thing i never thought i could have. and even though things are quieter now, even though i’m sitting here alone more than i care to admit, i’m not afraid. not of the future. not of the change. because i know i’ll never have to face it without you. and for that, i’ll always be grateful.

so, i’ll wait. i’ll wait for the noise to return, for the kids to come home, for the world to keep spinning. but more than that, i’ll wait for you. because, no matter how many quiet nights there are, no matter how much time passes, i’ll always be here. always waiting. always loving you.

you’ll find this letter where you always find them, tucked between the pages of our life, hidden in a place you wouldn’t think to look. but i know you’ll find it, because i’ll always leave something for you to hold on to.

until then,

sae.

#010. the time that passed

author: sae itoshi written in the dim light of the setting sun, the paper creased with age, ink blotting at the edges.

mi amor,

the years, i find, stretch on like the slow sinking of the sun beneath the horizon, reluctant, heavy with the weight of time, yet inevitable in its descent. i feel as though i am growing more like the evening sky, each day tinged with the colors of the past, the moments we shared, the dreams we once spoke of in hushed tones. but no matter how many years fall away, no matter how deep the shadows grow, it all circles back to you. always to you.

you know, y/n, there are mornings when i wake up and feel the soft press of your presence against me as though you were still here, as though i can hear your laugh echo through the house, the sound of your footsteps echoing on the stairs. i close my eyes, and there you are, standing in the kitchen, your back to me, humming a song, your hands moving as though you were never really gone. but when i open my eyes, i find only the silence. the space where you used to be.

and yet, i find solace in that silence. i hold on to it the way one clings to a memory that refuses to fade. it is not enough to fill the emptiness, but it is all i have left.

i never thought it would hurt this much to live without you. they warned me, in the years leading up to this, that death is a part of life. but no one ever told me how to live without you, how to breathe without the rhythm of your laughter, without the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, the way you held my hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

do you remember how we used to talk about what we would do when we got older? how we imagined sitting in rocking chairs, laughing at the things we used to argue about, telling our grandkids stories about the “good old days”? i always thought we would have more time, more time to hold each other close, more time to finish our plans, more time to be in the small, quiet moments where everything made sense.

but that time, as it always does, slipped through our fingers. the days turned into years, and the years turned into memories. and now… i find myself alone, counting the moments as they pass, wishing for one more second, one more hour with you.

God, how i wish i could have given you more. more love. more time. more of me. i wish i had slowed down, been present, been with you in every moment. i wish i had held your hand a little longer when we sat together at the kitchen table, wished i had kissed you a little deeper when we said goodbye in the mornings.

but the past is a cruel thing, amor. it leaves me with nothing but this ache in my chest and the regret of things unsaid, things undone. you were my heaven on earth. when you walked into a room, the light seemed to follow you. i could not wait to get home, to hear your voice, to feel your warmth. you were the peace i never thought i could have. the love i never thought i deserved. and now, without you, i find myself lost.

i want to believe that you are out there somewhere, watching over me. maybe you’re sitting on a cloud, laughing at how i still can’t seem to get anything right without you by my side. but more than that, i want to believe that i will see you again. that, one day, we will be reunited in a place far beyond the stars, where time will no longer tear us apart.

and so i wait, mi amor. i wait for the day when my time has come. when i can leave this world behind and find my way to you. because if i’m being honest, i've had enough of this quiet life, this world without your laughter, your warmth, your presence. i am ready to return to you, to find you once again. i am ready for the end of this long, aching wait.

please know that, though i am not yet with you, my heart still beats only for you. it always will. even in the fading of my days, even when my body is no longer strong enough to keep going, i carry you with me. you are the reason i breathe. you are the reason i live. and when my time comes, i will not hesitate. i will find you. i will hold you again.

until then, i will keep writing these letters. i will keep living in the memories we created, because they are all i have left. and when i close my eyes, i will pretend, just for a moment, that you are still here, that you are still beside me.

te amo. para siempre. incluso más allá de los límites del tiempo. (i love you. forever. even beyond the bounds of time.)

always,

sae.

the evening was still, with the hum of the world outside muted by the thick glass of the living room windows. aiko sat on the couch, the old letters spread out before her, each yellowed page a fragment of the past, fragments of a love story that, despite the passing years, had never stopped breathing. her husband, victor, sat beside her, his hand resting on hers, their children sprawled at their feet, their heads tucked into pillows as they listened intently. aiko’s voice was soft but steady as she began to read aloud, her gaze drifting over the faded ink, each word a memory that had been passed down through generations.

“once upon a time,” she started, her eyes lifting to victor's for a moment, and he gave her that familiar, tender smile, the one that always made her heart flutter, just like her grandmother’s smile had done for her grandfather all those years ago.

“…there was a love that transcended time, a love that lived through the chaos, through the tears, through the quiet moments of everyday life. it was a love so deep, so unwavering, that even in death, it found its way back.”

the children, now wide-eyed, looked up at her. aiko could see the curiosity in their gazes, the unspoken questions filling the air like a palpable force. but aiko’s voice remained calm, steady, her heart wrapped in the warmth of the story that had shaped her own life.

“this letter,” she continued, “was written by my grandmother on a quiet evening just like this one, though… i never knew how it would feel to read it, not until now.”

she paused for a moment, taking in the memory of her grandmother’s handwriting, the delicate script that, despite its frailty, carried the strength of a love that had weathered every storm. she glanced at victor again, her heart squeezing just slightly. his eyes, those eyes that always understood her in a way no one else did, never left her face.

“her words,” aiko whispered softly, her voice dipping lower now, as though she were sharing a secret with the world, “are more than just love letters. they are promises, echoes of a love that never fades. even after all these years, their love lives on in us, in every moment we share. just like this.”

victor smiled, squeezing her hand gently, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. their children sat quietly, listening to their mother’s words, captivated not just by the story, but by the way the story seemed to wrap itself around their own hearts, linking them to something larger, something eternal.

“grandma and grandpa,” their daughter, yumi, spoke up with a soft curiosity, “they loved each other so much? even when they got old, they never stopped loving?”

aiko chuckled softly, the tears in her eyes sparkling as she nodded. “yes, my dear. even when they were old, even when time seemed to slip away from them, their love never faded. they didn’t need grand gestures. they showed their love in every small thing. in the way they took care of each other, in the way they made each other laugh. in the way they held on to each other, even when life wasn’t perfect.”

victor leaned in, placing a kiss on her forehead, his voice low as he whispered, “just like us, huh?”

aiko smiled softly, feeling the weight of the years fall away, replaced by the gentle presence of love, the kind that transcends every boundary. she had lived this love, this unshakable, unwavering love. and now, she passed it down.

“yes,” aiko replied, her voice thick with emotion. “just like us.”

as she finished reading the last letter, the room seemed to hold its breath for a moment. the world outside was still, the only sound the soft rustle of the papers in her hands. she closed her eyes for a brief second, imagining her grandparents together again, wherever they were, side by side, in some quiet, peaceful place, forever entwined in the love they had built.

she opened her eyes to find her children looking at her with wide, expectant eyes. “now,” aiko said, her voice filled with warmth, “this love doesn’t end here. it lives in you, in me, in all of us.”

her son, luis, who had been quiet throughout the reading, suddenly looked up, his voice soft. “mom, do you think when we’re old, we’ll still love each other like grandma and grandpa did?”

aiko’s heart swelled at the question, and she met victor's gaze once more, feeling the silent answer pass between them.

“yes,” she said, her voice steady with certainty. “yes, i think we will.”

the evening passed quietly, with the sun finally dipping below the horizon, casting the room in a soft golden hue. the letters, tucked away once more in their box, were safe, just like the love they carried. in their hearts, the love of their grandparents would live on forever. and, in time, their own children, and their children’s children, would tell their stories too.

after all, love never truly dies. it just finds new ways to be remembered.

"by the way, did you know my grandpa was the best footballer in the world?"

"of course i know."

chapter 044 > here > ...

taglist is closed ! <3

back to golden hours, golden hearts

note: thank you so much for being on this long long journey with me. i can't believe i finished this smau !! i couldn't decide if i should talk shit about lanlan and rensuke in this cute epilogue so i decided not to. but maybe in the bonus chapters!! (if u want) the ending was maybe a bit rushed and i'm sorry for that. but here's a gift for you!! this took me so long LMAO also, thank you so so much for 500 followers. i have so much love for every single one of you and i hope you enjoyed this series!! let me know if you have any wishes regarding bonus chapter(s) <3 thank you so much. - lya

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#mixolya!#itoshi sae x reader #itoshi sae #itoshi sae smau #itoshi sae imagines #sae smau #bllk smau #bllk x reader #blue lock smau #itoshi sae fic #itoshi sae x you

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waynes-multiverse · 2 months ago

Text

Time After Time – Chapter 8

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language & smut (yes, we're going fully there), reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says hi, SB being a nice and kind human, fluff and feels, sexism/feminism, angst, the final end of the (first) slow burn

Word Count: 9.3k

Posted on Patreon April 18, 2025

A/N: Daddy Dearest is finally showing up, a feminist revolution is happening, and our couple seals the deal. Yup, 4.4k of this one is smut. Don't blame me – it was all Ben and his filthy mouth. Guess that's what happens when you let that man wait six weeks. Good luck, loves! You may need tissues for various reasons during this 😜 ✨ Chapter title comes from Gone with the Wind (1939)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 8: Frankly, My Dear, I Don’t Give a Damn

The sky was gray with the weight of an almost-spring storm, clouds stretching low over the sprawl of the estate like a woolen blanket ready to suffocate the light. The mansion, with its high windows and columns stained faintly with soot, loomed behind him, but Ben ignored it. He didn’t even drop his suitcase inside.

His coat was slung over one shoulder, his hat clutched in his hand. Mud squelched underfoot as he crossed the back lawn, past the dormant rose beds and skeletal hedges, toward the old groundskeeper’s shed near the tree line, where George told him he’d find you.

He just needed to see you.

The door creaked as he opened it, and you turned sharply from the blackboard, where the chalk still lingered in your hand, equations spiraling behind you like maps of another universe.

“Ben?”

Your voice stopped his heart for a beat. Then it kicked back up, wild and alive. He barely managed a breath before he crossed the floor in two long strides, swept you into his arms, and kissed you like it was the first and last time all at once. You melted into it, your fingers curling into his coat, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him – his warmth, his heartbeat.

When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breath shaky.

“I missed you,” he said, quiet and raw like you were his lifeline. His fingers caressed your cheek, brushing a bit of chalk dust from your skin. “I’m happy you’re still here.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, your smile soft and real in a way it hadn’t been for days. Your heart pounded furiously in his presence. “Happy you’re home.”

He pulled you close again, his arms tightening like he didn’t want to let go. “We came back a day early. My father was... in rare form.”

You could see it in his faintly freckled face then – the gray sheen over his usually sparkling emerald eyes like November fog, the way his jaw had set itself like stone. He even looked like he’d lost about ten pounds from stress alone. Two weeks with that man would do that to anyone, but Ben had been walking that gauntlet his whole life.

“What happened?” you asked softly, carding your fingers gently through his hair.

Ben smacked his lips, almost in defeat. “He embarrassed me,” he replied with a short laugh that had no humor in it. His voice was bitter, but beneath it, was something more wounded. “Told the board upgrading the furnaces was a pointless waste of money. Called me a dreamer. In front of everyone.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him head-on, your expression sharp with fire. “Well, he’s wrong. Upgrading those furnaces is the smartest thing he could do right now. It’s basic efficiency math.”

Ben looked at you, surprised at the blazing flames in your eyes. Then, with a crooked grin, he teased, “You wanna be the one who tells him that?”

You shrugged. “Sure, I’ll happily calculate it out for him if he’s having trouble understanding. Honestly, I’m way smarter than your father.”

Ben laughed – an actual laugh this time – and shook his head, his fingers brushing your jaw affectionately. “Are you crazy? I was kidding.”

“So was I,” you lied smoothly, with a mischievous little tilt of your head, just enough to make him wonder if you actually meant it.

Ben glanced behind you then, at the mess of symbols and curves on the chalkboard. “What is all that?” he asked, brow furrowing in curiosity. “That doesn’t look like anything from my physics textbooks.”

“As if you’ve ever actually opened one,” you quipped in an attempt to deflect. You moved a bit to block his view, feeling a pang of panic in your chest, but you still played it cool, pretending like the board wasn’t covered in time-loop projections and multiverse theory. “Just something I’ve been working on. Helps me think.”

He eyed you with amused suspicion. “Right. Thinking.”

“It’s private,” you added with a smirk, drawing his attention back to your face.

“Well, come inside, will you? It’s still freezing out here.” He slipped his coat from his shoulder and wrapped it around you, brushing your hair back from your cheek. “I don’t want you turning into an icicle.”

You followed him out of the shed and toward the back steps of the mansion. As your boots hit the porch, a faint melody drifted through the door – soft, elegant, almost hesitant.

Ben paused, confusion spreading across his face. “Is that… the piano?”

You just smiled. You knew what he was thinking – if you were here, who was playing?

Inside, the warmth of the house wrapped around you. You stepped into the hallway outside the drawing room, where the grand Steinway stood like a forgotten relic – except it wasn’t forgotten now.

Ben’s mother sat poised at the keys, her fingers dancing over them with delicate grace. The melody was one of those half-remembered lullabies that felt like home.

Ben stood frozen. He hadn’t seen her like this in years.

“She’s been practicing again,” you said softly. “I asked her to teach me Chopin. Florence said it was her favorite to play.”

“Yeah, it was.” Ben nodded, entranced.

“We started talking,” you added. “She even took me to a tea room two weeks ago. I think it made her happy.”

“You went to a tea room?” He cocked a brow at you, an amused glint in the forest green of his eyes, faint traces of cinnamon freckles stretching with the hint of a smile.

“Yes, believe it or not.”

“Not.” Ben grinned teasingly. “Did you wear shoes?”

“Yes, of course I wore shoes!” You snorted, catching Margaret’s attention.

His mother looked up then, catching sight of her son. “Ben! Oh, sweetie, you’re home!”

Sweetie. You had not expected that nickname, but your heart swelled when you watched Ben’s face light up, strong brow twitching with specks of disbelief.

Margaret stood then and crossed the room with a composed kind of warmth, arms outstretched. She embraced him gently, then stepped back and cupped his cheeks, giving him a once-over like a mother appraising both her son and the state he’d returned in.

Then, with a glance past him toward you, her expression shifted. “I like her,” she said, voice low but meaningful. “You’ve got good taste… for once.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, just patted his cheek and turned back toward the piano with a small, knowing smile.

You stifled a snort. You’d grown very fond of Margaret Brooks in those last two weeks.

Ben blinked, still processing, and turned slowly to look at you. “What did you do to her?”

You smiled, laughing lightly at his bemusement. “Nothing. I just listened.”

“I think you might be magic, sweetheart,” he said, looking at you with something close to gratitude and awe.

If he only knew how right he was – in a way.

And between the music still lingering in the air of his childhood home and his mother’s sly approval, Ben felt something tighten in his chest then.

In the best way.

For six weeks of staying here, you had successfully avoided Ben’s father. But that lucky streak seemed to come to its bitter end at dinner tonight.

Tonight, the marvelous table was set with four plates: Ben, his mother, his father, and you – stuck right in the middle of the most awkward family dinner from Hell.

You sat at Ben’s left, your hands folded neatly in your lap, trying to ignore the gleam of polished silver forks (Three! And you had no idea which one to use first!) and the way the chair back dug sharply between your shoulder blades as the tension in the room built like storm pressure behind old glass.

Ben, on the other hand, looked calm enough, but you’d caught the slight twitch in his jaw when his father entered the room – black-suited, silver-templed, and cutting through the air like a Bowie knife.

Richard Brooks – steel magnate and professional tyrant from a long line of goddamn tyrants – sat down at the head of the table, only acknowledging you with a disapproving glance.

And yes, naturally, he was a Dick.

“I remember you mentioned a girl from school staying here.” The patriarch of the steel empire carved into his roast with casual violence, sipping his wine like it was penance, a pair of almond-shaped, glacier blue eyes zeroing in on his son. “Didn’t think you meant still staying here.”

You managed a polite smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Brooks.”

He gave a short nod that might’ve been a grunt, reaching for the wine glass before saying, “Likewise.”

Ben’s mother – composed in a deep jade green dress that complimented the glint in her eye – broke the tension with a dry, almost teasing, “She’s been keeping me company. And sane.”

You glanced at her in grateful surprise, but she didn’t look at you. Her gaze was squarely on her husband, almost daring him to challenge her.

Oh fuck. You had a feeling that dinner would derail soon enough. You still remembered how your own mother always looked when she wanted to pick a fight with your father. You could see that same desire in Mrs. Brooks tonight.

Richard’s eyes flicked to you as cutting as a scalpel. “Rosemary Hall, was it?”

You smiled, knowing your alibi by heart. “Yes, sir. We, uh, crossed paths with Ben’s group at Choate once or twice. We’ve stayed in touch.”

“Mmm.” He sounded unconvinced, like he already had a list of questions and was working through them in his mind. “And what is it you do, exactly?”

You gave an innocent shrug of your shoulders. “A little of everything. Read a lot. Try to keep busy.”

Mr. Brooks leaned back with a hum, wine glass in hand. “You read. Anything useful?”

Ben’s hand tensed slightly on the table. You felt it even without looking.

“I enjoy nonfiction,” you said smoothly. “Science, history, math when I’m in the mood. Nothing too impressive.”

“Science and math?” Richard scoffed like you’d said you moonlighted as a prizefighter. “Isn’t that a bit… optimistic for a girl?”

You met his stare with even calm. “I don’t think intelligence has ever been strictly gendered. Just how it’s been credited.”

Ben actually choked on his wine this time, coughing into his napkin. Richard ignored him.

“So, I assume you’ve been enjoying your stay here,” Ben’s father continued his interrogation, eyes narrowing slightly, sizing you up.

“It’s a beautiful house,” you said simply.

“Lot of history here. Good steel money.” His eyes locked on you again. “You know anything about steel?”

You smiled, your inner Puck cutting his leash. “Only what I’ve read.”

“Ah. Reading.” He said it like the word offended him.

“She reads a lot,” Ben added carefully. “She’s sharp.”

“Is that so?” Richard raised an eyebrow. “Tell me then,” he prompted, folding his hands like a man settling in for a test he already thought you’d fail. “What would you do to improve output at a steel mill running short on coal?”

Ben looked ready to leap across the table and strangle his father. He tried to interject, “Dad, this isn’t–”

“It’s alright,” you said quietly, placing a hand calmly on Ben’s forearm, eyes still on his father. “I’d retrofit the furnaces to burn at a higher temperature with less fuel, introduce more efficient airflow systems, and probably look into restructuring the shift rotations to reduce downtime between batches. But that’s just common sense.”

Margaret paused mid-pour of her wine, looking like she had to swallow a laugh. Ben slowly turned toward you, jaw slightly dropping an inch.

Richard didn’t blink. “Not something they typically cover in finishing school.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you said slyly. “I didn’t finish.”

That earned a brief, surprised snort from Ben – quickly smothered.

Richard, clearly irritated now, muttered, “Sounds like a textbook answer. No real-world experience, though.”

You opened your mouth to argue your next crushing point, but Ben’s mother cut in smoothly, sipping her wine with the elegance of someone who had just stopped giving a fuck.

“Oh, for crying out, Richard! She’s smarter than half the men you’ve got working in your mills,” Margaret huffed, breaking her silence with a sharpened edge in her voice. “Maybe if you listened to people who weren’t trying to kiss your Oxfords, you’d save a fortune running those mills.”

Ben let out a short, shocked laugh before quickly covering it with a cough. His father looked like he’d been slapped with a linen napkin – too composed to lose his temper, but clearly rattled.

You, on the other hand, stared down at your plate, half-terrified and half-impressed, trying to decide if you’d just become part of the problem or part of the revolution.

Vive les femmes?

“Honestly, I think she’s brilliant. Much more interesting than that uptight Du Pont girl,” his mother quipped, her voice deceptively light.

Richard turned toward her, jaw clenched. “Grace was–”

“A snake in a silk blouse,” Margaret said flatly, cutting her husband right off. “We saw her at a tea room two weeks ago. She looked like she’d swallowed a lemon when she realized who I was sitting with.”

Ben shot you a glance, brow furrowed. You hadn’t exactly had time to mention that little tidbit yet.

However, Richard’s expression darkened. “We had plans with her family–”

“Well, they’ll survive,” Margaret snapped. “Just like we will. Unless you’ve somehow tied our entire legacy to a debutante with no charm and less spine.”

Holy shit. You’d unleashed a dragon from the dungeon, hadn’t you?

Ben’s eyebrows hit his hairline, while you tried your damnedest not to make eye contact with anyone.

“I don’t need to remind you,” Richard said tightly, “how much damage your son did with that stunt. Publicly humiliating the Du Ponts–”

Ben cleared his throat, clearly regretting every decision in his life that had led to this moment. His knife paused mid-cut. It didn’t fall on the plate with a clatter, but it may as well have.

“Grace and I were a bad match. I told you that.”

“You didn’t tell me anything. You just embarrassed her. Publicly. And in turn, humiliated me,” his father snapped. “What do you think the Du Ponts think of this family now? Do you have any idea how much business I’ve done with them over the last twenty years?”

Ben’s voice was tight. “That’s not a reason to marry someone.”

Richard finally looked up. “It is when you’re in this family.”

Silence spread across the table like a spilled drink. You could feel Ben bristle beside you, his hand flexing slightly against his napkin. You wanted to reach out, hold his hand, comfort him, but you knew showing any affection toward him right now in front of his father would hurt more than it would help.

“Maybe if you’d focused more on the business instead of chasing after schoolgirls,” his father’s blue eyes flickered sharply to you, “you wouldn’t have spent the last two weeks making a fool of yourself in front of the board.”

“Richard,” Margaret warned sharply.

“No, no,” her husband went on, holding up a finger to his wife and turning back to his son. “You let a good opportunity slip through your fingers. Grace was respectable. She had breeding. Her father understood the importance of building strong alliances. And instead, you’re off playing house with–”

“That’s enough, Richard,” Margaret cut in. She placed her wine glass down gently, but when she looked up, her face had none of its usual softness. Her voice didn’t shake. It fucking rang.

Richard turned, mildly surprised by the newfound edge in his wife. His jaw locked tight. “You’re enjoying this.”

Margaret took a sip of her wine, calmly meeting his glare, and then – she fucking smirked. “I’m finally starting to, yes.”

You stared down at your plate again, doing your best not to appear like you were about to vanish into the wallpaper. Ben, beside you, looked like he was watching a tennis match and had no idea which side he was supposed to root for.

“Margaret–”

She met his gaze dead-on. “Don’t you Margaret me, Richard. I’m not some ghost you can order in and out of a room when it suits you. I think I’ve held my tongue long enough. I’m done pretending I don’t have an opinion. I’ve spent the better part of two decades being managed. I’m not doing it anymore.”

Richard’s face had gone a strange shade of gray. “Don’t start with this–”

“I’m already started,” she cut in again. “You push and push and never ask yourself why your son’s miserable or why your house is a tomb. I’m tired of it. I’ve been tired of it. Our son is a grown man. You don’t own him. And you sure as hell don’t own me.”

Margaret sat back and crossed her arms. Richard stared, something cold flashing in his eyes. But he said nothing. Not a word. The dining room went deathly still.

“Now,” she said casually then, as if she hadn’t just hijacked dinner, lifting her wine glass, calm as a summer storm after it had come and gone. “Pass the potatoes.”

Ben did automatically, blinking at his mother like she’d just grown wings.

You stared down at your plate, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. Margaret caught your eye across the table and gave you the smallest, most deliberate wink.

Richard stabbed at his roast with renewed bitterness. He chewed slowly, as if the meal had lost its flavor.

But the balance in the room had shifted. Subtle. Permanent.

It was close to ten when you snuck out of the servants’ quarters and back to your room after your nightly hang out with Dottie. For the last two weeks, you’d been playing Gin Rummy together, chatting and giggling, while you taught her a bit of French.

She’d told you she wanted to live and work in France, travel the world a little. How could you not support that?

Besides, it was nice to have an actual friend in this time period.

As you passed through the hallway that led by the study, you froze and halted your breath, hearing the voices of father and son. You didn’t want to eavesdrop, but Richard Brooks’ authoritatively booming tone was hard to ignore.

“Would you stop with this furnace nonsense? You’re chasing goddamn pipe dreams, boy, and you’ve already embarrassed me and yourself enough for one week,” Richard grunted as you carefully leaned against the wall of the hallway, disappearing into the shadows of a potted plant.

Ben’s voice came cool, but tight. “It’s not nonsense. It works. We’ve been running the numbers.”

“We?”

There was a beat.

“She just listens,” Ben said quickly. “Talks things out with me.”

After a pause, there came a darkly amused scoff. Condescending. “Christ on a cross, you think your little romantic dreams make you stronger? You think this girl will somehow make you a man? She’s not going to help you, son. She’ll only drag you down. You think your little fantasy is going to lead anywhere? You think she’ll respect you for your weakness?”

Your heart pounded furiously in your ribcage, wanting to leap in there and choke the living hell out of that man. Your nails dug into the skin of your palm, your hands clenched into fists by your sides, trying to hold yourself back.

“You’re going to marry Grace Du Pont. End of discussion,” his father declared firmly. Whiskey was poured. A cigar was being lit. “Look, if you’re attached to your little plaything so badly, keep her on the side. You keep your fling quiet, where no one can see, you understand me, son? Just like I’ve always done. Or have you learned nothing from me? You don’t see me flaunting my affairs into your mother’s face, do you?”

Ben’s voice came out weak. Fragile. “I-… I won’t-… No, I won’t do that to her. I care about her. She’s not just some–”

“You think you’re fucking better than me?” his father cut in, tongue sharp as a machete. “You’re fucking weak, Benjamin. You’ve always been weak. You’re nothing without this family, boy. You’re nothing without my name, without the power, without the money. And I’ve given you all of it. Don’t you goddamn forget that.”

“I can’t do this, not for you, not for business,” Ben’s voice cracked with frustration. “This isn’t the life I want.”

Richard slammed a fist onto the desk, the sound loud enough to make you flinch. “Benjamin, I’m warning you! You’re going to do your duty. This is what’s best for you. What’s best for this family. Just look at me and your mother. You think she was some great catch?” he huffed bitterly. “Look where it got us. I’m trying to save you from the same goddamn mistakes I made. Maybe then you won’t be as disappointed as I am that your son turned out to be as dumb and weak as a blade of grass.”

That manipulative fucking a–

You clenched your jaw so tightly it almost shattered. And then, your inner Puck took over the wheel. Just for a few seconds.

You hit Pause on the remote control. Not on the world, not on the house, not on the men in the study. No, you only paused one little withering, black, rotten but still beating organ. Not long – only till one… two… three… four–

“Dad? Are you alright?”

Play.

A tear slipped down your cheek, body trembling. Would you actually have done it? Would you have killed someone? Even someone as cruel and awful as Ben’s father?

They’d be better off without him, though, wouldn’t they? You’d do this family and probably the whole world a favor by getting rid of him. But you could hear the worry, the concern, the fear in Ben’s voice. Even if it wasn’t strong, just barely there, just for a fraction of a second – you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

“‘M fine.” A grunt. A clear of a throat. “Now get out of my sight. I don’t have any use for you. You’ve already disappointed me enough this week.”

A moment passed before you held your breath, hearing Ben’s footsteps shuffle away. As the study door closed, you stood there for a few beats, unsure whether to go to him or leave him be. Before you could make up your mind, he rounded the corner and suddenly appeared in front of you.

Ben halted, stunned for a second before his brows drew into tight little Vs. His jaw ticked once, teeth grinding, shoulders tense as he stared at you.

“Are you okay?” you asked quietly. Carefully.

“Are you always eavesdropping on private conversations that don’t concern you?”

So he was defensive. Fair enough, you thought.

“Ben–”

He blew right past you without another word, but you quickly trailed after him, catching his wrist. He spun halfway toward you, brow raised, gaze unamused.

“What?” he snapped “Look, whatever you wanna say, save it for another day. I don’t wanna hear it right–”

“I love you.”

And then, time stopped on its own for once. Like God herself had clicked the button on top of her stopwatch.

No flick of your wrist. No whispered thought. Just a heartbeat too loud, a silence too deep.

The world itself held its breath and leaned in to listen, freezing out of respect for your widely open heart. The hum of everything around you dulled, dimmed, as if your powers sensed your panic and intervened, offering you this one impossible second to exist in the aftermath of what you’d just confessed.

What the fuck had you done? You hadn’t exactly planned on blurting out those three little but hugely impactful words. They just broke loose like a wild animal that had been caged against its will.

You had never meant to say them at all. Not to him. Not here.

And Ben didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

For a second, you weren’t sure if you hadn’t accidentally hit the Pause button, after all. But something in his forest green eyes flickered like a candlelight in the breeze – a stutter in the armor.

He didn’t look at you at first. Just exhaled slowly. That big, proud chest rising and falling like it was taking him real effort to stay composed.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Your voice was shaking, quiet. You swallowed. “I just wanted you to know.”

And then Ben finally looked at you.

The crinkles around his eyes, the tensely furrowed brow – it all vanished, softened just for you.

You looked at him – at the guy you shouldn’t trust, shouldn’t fall for, shouldn’t love. And your heart was tearing itself in half trying to hold onto both versions of him.

The one standing in front of you. And the one you’d seen in nightmares.

And still.

Still.

You loved him.

It was like falling off a building you’d already jumped from – the moment your feet left the edge and there was no turning back.

Slowly, reverently, Ben lifted a hand and touched your face. His thumb brushed your cheek like he was checking to see if you were real – like he wasn’t quite sure this wasn’t a daydream where you’d be gone again by morning.

He closed the space between you in a single step, cupping your neck in both hands, almost afraid time could run out and he’d miss his chance.

His mouth crashed against yours.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was raw and full of everything he hadn’t said – all the longing, all the fury, all the years he’d swallowed down like bitter medicine. His hands trembled against your skin, and you kissed him back as if the moment had been waiting for you both.

The universe had cracked open and poured you two together. With force. With purpose.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathless.

A soft chuckle, laced around the edges with disbelief, escaped with a breath out. “You know, I always thought that if you ever said those words, it’d be after I rescued you from a burning building or carried you out of enemy fire. Not-, you know, the hallway after my father calls me a waste of space.”

You smiled a little at his joke while your heart sank at the message it tried to cover. Your hands slid up his chest and around his neck, fingers playing with soft strands of hair, nails scraping along skin.

“You’re not weak, you know?” you said, Ben’s eyes snapping to you, widening for a mere second. His brow twitched with a crinkle of disbelief. “You’re not stupid. You're strong... and kind... and smart. You’re a good man. And I love you exactly for who you are.”

Ben exhaled sharply, emerald eyes staying on you. His mouth pressed into a tight, pained line. And for a moment, he just looked at you like he was trying to memorize the way you said those words.

Your heart was thrashing in your chest, your stomach dropping somewhere below the floorboards, but you offered him the barest of smiles. “And yeah, maybe I like to keep you on your toes a little.”

“You really do.” He huffed a laugh, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “God, you do.”

His lips met yours – no hesitation, no space, no breath. Just fire. His large hands gripped your waist, dragged you against him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like the sound of your confession had set him off like a match to gasoline.

No teasing. No build-up. Just raw, unfiltered need.

You moaned into his mouth as he backed you into the wall, lips devouring, tongue sweeping in like he couldn’t get enough – like he never had and never would.

His hands were everywhere, sliding up your sides, curling around your hips, tugging you closer like he couldn’t stand another inch of space between you. He was rough and reverent all at once, palms mapping flesh like a man starving for it. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers tangling in his hair, heart slamming against your ribs.

His kiss was all tongue and teeth, sucking at your bottom lip like he wanted to ruin you. Ben then broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. You smiled, dizzy and aching.

You searched his eyes, your voice barely a whisper, wrecked and breathless. “You think-, uhm, you think I can stay in your bedroom tonight?”

Ben stared at you for half a second, then smiled – crooked, hungry, and so full of something deeper it made your stomach flip. He looked at you like he’d dreamt those words a thousand times.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d love that, sweetheart.”

Then he reached down, interlacing his fingers with yours – steady, sure. Without another word, he led you toward his room. No rush. No hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of a man who’d been waiting for this moment since the second he met you.

Ben’s hand stayed in yours as he led you through the quiet house. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. Every brush of his thumb over your knuckles said enough.

The rest of the mansion was asleep. But your pulse? Wild and awake.

Ben led you into his room like a secret he’d been aching to keep. The door shut behind you with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have, your hand slipping out of his.

Suddenly, the silence felt heavier, almost sacred. The dim light from the moon outside cut across the floorboards, and the faint scent of tobacco and cedar hung in the air. This was his space – messy, masculine, lived-in.

A lamp flickered to life – soft, amber light pooling low from a desk near the far wall. Books, worn paperbacks with bent corners, were stacked unevenly on the nightstand. Jazz records lined the shelf above a modest phonograph. The dark green quilt on his bed looked like something his mother might’ve sewn years ago and he never had the heart to throw it out.

It was the first time you saw his edges dulled.

You stood near the door, heart a riot in your chest. You’d kissed him. You’d told him the one truth you hadn’t barely dared to say to yourself until tonight. You let out a slow breath and turned toward the bookshelf like it might anchor you. Your fingers skimmed the spines.

Ben leaned back against the door for a beat, watching you in the low light. Then he smiled. Not the cocky smirk he wore like a jacket most days. This one was slow, knowing, edged with a kind of quiet wonder.

“Snooping for secrets already? You walk in here and start looking at my bookshelf like you’re trying to read me.”

“Maybe I am,” you said cheekily, glancing at him over your shoulder. But your smile was nervous, your fingers twisting together, fidgeting. He noticed.

Ben pushed off the door and crossed the room slowly, his steps careful across the creaking floorboards. He came to stand behind you. Not touching, not pushing – just close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back. But you felt the shift in the air, like he was circling, waiting, watching.

His voice, when he spoke again, was low and warm as bourbon in your ear. “You know, you don’t have to be nervous.”

Easier said than done.

“I know.” You huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe I’m still hoping you’ll talk me out of it.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” An amused smile grazed his lips. “That’s not really my specialty.”

You swallowed as he stepped even closer, eyes locked on yours. There was a heat in his gaze now, something molten and dangerous. He stopped just short of touching you again, like he was giving you one last chance to walk away.

But you didn’t.

You turned to face him fully, seeing the slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he didn’t want to scare you with too much charm. He closed the final gap and cupped your cheek, thumb tracing the soft curve beneath your eye.

“Gotta say, that was probably one of the wildest dinners I’ve ever experienced in this house,” Ben joked lightly, trying to calm your jittering nerves a little. “You sure all you did was listen to my mother?”

A grin spread on your face, teeth tugging at your lower lip. “I might have asked one or two thought-provoking questions…”

Ben chuckled, the sound warm and deep in his chest. “Yeah, you’re good at that.”

“I’m sorry I kind of riled up your mother and derailed dinner,” you said but could hardly hide the smile.

“Don’t be,” Ben said with a small laugh, but then his face turned more serious, palm warm against your cheek. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. What he said in the study. You’re not just some girl to me. You know that, right?”

You nodded. You believed him. Even now, with your pulse racing and your skin burning, you believed him.

And then Ben kissed you like he meant to ruin you for anyone else. Slow at first – just lips and breath and the lazy drag of time stretching between your bodies. But then he coaxed your mouth open with a low groan, hands sliding down your back to anchor you to him. You gasped into the kiss as his hips pressed flush to yours.

“You been holding out on me, you know that?” His lips grazed your cheek, the line of your jaw, down to your throat. “All that time pretending you didn’t want this.”

“I didn’t,” you said, breath hitching. “I mean, I did. But I was trying not to.”

His mouth brushed your collarbone, all smug and sin. “Yeah, I noticed. But here’s the thing – now that you’re here? In my room? Saying things like you love me? You might’ve just started something you can’t walk away from.”

He kissed you slowly – more tender than before. His hands moved like he was memorizing you. Your ribs, your spine, the dip of your hips. He wanted to learn you by heart. And every place he touched made you feel more grounded, more here.

“But you know, you don’t have to,” he said softly then, seriously. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. I meant it when I said you could stay. Just stay.”

“I know.” You nodded, swallowing. “But I want to. There’s just something I want you to know first.”

You looked up at him, your breath shaking, and leaned in close – so close your lips brushed against the shell of his ear as you stretched on tiptoes. And then you whispered the most personal thing about you.

Your real name.

The syllables tasted both foreign and familiar on your tongue. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Of trust. Of meaning. Of everything you hadn’t said before.

His lips curved into that crooked, brazen smile – the one he always used when he didn’t want you to know what he truly felt.

“Yeah, that suits you a lot better than the other,” he said, lips ghosting over yours. “Secret’s safe with me, sweetheart.”

You smiled shyly. “You’re not gonna ask more questions?”

“No.” He shook his head, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and murmured, “I don’t care where you came from or why you don’t talk about it. I just care that you’re here. With me.”

All that tension you’d been carrying for weeks cracked open between you like lightning splitting the sky. And then, his mouth was on yours again, hungrier this time, no hesitation. Just heat. Just want. A coaxing, intoxicating rhythm, like he was trying to draw every last ounce of hesitation from your body and replace it with pleasure.

Your bodies fitted together with maddening ease. You kissed him back just as fiercely, arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his shirt like you’d fall if you let go. He whispered your name between kisses like it was an oath he meant to keep. He was tasting it, memorizing it, falling into it.

And when his lips found your neck, trailing heat along your skin, your knees nearly buckled.

“Let me take care of you,” he muttered, mouth brushing just under your ear. His hands grazed your arms, then trailed to your back, fingertips featherlight along your spine until they found the zipper. He leaned in, lips near your ear. “Turn around for me.”

You did, heart thudding wildly as your back faced him. You felt his body press behind you, firm and hot and steady. His hands slid over your sides, settling on your waist. Then came the kiss to your shoulder. Another at the base of your neck.

Once. Twice.

You felt the agonizingly slow tug of your zipper like he was unwrapping something rare, revealing just enough to make your skin prickle with heat. His knuckles skimmed down your spine, and you gasped when his mouth followed, kissing between your shoulder blades, then your lower back.

He wasn’t rushing. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying the wait. Every kiss he pressed to your spine loosened you more, drove you crazy with need.

“Christ,” he rasped behind you. “You have no idea what you do to me. You know, I’ve imagined this… What you’d look like in here. What you’d sound like.” His voice roughened as he spoke, “I want to take my time. Want to hear you gasp when I touch you just right. Want to see your face when you fall apart.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The dress slipped past your hips, pooling at your feet in a soft whisper. You didn’t move to step out of it yet. You couldn’t. You felt too seen. Too bare. And yet, his hands were still gentle – one smoothing up your arm, the other tracing your waist.

Ben didn’t pull away. No, he pressed closer, one hand splayed low on your stomach, the other gently cupping your jaw to turn your face back toward his.

“You’re beautiful,” he said against your cheek. “But that’s not why I want you.”

He turned you slowly to face him again, gaze roaming your figure, half-lidded and devout, as if he was seeing you for the first time, and you were made of something breakable.

“I want you because you’re smart. Sharp. Trouble.” He smirked against your lips, teasing, coaxing, tempting.

He kissed you then. Deeper now, fuller. The kind of kiss that made the world blur around you. The heat curled between you two like a flame, your hands impatiently fumbling at his belt like you were already ablaze.

But Ben stilled them, gently catching your wrists.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispered, one brow arched in amusement. “Don’t rush. I’m not some boy fumbling in the dark. And you’re not some quick thing I’m gonna forget. This goes how I want it to go, and I want you to feel everything.”

You swallowed thickly. Jesus fucking Christ, you’d signed your own death warrant by coming into this room, hadn’t you?

It wasn’t like you’d never suspected how this would go. Oh no, it had always been more than a sneaking suspicion. You’d caught his older counterpart in enough compromising positions with even more questionable people. You’d heard the stories, both from young and old. About coat check rooms and closets and God knows what else.

No, you knew what you were getting into. Sort of. The real thing was still wilder, bolder, more thrilling than you’d ever imagined.

His thick, long fingers brushed your cheek, then your throat, then down between your heaving breasts. He smirked, looking down at you. “Me first.”

And then, the hand on your back unclasped your brassiere with an easy flick of his wrist, the straps sliding off your shoulders and down your arms, soft cotton and lace falling away. His tongue licked the smile off his lips, his green eyes fixed on your tits like they were something sacred he was about to worship.

“Christ, look at you.” He grinned, brushing his knuckles under them like he was testing gravity itself. “I should send a goddamn thank-you letter to the stars for you. What else you keepin’ from me, sweetheart?”

He dragged his thumb across your nipple, eyes darkening. He leaned in then, kissed the swell of the other one, smirk deepening as you shivered and whimpered.

“Ben–” You held in a moan as he hummed against your throat. “I’m close to internally combusting.”

And God, you were soaking wet. It was almost embarrassing since he had barely touched you at any of the spots that usually did it for you. No one had ever made you feel this way.

Your plea made him chuckle warmly against your lips, just hovering, not giving in. “I like you impatient.”

“Ben–”

Your protest was cut off by one searing kiss. His eyes roamed you, deliberate and dark with hunger – worship and want, equal parts sin and salvation.

“You want me to be gentle?” he asked before his voice dipped, gravel and smoke. “Or you want it rough? Let me ruin you a little?”

“Fuck,” was the answer you breathed out.

He grinned, wicked and wrecked. “Thought so.”

This time, you claimed his lips, needy and close to starving. “I want you,” you said breathlessly. “However you want me.”

That was all it took.

Ben guided you backward till you sat on the bed, your palms feeling the soft sheets underneath.

And then he fucking knelt.

Right between your legs, spreading them inch by inch as warm, large hands trailed up your thighs, squeezing taut flesh as they went. He kissed your knee, then the soft skin above it. Then another, higher still.

“Want you to know something,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy smile creeping across his face. His eyes met yours, your hands carding through his hair, eager to get him where you needed him most.

He was slow poison through and through.

“I’ve dreamed about this. Wondered if you’d ever let me touch you like that. Taste you,” he continued, voice like silk and sin.

His palm climbed up to your waist, higher and higher till it grabbed a handful of your tit. Squeezed. Groped. You gasped, legs shaking underneath his grip as calloused fingers rubbed and pinched your pebbled nipple between them.

You let your head fall back, lips parting, breath stuttering, hair like spilled ink on the mattress. You waved your white flag. This was your swan song.

“I’ve imagined unzipping that dress with my bare teeth.” Ben kissed the hollow of your thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your underwear. You could feel the smugness on his lips. “Sliding my hands over every inch of you until you stopped pretending you didn’t want it just as bad.”

His fingers tightened slightly at your waist, like he was grounding himself, keeping his control on a leash.

“I wanted to ruin you since the second I saw you,” he breathed. “With my hands. My mouth. My cock. All of it. I wanted you soaked and begging.”

You sucked in a breath, unbearable tension curling tight beneath your skin.

“Waited to hear you breathe like this,” he whispered, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. “To feel you tremble when I touch you.” His lips brushed the inside of your thigh. “To make you mine in every way a man can possibly want. I want to know how you sound when you break for me.”

That shouldn’t have made your heart stutter. But it fucking did.

His hands wandered beneath the last bit of lace and silk you were still wearing, worshiping the lines and curves of your thighs like they were sacred text and he was a man long denied prayer.

He slid your underwear down with infuriating gentleness.

“You’re soaked, sweetheart… and I haven’t even kissed you there yet.” Then he paused just long enough to look up at you again, eyes dark with want, but still asking.

When you nodded, he grinned like the devil.

“Good girl.”

And then he was fucking on you.

Time blurred. You lost sense of everything except the press of his sinful lips, the drag of his massive hands, the rhythm he built and broke and built again until your whole body trembled beneath him. He made you fall apart slowly, then all at once, like he’d known exactly how to unravel you from the start.

And Ben goddamn watched you. Every flicker of your reaction. Every shiver. Every breath. He adjusted to you, read you like a language only he understood.

And when your hips began to rise into his mouth, when the tension wound so tight it felt like your whole body might snap from the pleasure of it – he never fucking let up. He held you there, devoured you, groaned like he was drunk on the taste of you.

“Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on,” he said, mouth wet and warm against your clit.

The high hit like a wave, dragged from you slow and hard and deep until you were gasping, boneless, shattered. You reached for him blindly, fingers digging into his arms, his scalp, thighs clenching on his shoulders.

“God, look at you,” he said, crawling back up your body, his mouth slick with proof of your surrender. “You’re fucking perfect.”

His lips sought yours, tasting you like he hadn’t already just had everything. Your hands found his chest, the ridges of muscle underneath his shirt, pulling him in with a desperation that surprised even you.

Ben caught your hand and kissed your wrist, then your palm. “You still want this?” he asked, voice hoarse, his restraint visibly fraying.

You bit your lip, nodding helplessly, and he smiled as he kissed your fingers, then brought your hand down to rest against the bulge in his pants.

He was thick and firm and aching for you.

You squeezed your eyes shut tightly for a beat before you witnessed the wrecked look on his faintly freckled face.

“Feel that?” he asked softly, voice warm and rough and trembling at the edges. “That’s what you do to me.”

Then, he stood up, his gaze locked on yours, and he began undressing in front of you.

Slow.

Confident.

Every movement deliberate.

You watched him unbutton his shirt like he knew the effect each flick of fabric was having on you until it slid off his broad shoulders and onto the floor.

Then came the belt.

He undid the buckle with the kind of composure that made your throat dry. Like he wanted you to feel every beat of anticipation between each soft clink that echoed off the walls. His pants followed, unhurried all the same till he finally kicked them off.

And then he stood bare and beautiful in the flickering lamplight, lean muscle and heat and a low, knowing smile that made your stomach flip. There was something timeless about him in that moment. Like something carved from firelight and dark earth. A god pretending to be a man.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” Ben said, stepping closer again, a smile of amusement playing on his lips. “You’re staring, sweetheart.”

“Uh-huh.”

Yeah, your brain had gone on vacation at this point.

His cock was long and thick and pulsing, head red and leaking, waiting to wrap itself in you and erupt.

“Still nervous?”

But you shook your head, giving him a soft smile as you found his green eyes. “No, I want you. Want you inside of me.”

Ben leaned in, catching your lips for a kiss, his gaze darkening, hand tangling in your hair at the back of your head. “Yeah? Want more? Want me stretchin’ you wide, sweet girl?”

“Ben, please…” Your words were half a plea, half a prayer.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He shushed you gently. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you,” he said, kneeling back on the bed, crawling over you again like a promise, pressing you into the mattress as he kissed his way up your body.

“Tell me when it’s too much,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. “Tell me when it’s not enough.”

You exhaled a strangled breath, a quiet plea caught in the back of your throat, and his mouth curled into a smile against your stomach.

“You wanted me to learn something? Well, I’m going to learn you,” he rasped, kissing higher, past your ribs, past your tits, past your collarbone. “Every sound, every shiver. I’ll know what makes you cry out and what makes you beg, sweetheart.”

His nose dragged along your throat, and then his mouth claimed yours with a bruising force. You felt his throbbing length press against your stomach, between your thighs, hot and heavy and unashamedly ready. He groaned into the kiss, hungry and feral.

Your hands reached for him without thought, fingers skimming the soft lines of his chest, the hard edge of his jaw. He nudged your thighs apart gently with his knee, lips dragging across your neck, your shoulder, the slope of your breast.

And then, with that same careful, aching control, he pushed into you.

The air left your lungs in a single, broken gasp of his name.

Pressure. Stretch. Fullness.

Ben groaned, low in his throat, forehead pressing against yours as he bottomed out. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, and maybe he was.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed into your shoulder, sharp teeth grazing your neck. “God, you feel so good. So goddamn tight. So wet for me.”

And then he began to move.

Slow. Deep. Unforgiving in the best way. He thrust into you like he knew what you needed before you could say it, hips rolling with a confidence that left your toes curling and your brain short-circuiting.

And yet he still teased – still whispered things that made your cheeks burn and your thighs shake. “You like that, sweetheart?” he murmured against your ear. “Still think I’d wait this long, want you this badly, if this was just some fling?”

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You barely managed to shake your head as you arched into him, legs wrapped around his waist, chasing the edge he kept just barely out of reach. Every gasp, every helpless little cry pulled from your throat was an answer.

Your body opened to him like you were made to fit around him, like you’d been waiting for this exact moment your whole life and everything before had just been a poor imitation of what it meant to be filled like this – held like this.

“Ben,” you gasped, nails raking down his back.

He hissed, pace stuttering for a moment – like you’d hit a nerve he hadn’t expected.

He fucked you harder then. A little rougher. Just enough to make the headboard creak and the bed shudder beneath you. And still, his mouth stayed on yours – kissing you through every moan, every cry, every stammer of breath.

His kisses were just as hard as the snap of his hips – needy, grateful, desperate. He moved inside you, dragged his cock through your walls like he was chasing salvation.

It was all teeth and tongue now, urgent and primal, like he’d waited long enough and couldn’t stand another second of holding back.

“Just like that,” he groaned against your lips. “That’s it. You’re doing so good, baby.”

His thrusts slowed only just enough for you to breathe, hand finding yours on the bed, threading his fingers between yours like it was instinct.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he husked, eyes locking with yours. “Taking me like you were made for it.”

“Fuck–” Your breath stuttered when he adjusted the angle slightly, only driving deeper into you. “Feel so good…”

“Yeah? Feel that stretch? That heat? That fullness?” He smirked devilishly against your jaw, but his voice was just as wrecked and ruined as yours. “All you, sweetheart. That’s what you do to me.”

His words melted something inside you, dissolved that last flicker of resistance, that echo of fear still whispering in the corners of your mind. You arched into him, mouth catching his in a kiss that was more desperation than grace.

He chuckled against your lips. “That’s it. Give it to me. Everything you’ve been holding back.”

You were too far gone to reply, seeing the pearly gates of Heaven, Saint Peter, Jesus, and fucking God herself.

“Want you to remember this,” he whispered, deep voice rough and broken. “Every time you close your eyes. I want you to remember how I make you feel. How I take care of you. How no one else even comes close.”

Something inside you broke then and you fell apart.

You shuddered around him with a cry you couldn’t hold back, stars bursting behind your eyelids as everything snapped apart and came back together in the shape of his name.

“Shit–”

Ben cursed low and dark at the feel of you tightening around him, grinding deep as his rhythm fell apart, muttering your name, your real name, like a prayer. Hips stuttered, a desperate, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he followed you into the fire, spilling hot and heavy into you.

The world went quiet after that.

Just the two of you. Tangled together, sweat-slick and panting, your hearts thudding in sync. You felt the weight of him settling over you. Not crushing. Not heavy. Just perfect.

Full.

Slowly, Ben lifted his head, brushing his nose against yours. His eyes were still dark, but softer now. His fingers brushed your damp hair back from your face, caressed your cheeks with a tenderness that didn’t match the way he’d just wrecked you – like a man who could build and break with equal skill.

He kissed the top of your head – steady, worshipful, possessive as if he knew he owned every part of you now. “You okay?”

You nodded, smiled breathlessly. “More than okay.”

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not done with you yet.” He smirked that lazy, crooked smile again. “I meant it,” he said then, pulling back just enough to look at you. “All of it. I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers drifting up into his hair. “Me neither,” you whispered and placed a chaste kiss to his lips.

Something flickered behind his green eyes. Wonder. Hunger. A softness you’d never seen in anyone before, let alone someone like him.

Ben didn’t move right away. Just stayed there – still inside you, still wrapped around you, like you were something holy he hadn’t quite figured out how to pray to yet.

When he finally eased out of you carefully, you hissed softly at the sensitivity. He murmured something apologetic against your skin, kissing the hollow of your throat before pulling you into his chest.

You could still feel the echo of his mouth between your legs, the stretch of his cock, the hum of it throbbing inside you like a secret he branded into your bones.

Ben wrapped his arms around you and kissed your temple, sighing and tucking you closer. “You better get used to this room, sweetheart. There’s no chance in Hell, I’m letting you sleep down the hall anymore.”

That earned him a breathy laugh from you. “No?”

“Nope,” he said, entirely too smug. “I’ve waited too damn long. I’m going to ruin you – nicely. Thoroughly. Respectfully.”

You snorted, and he grinned against your hair.

But God help you because he surely made good on that promise all through the night.

▶️ Chapter 9: As Time Goes By

I honestly have to say I was so happy he finally got what he wanted. He really has been waiting for this since Chapter 1 😂 I hope you guys enjoyed this! For a while, I had a phase again where I really hated writing smut, but there's just something so pure about two characters exploring one another for the first time that makes it a lot more fun ❤️‍🔥

Only two more chapters in 1942. Get ready, loves!

Coming Up:

“You know, we’ve got plans, you and me,” Ben said suddenly.

“What kind of plans?” you asked, brow raised, shifting a little to look up at him.

“I said I’d figure out a way out of that hellhole for both of us. I still mean it,” Ben said, deep voice untypically hesitant like he was testing the idea out loud for the first time. “I’ve been looking at houses.”

You sat up a little, your heart pounding like a demolition hammer, throat dry. “You-, uh, you have?”

Ben nodded and smiled. “There’s one I keep going back to. Found it last week, and I don’t know… Feels right. I think you’d like it. Needs some work, though. A lot of work, actually… The porch steps need replacing, the roof’s a mess, and the windows rattle like a haunted saloon.”

“So perfect, then.”

“Perfect,” he echoed.

You were speechless. You’d never suspected he’d been dreaming behind your back. But you wanted to answer. God, you wanted to say yes and kiss him senseless and let the night carry you straight into forever. But reality tugged like a thread at the edge of your dress.

The part of you that lived in spreadsheets and time travel formulas wanted to tell him that buying a house with a girl who could theoretically be ripped out of this timeline at any moment was probably not a sound financial decision.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

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gacougnol · 6 months ago

Text

Rosalind Maingot (1894-1957)

"Window Light" 1942

#rosalind maingot

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luciemggio · 20 days ago

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It’s a Love Story, Baby Just Say Yes

Pairing: 40’Bucky Barnes x f’reader

Setting: Brooklyn, New York, 1940, the story takes place before Bucky enlisted, then after he came back thanks to Steve from the Hydra base and also before he joined the Howling Commando and fell of the train.

Warnings: none

Summary: You fall for Bucky Barnes in the 1940s. Your parents forbid it, but you fight for your love. In the end, they give their blessing, and you marry Bucky on the beach — simple, free, and forever.

Author’s note: tell me if you want a part 2, where she is also captured by Hydra and in which they are reunited in modern world….I might do it !!

Here’s part 2 !!!!

The summer of 1942 in Brooklyn was honey-warm and full of promises that dared to bloom beneath the threat of war. The jazz clubs still played deep into the night, girls wore red lipstick like armor, and the boys—some barely men—talked of Europe and honor and the draft as if it were inevitable.

You weren’t supposed to fall in love with James Buchanan Barnes.

Not when your father was a high-ranking colonel in the U.S. Army, and certainly not when he was already eyeing you for a politically sound engagement with the son of another officer. One who wore polished shoes and spoke like ambition was something he breathed.

But then there was Bucky.

And Bucky looked at you like he’d been waiting for you his whole life.

It started on a June afternoon. You’d slipped away from the Navy Yard social to get some air. You hated those parties — the way everyone watched everyone, the way smiles were masks, and your father’s voice would always find you in the crowd, sharp and commanding:

“Don’t embarrass the family, sweetheart.”

You wandered too far and ended up in a nearby alley where the noise dulled to nothing and the only sound was the quiet click of your heels on the pavement. That’s when you saw him. A boy with a tilted cap, rolled-up sleeves, and a grin that could melt iron.

He was leaned against a brick wall, lighting a cigarette, and he caught your eye with a devilish sort of curiosity.

“Lost, sweetheart?” he asked, voice smooth as scotch.

“I could ask you the same,” you shot back, chin high.

His laugh was soft and easy. “Name’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

“(Y/N) (L/N),” you replied, hesitating only a second before offering your hand.

He didn’t kiss it, but he looked at it like it was something sacred. The first moment you knew you were in trouble.

After that, you found reasons to escape the polished halls of privilege. You met him on rooftops and fire escapes, at soda shops and quiet bookstores. He told you about the guys he ran around with — Steve, mostly, a skinny kid with a heart too big for his chest — and you told him about the cage you lived in, all gilded and suffocating.

“I feel like a doll in a glass case,” you murmured once.

He didn’t laugh. He just looked at you with something tender and fierce all at once. “Then we’ll smash the glass.”

And oh, how he made you feel alive.

But secrets don’t stay secrets in Brooklyn for long.

It was your mother who found the note you wrote, slipped under your pillow: “Meet me under the bridge at 7. I’ll bring the strawberry milkshakes.”

The explosion that followed was quiet but cruel. Your father called Bucky a street rat, unfit, reckless. There were threats. You were grounded. You weren’t allowed to leave without a chaperone. Your letters were burned. Your windows locked.

And still, you found ways.

Bucky climbed up the drainpipe once just to see you. You laughed, cried, and kissed him through the screen.

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered against your lips. “Even if you don’t come back.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s not a goodbye,” he said, brushing a tear from your cheek. “It’s a promise.”

But time has a cruel way of unraveling even the strongest threads.

War came faster than anyone thought. Pearl Harbor changed everything.

Bucky enlisted.

You found out in a letter. Not even from him — from Steve, written in clumsy type with careful phrasing. “He didn’t want you to worry,” it said. “He said if he saw your face, he might not be able to leave.”

You cried until your chest ached. And then you dried your tears and did what your mother always told you: “Smile and look lovely.”

But inside, you were a ghost.

Letters came for a time. Crumpled, stained with dust, and full of little nothings:

“They’ve got us in Italy now. The food’s terrible, but I met a guy who sells black market chocolate.”

“I saw a flower that looked like the one you put in your hair that night under the bridge.”

“I dreamt about you again. You were wearing that yellow dress and laughing like you weren’t afraid of anything.”

But then the letters stopped.

And your heart — what little was left — broke.

Two years passed.

The world changed.

Men didn’t come home. Or when they did, they weren’t the same.

You wore black longer than you needed to. You told yourself Bucky was gone. That he’d died like the others — brave and far too young. You said yes to a man you didn’t love, just to escape the weight of your father’s expectations.

The wedding with Charles Whitmore was scheduled for September.

But on a warm August night, you heard your name like a prayer.

You were walking home alone from the church — you’d forgotten your gloves. The street was quiet, the kind of quiet that makes the hairs on your arms rise.

And then:

“(Y/N)?”

You turned.

And there he was.

Tired. Leaner. Covered in the kind of weariness you couldn’t scrub away. But alive.

“Bucky…” you whispered, your breath catching.

He smiled, and it was the same crooked, dazzling thing you remembered. “You look just like I remembered. Better, even.”

You ran to him. It wasn’t graceful — it was desperate. Your arms flew around his neck and his around your waist, and the world spun sideways.

“I thought you were—”

“I almost was,” he murmured into your hair. “But I couldn’t die. Not without seeing you again.”

You kissed him like a starving thing.

And somewhere in the distance, a song played from a passing car:

“Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone…”

You lay on a rooftop before going back to your house, curled up beside him under a thin army blanket. He told you everything. About the Howling Commandos. About Steve, who was gone. About the icy mountains and the pain and the darkness and the nightmares.

And you told him everything too.

Even about the ring.

He held your hand in the dark, tracing the empty skin of your finger. “You don’t have to marry him,” he said.

“My father—”

“I don’t care about your father.”

“I do,” you admitted. “But not enough to lose you again.”

He sat up then, heart in his eyes. “Then come with me. Run away. Right now.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t have a castle, or money, or even a place to sleep tonight. But I love you. And I’m tired of pretending that’s not enough.”

Tears filled your eyes, blurring the stars. “So what now?”

He pulled something from his jacket pocket — a piece of twine, fashioned into a clumsy ring.

“I talked to your father,�� he said suddenly, voice trembling. “Before I came here. I told him I loved you. That I’d marry you with nothing but the shoes on my feet.”

Your heart stuttered.

“What… what did he say?”

“He said no,” Bucky laughed quietly. “But I’m not asking anymore.”

He held out the twine ring.

“Marry me, (Y/N). Marry me and we’ll build a life they never saw coming.”

You laughed through your tears. “It’s a love story, Bucky Barnes…”

He grinned, eyes glittering.

“…and I said yes.”

The next morning

The sun had barely risen when your mother burst into your room. Your windows were open, the curtains fluttering in the soft breeze, and Bucky’s army jacket — creased, warm, and unmistakably masculine — was slung over the back of your vanity chair.

“(Y/N),” she gasped, horrified. “What in God’s name is this?”

You sat up in bed, dazed from sleep, blinking against the light. Then you saw her clutching the jacket in both hands like it was something filthy.

Your heart dropped. “Mama—”

“Don’t you ‘Mama’ me. Don’t lie. Don’t dare lie.” Her voice cracked. “He was here. Last night.”

There was no use denying it. The truth was already in the air, thick and humming.

“Yes,” you said softly. “He was.”

Your mother staggered back a step, hand on her chest. “You… you’ve been sneaking him in? Under our roof? You’ve—my God. Are you pregnant?”

“No!” You stood, clutching the blanket to your chest. “Mama, please listen—”

At that moment, your father entered, already halfway into his uniform, newspaper in hand, brows furrowed. “What’s all this noise—?”

“She’s been hiding him!” your mother snapped. “James Barnes! The soldier boy from the slums! In our home!”

Your father’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch. “Is that true?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

“I asked you a question,” he barked.

“Yes. He came back from the war. I—I didn’t know how to tell you.” Your voice trembled. “He’s alive, and I love him.”

“Love?” your father spat. “You think you love him.”

“I do love him.”

“He’s not your equal,” your mother said, voice cold now. “He has no education. No position. You were promised to Charles Whitmore—”

“I don’t love Charles!”

“Love is not the point!” your father shouted. “Marriage isn’t about love, it’s about survival. It’s about building a future. It’s about—”

“What future?” you snapped, stepping forward. “One where I host dinner parties and wear pearls and pretend not to notice when my husband cheats on me with his secretary?”

Your mother gasped.

“You’ll lower yourself,” your father said, quieter now. “You’ll destroy your reputation, and ours. Is that what you want?”

“I want to be happy,” you said, crying now. “For once. I want to wake up and choose the person next to me.”

“He’s a soldier. He won’t stay. They never do.”

“He came back for me!” you shouted. “When he could have run, when he could have disappeared — he came back.”

“Where is he now?” your father asked bitterly.

“Downstairs,” you said defiantly. “He was washing the breakfast dishes.”

Your father stormed down the stairs, boots thudding. You and your mother followed.

Bucky stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hair damp, the soft morning light spilling across his face. He turned when he heard the steps — and stopped cold when he saw your father.

“Colonel,” Bucky said stiffly, drying his hands on a towel.

“You’ve got some nerve walking into my home.”

“I didn’t sneak in,” Bucky said, voice calm. “She let me in. We’ve been writing to each other for two years.”

“You were supposed to be dead.”

Bucky flinched — just slightly.

“I got lucky,” he said.

My father stepped closer, voice like a blade. “You want my daughter? You think playing the war hero makes you worthy of her?”

“No, sir,” Bucky said evenly. “I don’t think I’m worthy. But I love her anyway.”

Your mother scoffed. “This is absurd.”

“No, Mama,” you said. “It’s the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense.”

Your father turned to you. “If you leave with him, you’re disowned. You’ll have nothing.”

“I’d rather have nothing with him than everything without him,” you said.

A long silence followed.

Bucky stepped forward, voice low and shaking but firm. “Sir, I don’t come from much. I never have. I know how this looks to you. But I want to give her a good life. I want to earn your respect. If that means working my hands to the bone, I’ll do it. If it means asking for your blessing every day for the next ten years, I’ll do that too.”

Your father stared at him, unmoving.

“I fought for this country. I watched my friends die for it. I made it home, and I’m not leaving without her.”

Your father’s jaw worked, grinding against everything he’d been taught, every rule that had defined his life.

“She loves you,” he said finally. “I can see that. You’ve got guts, Barnes. I’ll give you that.”

He walked slowly toward Bucky.

“If you hurt her, I’ll put you back in the ground myself.”

Bucky nodded once, solemn. “Yes, sir.”

Then, to everyone’s astonishment, your father held out his hand.

“Welcome to the family.”

Coney Island – Early Spring, 1945

The beach was quiet that morning — the sea calm, the boardwalk nearly deserted. It was off-season, just after the war, before the tourists returned. The world was still catching its breath.

So were you.

The ceremony was set on the pale dunes, beneath an arch made of driftwood and wildflowers you’d picked yourself: baby’s breath, cornflowers, white roses tied with navy blue ribbon. No gold, no velvet, no chandeliers. Just sunlight, sand, and the scent of salt in the air.

The ocean lapped gently at the shore behind the altar. Gulls wheeled above. It was everything you’d hoped for — simple, honest, free.

You stood behind a weathered linen screen while your mother helped you fasten the last pearl button on your dress. Her eyes were wet, her hands a little shaky.

“You’re so much like your grandmother,” she whispered. “Stubborn. Wild. Beautiful.”

You turned to face her. “You’re not angry anymore?”

She smiled — really smiled. “No. I was afraid. But I see now… he makes you brave.”

You stepped forward and hugged her, letting yourself cry. You didn’t care if the mascara smudged.

Bucky stood at the front, barefoot in the sand, wearing a gray waistcoat with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled just enough to show the curve of his forearms. Steve stood beside him, tall and proud in a dark blue suit — a quiet best man, his smile soft with emotion.

Bucky’s hair was neatly combed, though the breeze kept ruffling it in that charming, boyish way. When he caught sight of you — finally — stepping out from behind the screen and onto the sand with your father at your side, he stopped breathing.

So did everyone else.

You walked slowly, the hem of your dress skimming the surf, veil fluttering behind you. The sunlight caught the delicate beads sewn into the bodice — ones you’d sewn yourself in the evenings after dinner — and made them sparkle like stars.

As you passed the rows of chairs, filled with only the people who mattered — your mother, teary but proud; your father, holding his wife’s hand tightly; Steve, beaming like he could burst — you felt weightless.

You reached Bucky, and he took your hand like it was instinct.

“Hi, doll,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly.

“You waited,” you whispered back.

“I always would.”

The officiant — a gentle-voiced priest who had baptized you as a baby — cleared his throat. His cassock flapped softly in the sea breeze.

“We are gathered here, not in a cathedral of grandeur, but in the cathedral of God’s greatest creation — nature. Before wind, water, and witness, we celebrate a vow, a promise of forever between two souls who refused to be parted.”

You and Bucky turned to face each other, hands linked, thumbs brushing together.

“James,” the priest said. “Do you take (Y/N) to be your wife — to love, protect, and cherish — in war and in peace, in sorrow and in joy, from now until your last breath?”

Bucky nodded, eyes locked on yours.

“I do. I swear it.”

The priest turned to you. “And (Y/N), do you take James to be your husband — to walk beside him, through every storm and sunrise, through doubt and through devotion, for as long as your soul may sing his name?”

Your voice shook.

“I do. With everything I am.”

#sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #james bucky buchanan barnes #sebastian stan x you #bucky barnes fluff #sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #marvel #bucky barnes angst

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polyhymniae · 21 days ago

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adult. she/they. no concepts!!! here to simply geek out. i don't use the terms "manifesting," "shifting" or any alike verbs. short list of lives below...

I : FAVORED BY THE DEVILS

[DOROHEDORO.] born between boundaries; magic and mud, flesh and smoke. after years of living quietly she is outed as a sorceress and coerced into the service of the notorious En family. her principle of nonviolence sets her at odds with just about everyone— she cannot close her eyes to the needless bloodshed caused by the family feud with the Cross-Eye gang, much less watch a childhood friend revel in it. and just as matters could not worsen any further— by the devils' will or plain bad luck, the burning one finds her again in his ruin, reeling from death and disgrace.

II : VEINS OF HONEY, CITY OF ROT

[F&H2: TERMINA.] she boards the train with weary hands and a suitcase too light for how heavy her heart feels. her coat is neatly pressed, her gloves hand-stitched, and in her pocket: a silver watch that hasn’t ticked since the armistice. the man sitting across from her is of single-minded focus, traveling north with a loaded gun and grim purpose. she's only passing through, trying to regroup with lost family. but this land is forsaken, merciless— and promises to raise a personal hell on earth for all, regardless of innocence. [1942.]

III : LATE NIGHT WALTZ

[HP PRISONER OF AZKABAN.] by nature, she is a seer. by philosophy, she disavows the very concept. no crystal balls, no tarot... she says the dream of life flows effortlessly, soft as breath and just as impossible to hold. her visions arrive when they please, and she lets them pass through her like wind through open windows. at hogwarts, she quietly bears the guise of a MACUSA liaison—a convenient pretense hiding dangerous truths. the Death Eaters move in silence. so does she. [1993.]

V : SHE CAME BEARING THE GOLDEN DAWN

[LOTR X ATLA.] in place of a name, epithets are offered—tentatively, reverently. in lieu of form, this being is depicted in art and song as a golden light, or else an amorphous crimson shape. some debate she is already among us, wearing the guise of a bird or a wildcat. she shows herself only to one man—keen-eyed, war-worn, and restless. in his dreams she walks, shyly, perhaps even playfully. the dreams come more often now... he both anticipates and dreads the day she is made flesh. [TA 3018 OCTOBER.]

VII : JOE & PEACH

[1920, CALIFORNIA. SILENT FILM ACTRESS.] once a travelling vaudeville act, now the nation's favorite couple. she’s quick with a wink and quicker with a getaway; he’s all charm, wit, and perfectly timed pratfalls. as leading man and lady, they tumble through comedies, romances & perilous adventures in spotlight and on celluloid. they never give away their secrets—not the mechanics behind their death-defying stunts, nor the truth of what happens when the cameras stop rolling. their timing is flawless, their chemistry electric—and no one can quite agree where the act ends and real life begins.

unpictured is the MOON WR, a collection of memoirs and personal effects from other lives. an area of reflection. (also, we cook ideas here.)

currently cooking: the eyes. (15th century astronomer) the ornament. (cyberpunk 2077) the jeweler. (baldur's gate 3) the mystic. (golden kamuy) the bound. (trigun) the painter. (jjba golden wind) the delivery girl. (kiki's delivery service) the selkie. (1980's ireland) the saboteur. (ffvii)

there are plenty more lives that i have indexed elsewhere but the ones above are active atm!

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sxveme-2 · 24 days ago

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Dance With Me Tonight // Bucky Barnes

MASTERLIST

DESCRIPTION:

"ᴀ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ᴍ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴀꜰʀᴀɪᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ɪᴛ."

After you lose the beat in your heart, what happens next? What happens when your heart is splintered in two, and no one in the world can put it back together now that the only person who could have is dead? Can life go on? Can a person keep living when their lungs' breath is stolen?

Ninety years ago, Clara Phillips lost the very light in her eyes. The gentle girl began to rot from the inside out, corroding in on herself until all she spat was venom from the forked tongue of a snake. HYDRA stole the girl away from the small slice of solace she had secluded herself to and turned her into their own personal snake in the grass—their Black Mamba. Brainwashed and tortured beyond recognition, Clara took on the mantle of Anastasia—HYDRA’s secret weapon and the Winter Soldier’s knife in his back pocket.

Only when HYDRA falls does a girl with a broken mind and a destroyed spirit escape. Not Clara, not Anastasia, but someone else. A girl with a ruptured mind searching for small pieces of herself to put back together—all while her heart ached and pulsed for a singular man that her now broken mind did not know.

Follow Clara as she stumbles through the world around her, searching for a man, or myth, that could sew the torn stitches of her heart back together again.

DISCLAIMER: My works are only published here on Wattpad, Tumblr and AO3; thank you!I do not own any original characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Studios and Marvel Comics. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else. This work handles mature things such as nudity, sexual content, emotional distress and trauma. Do not read if you are not comfortable with these. I am not responsible for your media consumption and what you choose to read. This fanfiction is semi-canon compliant; there will be a deterrence in certain points to fit the story.

STATUS: Unedited

Chapter Six

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 2549

August 31st, 1942

He kissed me today. On August 31st, 1942, James Buchanan Barnes kissed me. And it wasn’t a flippant kiss that meant nothing, that was just an impulsive move on his end. But a real kiss, with his hands on my cheeks, lips against mine. There was a shared heat with our bodies as close as they were and I felt the blush rise through my entire body. It was odd—I’ve been kissed before, but not like this. There was something much deeper in this kiss.

Him and I had gone to see a film, and then grab a scoop of ice cream at the fair before I had to get home. I have a shift in the morning at the hospital, but it all seemed to be unimportant when Bucky had his arms around me and his lips on mine. There were so many things unsaid between the two of us, building and bubbling for years, only now coming out.

I’ve loved Bucky for years, and now I have him at my fingertips.

“You’re kidding!” Mary’s voice screeched from over the phone, leaving Clara in a small fit of giggles in her bed. She twirled the cord around her finger and leaned her head back against the pillow, tugging her lip between her teeth.

It still hadn’t felt real, the way that he felt. She knew that other girls had had Bucky even closer to them, and had felt his hands in places she couldn’t even imagine. She knew the way girls looked at him, and she wouldn’t ever blame them—he was beautiful. She wondered if he kissed the other girls in his life like he had kissed her—was he kissing other girls? Clara’s heart sank to her stomach and churned with anxiety. Maybe she was just another one of his girls.

“I know that silence. You’re contemplating something. Don’t overthink it, Clare! He’s been totally smitten with you for years!” Mary squealed, the giggle in her voice evident that she was just as excited as Clara was.

“You can’t blame me for being nervous! He’s always been such a flirt, how am I supposed to react?” Clara reasoned, staring out the window at the hazy night sky of New York City, “How am I supposed to act normal around him now? This has totally changed the entire dynamic of our friendship! And what about Steve?”

“You’re seriously thinking about Steve and the others when your lifelong crush just kissed you after a date? Oh my God, Clara, you’re ridiculous!”

—

Love was a double edged sword. One could wield it, and create a beautiful dance between two people. Or it could slice too deep, cutting too deep into the body and leaving a wound that was too deep to heal. Slicing through the heart, the blood pumping through the laceration and pooling throughout the body and overcoming the senses. For some, that wound will continue to pulse and quiver until it becomes all too much—for Clara Phillips, Bucky Barnes was that wound.

Her steps were as quiet as a mouse, tapping along the concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse. She nearly slowed to a stop when approaching the entrance, stopping shortly after Sam and Steve walked through the threshold. She felt like she was back in the apartment in Romania, standing just a few feet away from him, away from the arms of the man she loved so dearly. She had seen him in pain, in agony, and in absolute bleak misery. This man had been dealt a hand in life not even the devil should have had access to.

But Clara…Clara was given the matching set. Her deck is painted in obsidian, red diamonds staining the cards and leaving her with the winning hand. She was the cleaner of the Winter Soldiers dirty laundry—the one who set his table for slaughter. The Black Mamba was the snake in the grass that cleared the way for the trained assassin, only ever shedding blood across a blanched canvas when it was too risky to wait. She taught Widows, showed them the best ways—but she couldn’t always recall these moments. Until she met his eyes.

When those deep-ocean blues met the murky brown mud of hers, like the water meeting land for the first time, it felt like an eruption in her mind and soul. Her life from before, their times together and the love they shared. The moments were so tender that it made her blush with even just the thought. He was so beautiful, the type of beauty that couldn’t be replicated, that could never be seen again. The way his lips turned when he spoke, the way his eyes softened or hardened depending on who was around. Now? Now, his eyes were wet and wild—a fearful animal backed into a corner.

“Bucky…” she whispered, walking through the threshold behind Steve, her heart skipping every other beat, “Hi.”

“No…” he shook his head, pursing his lips, “No, no, no, no you’re not supposed to be here. You should be—”

“We don’t have time for that,” Clara interjected, pushing past Steve and bending down next to the disheveled veteran, “We’re in some deep, deep shit, Bucky.”

“What’d I do?”

“Enough,” Steve continued, interrupting the lovers quarrel that was seemingly brewing, “We’re going to need a lot of information out of you, Buck.”

“Yeah, that guy seems like a real talker.” Sam’s quip earned a sharp glare from Clara, and he raised his hands in faux innocence.

Clara twisted to face Bucky again, and it felt like her heart’s wound had begun to gape once more. The blood that pumped spewed from the wound, flooding her senses and mind with nothing but pumping pain and memories of a love that once was. More than anything, she wanted to reach forward and wrap her arms tightly around his thick neck, holding him close until all of the pain in his muscles and body melted away.

The way his lips were chapped, how defeated he seemed—Clara knew this was no Winter Soldier that sat in front of her. This was Bucky, a man entirely destroyed by time and pain. Her heart ached, knowing the pain that haunted his soul. Everything that the two had faced, all that they had endured with one another at each other’s side, even without knowing it. Time had kept them together when even their love was far apart.

“The doctor, he wanted to know about Siberia, where I was kept,” Bucky continued, his eyes locked to Clara’s. It felt comforting, knowing that the two, even after all of these years, found a source of love that kept them together. That kept them from straying too far, “Where…we were kept, actually.”

Clara dropped her eyes to the ground before standing, twisting her body around with her nose pinched between her fingers. Of course—it should have been obvious. Whatever it was the doctor wanted all of this time was just an excuse to get to the others, to have an army of Winter Soldiers on his side. Not even Clara and Bucky could hold them back—no matter how close the two got to it, the group of them together always overpowered the might of the two.

“What? What is he talking about?” Sam questioned, taking alternating glances between the two, “Both of you have got to explain things better and faster—”

“He’s not the only Winter Soldier,” Clara finished, turning back towards the three men, “They created an entire project out of it. They were the most elite death squad, could take down whole countries and you wouldn’t know. I helped train them, so did Bucky. That’s who that Doctor is after, not us. He just needed Bucky as a means to an end.”

“And why not go after you too?” Steve questioned, “You both went through the same thing. Both have the same information.”

Clara took a few steps away from the trio, gnawing at her bottom lip so intensely that the sharp taste of copper exploded on her tongue. It would be easier to tell them, to stop the speculation and just let the truth be free amongst all of them. Clara’s position with HYDRA was a case unlike Bucky’s—she wasn’t just a mere weapon, a killer to tie up their loose ends. No, Clara was their judge, jury, and executioner. The difference is, while you can cock a gun and shoot a bullet with ease—it’s a lot harder to get a snake to sing its song.

“Bucky’s the easier target,” Clara finally answered, the swollen beat of silence becoming too much for her to bear. “Say the words, there’s the Winter Soldier. A snake hides lower in the grass, afterall. A snake requires its charmer to dance.”

“Quit it with the cryptic metaphors, Clara,” Steve snapped, his voice stern enough that Clara immediately turned to face him, ��This isn’t the time.”

“I’m not being cryptic,” Clara shot back, walking towards the others once more, “I wasn’t just HYDRA’s weapon, I was his. My trigger isn’t just words, it’s cadence, tone—it was too dangerous for me to be able to spill HYDRA’s secrets if anyone found out. Want to know why I’m not worried about someone finding out my trigger? Because it can only be him.”

Clara’s voice cracked at nearly each syllable as she pointed at Bucky. Tears stung the reddened eyes of the girl, her jaw shaking and lips trembling with every word. The truth behind how deadly the Black Mamba was bubbled to the surface, why Clara couldn’t remember most of her life and why it seemed everything was locked behind an impenetrable fortress. All of this was because her entire life was hidden behind a few words, only ever to be spoken by James Buchanan Barnes—the Winter Soldier.

She learned this two years ago, shortly before her first mission alongside the other Avengers. She had expressed her worries to Nick Fury, worrying that she could fall into the wrong crowd and they could figure out what was going on with her—what made her tick. The following conversation nearly had her running for the hills, forgetting everything that she had worked for and going back into the life of a nomad, like she was when she was known as Eileen.

“The Doctor must not know. Or he didn’t realize Clara was there,” Sam hypothesized, “So you really meant all those snake charmer jokes, huh?”

Clara rolled her eyes before crossing her arms and giving all three men a once over, “Stark isn’t going to let this go easy. And we need to get to Siberia before that guy does and he wakes up the others. Though, a grey shirt and jeans isn’t really how I imagine Captain America will win in a fight against Iron Man.”

“I’ll make a call.”

Clara’s stomach twisted into knots as Steve backed out of the room, Sam following close behind. A silence that was swollen with unspoken confessions waited to pop—but neither knew who held the pin for it. The blonde took a few steps forward, her tongue darting out to wet her lips before she bent down, pulling the mechanical weight off of Bucky’s arm. She leaned forward and examined his injuries, keeping her eyes off of his. If she caught his gaze, Clara wasn’t sure what she would do.

“You dyed your hair.”

Clara let out a soft chuckle at Bucky’s comment before standing straight up once more. She gave a shake of her head before wiping her hands off on her pants. It wasn’t fair, how easily he spoke and the smoothness of his tone. Even after everything that had happened the last few hours, he managed to make her heart skip a few extra beats. Nothing about this was fair, to either of them.

She had fought tooth and nail to find some sort of peace, finding some sort of solace to keep her own demons at bay. But now, with his skin so close to hers that she could feel the heat that came off of it. So many nights, Clara had lost sleep with the thoughts of him, with the possibility of ever being near him again in a way that was intimate. The two of them together, away from the chaos of their lives and away from the pain that haunted their history.

“I never went a day,” Clara sighed, running a hand through her hair, “I never went a day without thinking about you. Wondering where you were, what you were doing—if you were okay.”

“So you became an Avenger?”

“I did what I had to do to survive,” Clara defended, her back immediately feeling tense, “I was working for a man named Nick Fury—but then I came across Steve. I needed safety, I needed a place where I wasn’t constantly looking over my shoulder. Only recently…Recently that was taken from me.”

“I took everything from you,” Bucky whispered, “They just kept…”

Clara felt nausea creep into her stomach, whispering terrible things to her. The torture Bucky underwent, the things he faced were things that not even Clara could imagine. Her memories were still locked deep in a cage, buried under sand so deep and dense that not even the smallest whisper could slip through. It wasn’t fair—in the most simple of terms, nothing the two faced, together or apart, was fair. They gave their lives for their country, gave their all to a cause they believed in. And now? Now they couldn’t trust their own minds.

It was a burning itch inside of her to drop into his embrace, to fall into arms that she knew could keep her safe, hide her from the cruelty that looked to exploit them at every turn. Silence felt more like a blanket to them rather than something that kept them apart. Now, as their eyes met and her heart pounded, it felt like the rest of the world didn’t matter all that much. The fight that awaited them the moment they stepped out of that door, the way that their lives were going to continue to be forever threatened. Clara couldn’t stop the tears that slipped from her dark eyes, and Bucky seemed to notice.

“You don’t need to blame yourself for that,” Clara argued, shaking her head, “Bucky, what happened to you, I don’t blame you. I blame them.”

Clara reached out a hand to help him to his feet, shivering at the heat his hand sent shooting through her nerves. Everything about Bucky seemed to light the girl on fire, bringing her to life without her even having to reach the grave. He was a walking match, and his flame lit her wick and made her pliable to anything and everything he wanted. The love she had for him was unmistakable—it had beat the test of time.

“You should’ve had a life, lived a life that you wanted—not the one they forced on you,” he argued, reaching his flesh hand up to rest on her cheek, “I…I took that.”

Before her lips could part, before the air between them grew too thick to manage, Sam popped the bubble. His voice echoed across the warehouse that they were ready to go, and she couldn’t allow herself to yield to her heart, not when reality was knocking on her door once again. She pursed her lips and took a step back, the feel of his skin breaking contact leaving an icy wake behind on her delicate skin.

This wasn’t the time to let her heart bleed.

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uwmspeccoll · 1 year ago

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Milestone Monday

The Morse Dry Dock Dial, 1921

New York Movie, 1939

Houses of Squam Light, 1923

Interior, 1925

Self Portrait, 1904

Cape Ann Granite, 1928

Night Windows, 1928

Jo Painting, 1936

Nighthawks, 1942

Cape Cod Morning, 1950

July 22nd marks the birthday of American realist painter and printmaker Edward Hopper (1882-1967). Born in Nyack, New York, Hopper took to art at a young age exploring shadows and shapes through charcoal drawings. By age ten, he started to sign and date his work and, with his parents' encouragement, spent his teen years delving into watercolor and oil painting. Declaring his professional interest in art, Hopper attended the New York School of Art and went on to become a renowned figure in American Realism.

Like many before him, Hopper started his career in commercial illustration to pay the bills but by the late twenties he was supporting himself through showing and selling his paintings. Hopper’s work explores architectural American environments and intimate rural scenes through a lens of solitude. The dramatic moods of his paintings are created through his expertise in capturing light and shadow to convey the subtilties of human experience.

In celebration of the day, we’re sharing Edward Hopper: a catalogue raisonné published in 1995 by Whitney Museum of American Art and edited by art historian Gail Levin (b. 1948). The three-volume catalog is a definitive work on Hopper featuring essays on the artist and hundreds of plates encompassing the entire scope of his career. Scholars will delight at the publication’s inclusion of bibliographic details including provenance and exhibition histories attributed to most pieces.

Read other Milestone Monday posts here.

– Jenna, Special Collections Graduate Intern

#milestone monday #edward hopper #edward hopper a catalogue raisonne #gail levin #whitney museum of american art #oil panting #watercolor #illustration #new york school of art #american realism #birthdays

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hometoursandotherstuff · 8 months ago

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What is going on here? This is a 1942 hacienda style home in Albuquerque, NM. It has 2bds, 2ba, 2,762 sq ft, $290k. I don't know what they were trying to do, architecturally, b/c it's been renovated over the years.

So you enter the main door and there's a step-down open foyer. They put a large rounded rectangular window into the living room wall.

Across from this wall in the small living room, they cut out a long narrow window looking into the dining room.

The dining room is pretty large and they've got wood flooring, then a small lip separating tile flooring in the kitchen.

The kitchen's plain and has a portable island/counter.

The cabinetry isn't bad- it's neutral and I always liked light wood w/black counters, but it really needs a backsplash.

I don't know what's on the other side of that door, but that's a pretty high step.

Glass paned French doors open to bedroom #1.

Getting back to the living room, what is on the other side of the big window?

Well, you step down to this area. I have no idea what it is. They've put in corrugated metal ceilings and I don't know, does this thing hold water?

Whatever this is, it's huge.

On the other end of this room, there's a hall w/a woodburning fireplace in a nook. We also have a door w/a frosted window and some glass block.

Okay, there's a bath in there.

So, this is one of 2 baths.

Take a right at the fireplace and there's a lighted mirror and laundry room.

I have no idea where this hallway is, but it leads to the 2nd bedroom.

Okay, so there's a bedroom and en-suite here.

The shower looks very narrow but it has nice tile.

Then, outside, there's a patio with a pergola.

Some very dry planting beds.

And, over here by the a/c unit, there's a weird, lumpy little fireplace (at least I think it's a fireplace). I'm so confused by this house.

And, finally, here's a car port by the main entrance. 7,405 sq ft lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/4914-Pastura-Pl-NW-Albuquerque-NM-87107/6723654_zpid/?

#wtf houses #architecture #haciendas #houses #house tours #home tours #homes under $300k

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waynes-multiverse · 9 days ago

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Time After Time – Chapter 14

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, violence, smut & attempted assault, 2022 & season 3, Herogasm, SB being his charming self and every (bad) thing that comes with it, drug use & drinking, PTSD, mentions of torture, physics, one-sided pining, injuries, jealousy, ANGST

Word Count: 18.7k

Posted on Patreon June 1, 2025

A/N: This chapter is one wild, chaotic ride and full of angst! Also apologies in advance for that beginning, the middle, and, uh, the end, probably 😂😘

✨ Chapter title inspired by a line in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 14: I’m Going to Have a Lot of Drinks

The motel’s Vacancy sign buzzed outside the window in red neon, casting lazy pulses of light across the cracked walls, the sun-faded window frames, and the worn carpet of the room.

Ben sat on the small bed, barely watching his old movie flicker across the ancient TV. The bed springs creaked beneath you both, your head still resting softly against his arm.

He could hear everything that went on in a motel at 3AM: someone snoring next door, water dripping in a pipe somewhere, the vending machine outside coughing out a can, and a cat yowling by the dumpsters.

But what he focused on most was your breathing. Slow. Steady. Trusting.

You were out like a light. Leaned against him like he wasn’t a monster but just the comfiest pillow in the world.

Your cheek was warm against his bicep, lips softly parted. His arm had gone phantom numb a while ago where your head rested. Your hoodie was bunched up a little around your waist, baring patches of soft and taut skin to his eyes. Your jean shorts hugged your hips like a sin, one bare thigh pressed against his leg, the heat of you bleeding through his sweats.

Ben didn’t know how the fuck this happened. You’d crashed next to him on the creaky motel bed, all attitude and sarcasm one minute – and then you’d gone still.

He hadn’t dared to move since then. Couldn’t if he wanted to. Not even to breathe right.

The movie flared with machine gun fire and patriotic nonsense. A sharp boom shook you awake. You stirred, eyes fluttering as you blinked blearily at the screen.

“There she is. Welcome back to the land of the living.” He looked down at you and met your groggy eyes with a wide smirk. “You were droolin’ on me, sweetheart.”

“Shit. Sorry…” You sat up next to him, shifted just slightly to bring enough space between the two of you again.

Ben almost sighed at the loss.

“Is that… you?” Your gaze drifted back to the TV.

“Yeah, one of the old ones. It’s a classic,” he said, still smiling.

“Aren’t they all?” you retorted, voice still laced with sleep. “Still watching old movies of yourself, huh?”

“It’s called nostalgia.”

“It’s called narcissism,” you quipped with that same sharp tongue. “Is that a railgun?”

“Sure is.” Ben grinned smugly.

“You know, that’s not how electromagnetism works. You’d need a whole substation strapped to your spine,” you noted. “Where the hell would you store that much capacitor power? In your ass?”

Ben gave you an amused look, chuckling. “It’s a movie, Doc. Not a science fair. You get off on ruining dreams? Pretty sure it’s illegal to look that good and talk that nerdy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Flattery? Must be the forty-year dry spell talking.”

Ben laughed lowly. “Yeah? Care to end it? Could volunteer for science, Doc.”

You snorted, but Ben caught how you shifted on the mattress, how your eyes flicked briefly to his mouth. Unconscious, maybe, but still there.

“Careful,” you warned playfully. “I’ve got a thing for self-destructive men with god complexes.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got both,” Ben drawled, spread his legs a little wider, kept his eyes trained on your lips.

And he saw it – the way your thighs pressed together slightly. Subtle, but sure as hell not invisible. Your body gave you away before your brain had caught up.

He knew the fucking signs. Knew them like the back of his hand. Knew what he had to say to get you all hot and bothered.

He deserved nice things, right?

“Wanna find out what else I could do with these hands besides holding a weapon, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught.

Bingo.

“Think about it.” Ben’s smirk deepened, voice low and coaxing, smooth as bourbon. “Haven’t been touched in decades. Haven’t tasted anyone in just as long. Think about how starved I am. How much I’d fuckin’ devour you.”

You didn’t respond, but your fingers twitched against the bedsheet. And Ben saw it – saw it all. Saw the little twitch in your muscles that held back the squirm. Saw the war playing out behind your eyes.

Fight or surrender.

“What? You’re gonna tell me that didn’t do anything for you?” His head cocked, brow lifting. “Because I’m pickin’ up a few signs, sweetheart.” His voice dropped another notch. “Little tension in your legs. That shift in your hips just now. Not exactly subtle.”

You looked down, as if trying to reset. But he wasn’t about to absolve you. He let the words hang in the air for a moment. Waited. Patience was a fucking virtue predators knew how to enjoy.

And then, his fingers stretched a little. Skimmed the bare skin on your thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Barely brushing.

You didn’t move but bit down on your lip – like a fish on a hook.

But then, to his surprise, your head tilted, your eyes dragged over him – speculative, curious, challenging – and a smirk curled.

“Oh, yeah? Wanna back that up or are you all… talk?”

Ben laughed it off. He’d just been teasing. Talking shit. He knew you wouldn’t go through with it. He enjoyed the foreplay nonetheless.

Still, he humored you. Wanted to see how far you’d go before backing down.

His hand slid over his thigh, patted it, fingers spread wide. He grinned – lazy, bold, certain. “Wanna find out? Right here’s the impact zone, sweetheart. You can calculate my thrust velocity.”

You’d done it once before. It was impressive – you and him. Actually made him wonder if he could break his old record now with super-everything.

Surely, right?

Your eyebrow arched – fucking smug. “Think you can handle me?”

Ben gave a slow, wicked grin. “Oh, I know I can.”

And certainly, he thought you would back out now. He’d done this dance with you before. But in an unexpected turn of events, you rose on your knees, crawled over, and straddled his thighs.

No hesitation. No asking. Just a smooth and taunting swing of your hips, and you settled in his lap like you fucking belonged there, hot against the worn cotton of his sweats.

And Ben? His dick twitched up immediately, thick and straining beneath the fabric, aching from how long it had fucking been. His hands caught your hips on instinct, rough and grounding.

Muscle fuckin’ memory.

“Not sure you’re ready,” you teased, warm breath brushing his ear. Hands pressed against his chest, then slowly slid up to his shoulders, locking around his neck.

“Dangerous game you’re playin’, sweetheart,” he rasped, eyes darkening. His fingers were already itching to pull you all the way. “You’re sittin’ on a loaded gun.”

There was the little smirk on your lips again. “Forty years, huh? Hope you’ve been saving up, soldier.”

His breath punched out of him in a low groan. His resolve broke. Hands gripped you hard and greedy, dragging you closer.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, grazing your throat. Fucking inhaled you.

“You sure, sweetheart?” he growled, hands roaming your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “‘Cause you got no fuckin’ clue what you’re gettin’ into here, but I’m gonna make sure you feel it goddamn everywhere.”

“Yeah? Show me.” A slow smile formed on your lips, nose brushing his. Teasing. And then you rocked.

Just once.

And he saw fuckin’ stars.

That was all it took. His hand flew to the back of your head, tangled in your hair, mouth crashing against yours. His tongue claimed you – filthy, desperate, fucking hungry.

But your lips met his with a slow drag and lazy tongue strokes – teasing, daring, coaxing. Not rushed. Not frantic. You kissed him like you were memorizing him – like he was something worth savoring.

Your teeth tugged on his bottom lip till he growled. You rocked your hips forward again, a slow grind, dragging the heat of your pussy right over the thick bulge in his sweats.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed. “You sit in my lap like that, and I’m gonna fuck you like I own you.”

You moaned into his mouth when he pulled you down harder, one hand gripping your hip and helping you move, the other sliding beneath your hoodie to find bare skin.

Palmed at your waist, your ribs, the fucking softness of your tits.

He couldn’t believe he had you again. That you were moving on him like this – raw, aching need in every grind, every gasp.

“Feels like you missed this,” you teased breathlessly.

“Oh, sweetheart, you have no fuckin’ idea.”

Your pace got filthier – less teasing, more need. His cock strained hard against the sweats, precum soaking through the fabric, catching where your shorts rubbed down on him again and again and again.

He gripped your ass, rutting up into you. Chasing it. “Feel that, huh? How hard I am for you? That thick fuckin’ cock’s beggin’ for you. Forty years of waiting to be buried in that tight little pussy. Imma fuckin’ ruin you. Make you fuckin’ mine again, baby.”

You whimpered, pressing your chest to his. He kissed your neck, licked it, bit down hard, left a fucking mark on your skin.

He bucked up into you, losing rhythm. You chased it anyway — moaning, rocking, dragging your cunt over his cock like you needed it to breathe.

“F–Fuck, baby. Just like that,” he grunted, already twitching under you. “Fuck yeah, rub that pussy all over me. Make a fuckin’ mess, sweetheart.”

You rolled your hips in sharp little circles, moaning salaciously into his neck. He was fucking addicted to the obscenity. To the fucking sounds he was drawing from you.

His fingers tugged impatiently at the hem of your hoodie. “Off,” he growled. “Or I’ll fuckin’ rip it. Need to see those tits, baby. Been too fuckin’ long.”

You pulled your hoodie off in one swift motion.

No fuckin’ bra. Just glorious tits how he remembered them.

“Fuck, baby, still so fuckin’ perfect,” he murmured against your ribs like he was worshipping at a fucking altar.

He latched onto your breast, mouth sucking your nipple between his teeth, groaning like he’d gone a lifetime without the taste. You gasped, arched into him, rubbing your clit against the ridged shape of him.

“Fuck–… Need you–” you panted.

“You have me, baby,” he rasped between bite marks on your skin, loving how they fucking stayed. “You always fuckin’ had me.”

He shoved a hand between your bodies, past your waistband, dragged his thick fingers through your slick, groaned when it trickled and drenched his fucking hand.

“Look at you, sweetheart. Already such a fuckin’ mess. Already so fuckin’ soaked for me from just a little grinding, huh?” he muttered, rough thumb working your clit. “Fuckin’ knew it. Fuck–… That’s my girl.”

“Fuck me, please,” you whimpered.

And then, fabric ripped. He didn’t care, just tore your shorts off and left you bare in front of him. He shoved down his sweats, just enough to free himself, cock springing against his stomach.

Hard. Thick. Flushed dark with need and fuckin’ twitching.

You gasped when the blunt head rubbed against your slit. He slid through your folds, coating himself – teasing, smug, and fucking wrecked.

“You want it?” he asked. Low. Raspy. Dangerous. “Fuckin’ say it.”

“Please.”

He grinned like the fucking devil. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

He thrust up hard – one stroke, all the way in. You cried out when his dickhead slammed against your cervix, nails digging into his shoulders. He’d split you open and sealed the wound in one go.

Tight. Wet. Hot.

Just like he fucking remembered. And you? You rode him like you’d done it before. Like you’d missed it. Like it was fucking yours.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking Christ, just like that,” he praised, head dropping back with a rough moan. His hands guided you, eyes watching as you squeezed him just right and got off on the upstroke. “Take it. Take every fuckin’ inch like I know you can. Fuck–… Be my fuckin’ hero, sweetheart. Ride it–… ride your cock.”

The rhythm was brutal, desperate, punishing. Years of deprivation behind every snap of his hips. The whole bed creaked like it might collapse. You were moaning – open, loud, messy. Like you didn’t care this whole dump could hear you getting ruined on his cock.

The sound of your voice fucking shattered him.

“Faster, baby,” you begged breathlessly.

He gave it to you. Gripped your ass – rough and bruising – and started fucking up into you like he meant to breed you.

“Feel that fuckin’ stretch, baby? Feel how fuckin’ deep I am inside this pussy. God, shit, still so fuckin’ tight,” he choked on a moan. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy… Fuck, been dyin’ to be inside you again–”

You gasped, writhing against him, clenching around him, thighs flexing, chasing that high. But then: “Fuck, Soldier Boy.”

Ben stopped. Stiffened. His hands went slack around you.

You were still moving, still kissing him, still breathless in his lap. But for him? The moment cracked open like ice underfoot.

A hand cupped your cheek, tried to force you to look at him, but you didn’t.

“Fuck, baby. Just look at me. It’s me. It’s Ben,” his voice tried to reach you, but you were too far gone. “It’s Ben, baby. Please, just–… just look at me. Just fuckin’ remember me.”

Thud–thud–THUD!

Three heavy pounds rattled not only the door but also him awake. Ben jolted up, chest heaving, weary green eyes blinking around the room

Daylight. TV off. Your spot next to him empty. Cold.

And Ben? Fully clothed and painfully hard as a rock.

Ah, shit. Rough mornin’. Wet dream turned fuckin’ nightmare.

He couldn’t have fucking nice things for once, could he?

And in a sick twist, you groaned “Coming!” from the bathroom and stormed toward the door, pulling a hoodie overhead as you went. Didn’t care that he was right there and seeing you half-naked – a fucking stranger.

Yeah, Ben would put a fucking stop to this once you were his again. What happened to goddamn modesty? But hey, at least it was long enough for him to peek: bra, dark navy blue, and a lot of delicate lace around those beautiful tits.

He’d love to tear that thing off of you.

The asshole then brought presents: a happy hero meal and some fuckin’ drugs – the hard, good shit. He tossed it like Ben was a shelter dog that had bitten too many people and was soon gonna be put down. And you, on the other hand, got some translated folder and a gigantic cup of frap-somethin’ with an obnoxious amount of whipped cream and caramel.

But you’d always had a sweet tooth, so it didn’t come as much as a surprise. What fucking killed him, though?

You pulling out the fuckin’ straw and going to town on it, tongue licking cream like it’d never done anything else.

Ben almost blew his load and a gasket in the fuckin’ Geiger counter, wanting to throw the damn thing out the window.

Rough fuckin’ morning… And it had only been the first goddamn day of many.

At least, he had some Bennies to get over the pain above (and the ache below) – well… until you fucking ruined that, too.

Because you watched him. Sitting on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee and still working that damn straw. Eyes on him.

His back was half-turned, but he still caught it in his periphery as he was halfway through crushing pills to dust with his knife.

Judging.

“Problem, sweetheart?” His voice was a little too gruff, a little too deep, a little too defensive. Too confrontational.

“No,” you replied, bored. Almost deadpan. Then you casually opened the folder in your lap, directed your gaze there, took a slurp of coffee through the straw, and added: “My parents always snorted their breakfast, too.”

Then, you gave a shrug of your shoulders and started reading – innocent. Like you hadn’t just launched him into complete chaos.

You liked teaching people lessons, alright. You also liked fucking with them. On purpose.

This was the goddamn problem with smart women – especially if they fucking knew it, too. They knew exactly where to hit and make it stick.

But Ben couldn’t help the little smirk twitching on his lips – almost proud.

Back then, your brilliance and genius was cute – not threatening. Now, though? With all you could do? All that power wrapped inside one tiny girl? A little scary.

Dangerous.

And well, he was a little dangerous, too. You and him had always made a good team in the past. Now, the two of you could be unstoppable.

He just had to ensure you stayed in your fucking lane – and he didn’t mean that in a bad way. Just… rein you in a little – like taming a fucking wild horse.

His gaze flicked briefly back to you. You were watching him again, subtly, your eyes not on the knife but the tremble in his hands. The way he ground his jaw a little too tight.

Fuck. He’d forgotten about your shitty parents.

Did you have a fucking problem with this? Probably, if your parents were fucking junkies, right? And here he sat, supposed hero turned nuclear weapon and addict. He felt a little ounce of shame curling in his gut.

And still, he felt his blood itching for it more. But he couldn’t do this with you here. Couldn’t do it with you watching.

“You know, all this tension could be solved if you just went and made us breakfast, doll. Maybe put on a skirt and apron, smile a little. That’s what you broads were built for, right?”

The room went silent.

Your jaw dropped slightly, eyebrows lifting. But then you ground your teeth and a fire flickered alive in your eyes.

“Jesus,” String Bean breathed, eyes wide.

Ben knew where to hit. Knew how to weaponize what he knew about you to get rid of you – or so he thought.

But you only scoffed in amusement and rolled your eyes before delivering your punch: “God, it’s like you’ve been alive for a hundred years only to make cavemen look evolved.”

Then you got up from the bed and strolled over to Butcher, ignoring Ben like he didn’t exist anymore.

“I’m taking a break,” you announced and puffed your chest out, shoulders straight. “And I want vacation days, Butcher. I know you’re technically blackmailing me, but I still think I have at least basic labor rights. MM and that CIA lady gave me forms to sign, so I know I’m employed somewhere.”

Ben straightened slightly at that. Blackmail? What the hell did that fucking mean? That asshole better not be threatening you, or Ben would punch that dick to goddamn Uranus.

Butcher sighed – loudly. “Jesus fuck, sunshine, how ‘bout we talk when the job’s done, alright?”

But you didn’t back off – not even a little. Ben listened in amusement. Didn’t dare to look fully and give anyone the impression that he actually cared about this little spat, but he still enjoyed it greatly – enjoyed the fucking destructive wildfire you were.

“After this job’s done, I’m not gonna stick around, so you better figure it out now,” you bit, all flames and heat. Then you held open your palm – waiting, demanding. “Give me your car keys. I wanna go see Kimiko and check on Frenchie.”

Butcher scoffed in response and met your challenging gaze. “The hell you are.”

Oof. Wrong move.

“What d’you think you’re doing? You know I can just freeze your ass and take them,” you said and raised your open palm a little higher. “Give.”

Butcher met you head-on. “Try. You don’t even know where I hid ‘em.”

“I don’t care if you shoved them up Hughie’s ass. Still gonna dive in and find them,” you retorted.

“Whoa, uh, just like to clarify – he did not… shove anything up my ass,” the kid muttered nervously, blinking at you with those pleading puppy dog eyes.

Ben almost snorted out loud into his soda.

Butcher groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes back like he’d been dealing with enough sassy employees for a week. He then hauled out a jingling set of his keys from his pocket and placed them in your palm.

You grinned, triumphant and satisfied. Ben wanted to kiss you stupid for it.

“Don’t fuckin’ take too long,” Butcher growled.

“I’ll take as long as I want,” you called back, already out the door as it fell shut behind you.

Ben’s eyes flicked to the messy white lines in front of him, then back to the door. He felt torn. Torn between relief and worry.

Because now you were out there – alone, unprotected, and out of his sight. What if you fucking disappeared again?

He didn’t like that thought at all. He had to keep an eye on you – keep you close.

“Where’s she off to?” he asked, drawing the asshole’s attention to him.

“Hospital,” Butcher replied curtly.

“She’s, uh, visiting a friend of ours,” the kid added helpfully, earning him a raised look from his boss.

“What’s this talk about blackmail?” Ben asked with a casualness only he could feign, snorting his first line.

“Insurance policy.” The asshole smirked. “Don’t worry about ‘er, mate. Guarantee she won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” Ben matched his smile while imagining ripping the guy’s throat out with his teeth.

No one got to fucking threaten you and live to tell the tale. For now, though, Butcher was useful in keeping you close, but he’d surely made it onto Ben’s hit list with that little stunt.

The asshole’s smirk widened then. “Let’s get to business, shall we?”

After striking his little deal, Butcher eventually went to hunt down the first names on his list and left Ben alone with the kid as his babysitter – like that would actually help if he blew.

Luckily, you came back about three agonizing hours later – made fun of his movie that was playing on TV while plopping down on the worn couch next to the kid.

Not next to him. Not like the two of you were closer. Not like you hadn’t already shared every part of you with him.

Drove him and the Geiger counter fuckin’ nuts.

On top of that, you and String Bean were annoying the shit out of him with questions, with your judgment, with your fucking righteousness – like you kids could actually understand what was on the fucking line here.

Ben was trying to protect you. He loved you. And you? You fucking forgot about him.

At least, Butcher then came back with good news – the location of the fucking twins.

Ben suited up in the bathroom, walked out, and found the two idiots shooting something up their veins while you tied your shoes casually on the bed next to them like it was just another fucking Tuesday.

He smelled the Compound V instantly – but different. Green. Didn’t look like Vought was even pretending to hide the poison under false advertising anymore.

Ben then glanced at you – same black sneakers, jean shorts, and a new black hoodie that read: “May the mass times acceleration be with you.”

Christ on a cross….

Star Wars? Fuckin’ seriously? God, you were a bigger nerd than he ever thought.

“That what you wearin’, sweetheart? Where’s your fucking suit?” Ben asked, eyeing you sideways.

You tilted your head, amused, gaze grazing him from head to toe. Then you snorted a laugh. “Yeah, I’m not gonna be caught dead in something like that,” you replied and then grinned, gesturing down your outfit. “‘Sides, this is my armor. I’m not a sparkly unicorn that shits rainbow glitter. Don’t need a lot. Got my onyx slippers.” You clicked your heels. “They used to be red. You know, like ruby slippers? But I switched to black after I lost part of my abilities. Figured it was more appropriate ‘cause, you know… I’m in mourning.”

Jesus fuck. You were not built for fucking battle. Now, Ben was even more reluctant to drag you into this – Herogasm of all things. Not exactly a place he ever imagined you in the middle of.

Ben’s eyes drifted to Butcher, chin nodding toward you. “Can she fuckin’ stay here?”

“No can do, guv. House full of supes? We’re gonna need ‘er,” Butcher replied. “Just try to get along, yeah?”

You smirked winningly and brushed purposely past Ben. He almost pushed you against the nearest wall.

“Don’t worry, gramps. I won’t bite as much,” you said, grinning. “All I need is for someone to be distracted for a second while they read what’s across my tits.”

Ben made the mistake and looked down at the white lettering again, and suddenly, in the next blink of his eyes, you were on the other side of him, smirking wide.

“See?”

God, this was gonna be fuckin’ annoying, wasn’t it?

Ben gave you an impatient and tight smile, unamused. “Cute lil party trick, sweetheart. Don’t fuckin’ do that again,” he warned but kept his voice calm – almost playful. Still, he didn’t want you to get any fucking ideas. “You at least got a fuckin’ supe name?”

You grinned then – cocky, bold, and mischievous. “Puck.”

Ben’s brow furrowed. “Like hockey?”

“Like Shakespeare, you bardless brute,” you retorted your correction. “If you’re not careful, I’ll turn your head into an ass as well – a real one, not a donkey.”

Ben’s lips twitched with a challenging smirk. “Well, if you pardon, we will mend.”

Ooooh... Your fuckin’ face was glorious. Your brows drew together, you stumped so much your shoulders actually flinched an inch backward, and your head tilted the other way.

You were fuckin’ impressed now, weren’t you?

“Huh. Who knew you actually know more than godawful action movies,” you muttered.

“Impressed? Who’s a fuckin’ bardless brute now, huh?” Ben retorted smugly.

He still fucking was. Only reason he knew that line was because his English teacher once made him participate in a play of Midsummer Night’s Dream to save himself from a failing grade. But hey, he loved acting and it had been easier than writing a fucking essay.

He’d gotten a standing fucking ovation, too. Of course he had.

But the look in your eyes? Fuckin’ worth dragging that out from the cobwebbed corners of his mind.

After more curious questions from you about his Shakespearean knowledge, came a four-hour car ride to Vermont (or hell), where he had to share a backseat with you.

And you, you fucking menace?

You leaned your back against the door, stretched your legs across the seat, and rested your bare feet on his thigh.

No asking. No hesitation. Just did. Didn’t even look up once.

And Ben? He was strung taut like a wire the whole ride. Tried not to twitch pathetically. Tried not to outright beg for you to touch his dick with your goddamn pinky toe.

He tried to keep his mind occupied instead. Solve this fucking problem, so you could actually touch him. And that was when he noticed it – you touched him.

Not just now, but back at the motel, too. Since the minute you and him first spoke at the trailer, actually. Sure, you kept your distance – but mostly because you didn’t like him. Not because you were scared of him.

This whole time, you hadn’t cared about close proximity at all. You didn’t seem terrified of him even a little – which was fucking frightening for different reasons entirely.

When they finally arrived at their location, Ben then decided to test that little theory in action as he stalked through the mansion with you.

He’d told you to stay in his fucking eye-line, pretended it was for the sole reason he didn’t want you to pull a stunt on him again and freeze him. But in reality, he was protecting you – and making sure those little perverts better kept their clammy hands by their sides.

His experiment, however, came to full fruition then. First test: gently putting his hand between your shoulder blades as he guided you through the house. Second test: letting it rest briefly on the small of your back. Neither of them yielded a fuckin’ reaction.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t scowl. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t give a single fuck.

But Ben remembered the way you’d jumped like he’d burned you whenever he’d done it in the past.

So, what the hell happened between then and now? Or, well, now and some arbitrary date in the future, he supposed.

“God, I can’t believe you founded this depravity,” you muttered, nose and brows scrunched as your eyes drifted around, barely being able to decide which abomination to judge first.

Fuckin’ adorable.

“Whoa, hey, just to fuckin’ clarify – I didn’t found–” his gaze flicked around, tongue poking out between his teeth as he searched for the right words, “–well, whatever the hell this freak show is. You know, back in the day, this used to be a classy gig. Yeah…” A smirk crawled across his face at the memory. You would’ve loved it – not that he would’ve fucking shared you with anyone. “Cigars, bourbon, even had a flag bikini contest to boost morale. Think, a gentlemen’s club for the Rat Pack.”

You would’ve fucking won that damn bikini contest.

“Lovely.” You gave him a deadpan look, arms folded tightly over those tits underneath that baggy hoodie like you were trying to keep the slime of this place away from you. Your gaze then swerved off to a threesome on the kitchen counter, brow wrinkling even more.

Ben followed it, smirk deepening. “You know, sweetheart, I bet you could bend that way, too.”

Your head snapped toward him, eyes dark at first, then twinkling with amusement.

“What, don’t believe me?” he teased. “I’ll kick these amateurs outta one of those bedrooms and happily show you.”

You raised a brow. “There’s about twenty naked women around you. Why are you hitting on the one girl in clothes?”

“I like a fuckin’ challenge.” He grinned, lazy and smug. “‘Sides, I have an acquired taste.”

You snorted a laugh. “Well, take me off the menu, please.”

Not a fuckin’ chance…

“C’mon,” you motioned toward the living room area, “Butcher said the twins are back there.”

Ben nodded, smirk fading, and stuck close by your side.

“You want me to freeze them?” you asked, shooting him a glance. You bumped into him slightly when you dodged a couple fucking against the wall of the hallway. “I could only freeze their bodies, you know? Keep the heads. That way they can’t run, but they can still talk. They also feel it when you kill them… ‘Sides, it’s kinda funny. People get really panicky and freak out when I do that.”

Ben stopped in his tracks, blinking at you for a moment. He watched a small smirk flash across your lips – puckish.

Made his goddamn heart swell and his dick hard.

He hummed and considered it, then gave barely a shrug of one shoulder. “That does sound kinda funny. Knock yourself out, sweetheart.”

Good team work. Unstoppable force.

As he moved half a step toward the living room, you stopped him, though – hand wrapping around his wrist, pulling him gently back, touching him.

“Wait–”

You dropped it and flinched back when he met your eyes, probably confusing his prayer for a warning. You just couldn’t see it.

“You’re not gonna–… you know, power up the nuclear reactor in here, right?”

Ben met your request with a tired stare and a deep exhale through his nose. You might have judged these perverts, but you were still worried about their safety, apparently.

Fucking Christ, your generation was nutty. Not exactly how men won wars.

“No,” he assured you nevertheless. “Don’t worry about it. I can dent their teeth in with my fuckin’ pinky.”

Your lips pursed for a second before forcing a tight smile. You gave him a nod and a thumbs up. “Great.”

Yeah, you didn’t belong onto a battlefield but into Lecture Hall B of some ivy-wrapped university. This was the fucking last mission he’d ever take you on (and if only it had been as easy and simple as wishful thinking).

And the rest of the day? Fuckin’ disaster.

The twins went according to plan till they didn’t. You froze them, they panicked (which really was satisfyingly hilarious), and the two idiots leaked more than the poop chute on the screen behind them. But then, he fucking heard it – that sound.

That song.

He didn’t remember much after. Just that melody, you backing away next to him, eyes wide, asking him what was wrong, and him telling you to run.

He woke up to wreckage and smoke. There was barely a house or people left – at least not ones that could still be recognized as such. When you weren’t anywhere in his close vicinity, he felt relief surge through him – before the panic kicked in.

Where the fuck were you?

But Ben didn’t get enough time to look for you before the next problem arrived – the caped cunt Butcher wanted dead.

Fuckin’ ridiculous, honestly. A clown, really. But that strength?

Yeah. Shit…

Took him, Butcher, and a butt-naked String Bean to hold the pussy down. Still didn’t get to kill him. The coward fled.

Ben then followed Butcher and Hughie – slowly, unhurried, calm. Not like he wanted to run around and scream your fucking name till you answered.

Outside, Ben then finally spotted you – sitting by the curb, blood running down your cheek from a small head wound. The glare and sharp mouth were apparently alive, too.

“You good?” Ben came to stand next to you, looking down, fingers twitching by his sides to reach out and wipe the blood from your cheek, legs itching to crouch down and check on you properly.

“Yeah.” You gave a nod and met his gaze, bringing a flat palm up to shield your eyes from the setting sun behind him. Your brow then wrinkled again. “Are you okay? You look like you’re in pain… or constipated.”

“‘M fine,” Ben replied with a huff. “Your powers? Still working?”

Your finger pointed behind his right, and he followed it, finding a half-burning supe frozen still – including the little flame on his arm.

Thank fucking God.

“Does that answer your question?” you asked as the man resumed screaming and running down the road in a panic.

Ben nodded, hesitated for a moment, but then held his hand out to you. You looked reluctantly at it for a second before you placed your palm in his, and he helped you back onto your feet.

He hated letting it go again.

“How d’you get out?”

“Well, I–… I couldn’t freeze shit,” you explained, slightly irritated, your eyes watching him closely again. “But I could at least put it in slo-mo long enough to get the fuck out.”

Good girl.

“Was that Homelander in there?” you asked, looking warily up at him.

Ben glanced at the burning mansion, then back at you. “Yeah,” he replied, deep voice raspy. “He know who you are?”

You blinked at him but shook your head slowly, shrugging. “No, I–… I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Ben gave a nod. “Keep it that way.”

You didn’t ask him what exactly happened or what he meant by that, although he could tell it was on the tip of your tongue the whole car ride back.

Legend’s mansion reeked of old whiskey, ghosts of cocaine, and broken promises – but still fucking better than that shitty motel off the highway.

Ben hadn’t left a lot of room for discussion with Butcher when he told the asshole about his idea to knock on his old friend’s door and hide out here from the public. After forty years, he deserved a little luxury and a king-sized bed without creaking springs.

The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, but the house still held its burn when Ben strolled through it. Everyone had retreated to their corners, licking their wounds, but he could hear your heartbeat from the hallway.

That little rhythm, steady but tight. Anxious. He’d memorized it. Could pick it out of a crowd by now.

The lights were dimmed, only a small lamp on a side table held an orange glow while the rest of the room was lit by the flickering blue hues of the TV. You sat alone on the couch, tucked into cushions, barefoot, remote in hand, and eyes tiredly fixed on the screen, watching the late-night news. You were curled into the corner with a blanket haphazardly tossed over your lap as Ben poured himself a glass of forty-year-old Glenfiddich at the bar before flopping down next to you with a grunt, ice clinking in the tumbler – most certainly uninvited.

You didn’t glance at him, just kept your eyes trained on the TV like it might give you answers the rest of the world couldn’t.

Ben didn’t say anything as he lit a joint and leaned back against the couch with a long, exhaustive breath. He stayed like this for a while – no words, no touches, just your presence. He needed that, especially after today.

He hated that he couldn’t claim all of it. That this – the two-feet distance at all times, your scent and warmth but nothing else – had to be enough.

“Clothes good?” you asked suddenly, voice low and soft as not to disturb the silence of the house too much.

When you’d returned from the hospital this morning, you’d also brought a bag of clothes for him that you’d gotten during a pit-stop on your way back to the motel. No one had asked you to – you’d gone out of your way to do it, anyway.

Nothing fancy. Nothing too modern. Just a few simple and plain tees, a comfier pair of sweats, and jeans. Didn’t ask, just did – with a smirk and the explanation that Butcher had left his credit card in the car.

Ben looked at you briefly from the corner of his eye before staring down at the black shirt and gray sweats he was wearing.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough, and added a mumbled “thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied with an almost inaudible sigh and turned your focus back to the TV.

News anchors, wide-eyed, grim, and breathless, recited the carnage like it was a weather report. Fires. Body bags. Death toll still rising. No comment from Vought yet.

“Hell of a show, huh?” he broke the silence with a low chuckle like it was just another night – like he hadn’t incinerated a house full of people. He took a sip of his drink and a drag from his reefer, lazily blowing out the thin stream of smoke. “Should charge admission next time.”

“Not funny,” you muttered.

Ben gave a grunt, rolled his eyes slightly. He knew you weren’t happy with him – neither was he, but it hit different when it came from you.

Green eyes flicked back to the screen with another sip of his drink. “Too bad Earving wasn’t there.”

Your head snapped toward him, brow raised in question. “Earving?”

“Black Noir.”

“Oh.” You sunk back down into the cushions. “Weird hearing real names. Makes you sound like people.”

That was a jab, right? Some fucking guilt trip? He wasn’t imagining that, but he let it slide. Couldn’t really blame you for it after today.

“We are people – you included, sweetheart,” Ben retorted nonetheless and took another hit of his joint – a fucking long one. He looked at you for a second, trying to figure out a way to bridge the gap between you two. “My name’s Ben, by the way.”

Your gaze met his, and for a moment, Ben thought you’d finally remember him. Braced himself for it. But whatever you were searching for in his eyes, couldn’t be found.

You turned back to the screen somberly. “Think I’ll stick to Soldier Boy. Suits you better.”

Ouch.

“C’mon, loosen up,” he scoffed. “Not like you actually liked any of these assholes.”

“That’s not the point,” you argued, sitting up straighter like you were getting ready for a fight. “Just because I might think they’re awful people, doesn’t mean I wanna see them burn alive. I mean, Jesus Christ… They didn’t deserve that.”

Ben leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Sure they did.”

And then you went quiet. Thoughtful. The creases in your brow ironed out. Your head tilted ever-so slightly. And Ben knew what that look meant – that fucking softness.

He hated it. Hated that you were soft. Even now.

“What happened today?” you asked with that gleam of quiet concern in your eyes like he was a wounded Grizzly with rabies that wandered into your yard and could be fixed with a bowl of water.

“Nothin’,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the TV, though he wasn’t watching. “Twins pissed me off and I put ‘em in the dirt. They were goddamn traitors. Handed me over to the Reds. All I did was return the fuckin’ favor.”

You leaned forward on your knees, your stare intensifying as you shook your head. “No, I don’t buy it. This wasn’t planned. I don’t believe you wanted to hurt all these people.”

“Believe it.”

“When I asked you today, you said you wouldn’t–”

“Yeah, well, I say a lotta things. Doesn’t make ‘em true,” he said with casual cruelty, but he had to stop you from fucking prodding – from finding the truth. “Just said what you wanted to hear, so you get off my fucking back, sweetheart.”

“You’re lying.”

That hit deep. Not because it was true – but because you saw right fucking through him. Saw right through the lies, the walls, the mask.

“I was right next to you when it happened,” you added. Same persistence, same fire in your eyes he knew so well. “You told Hughie and me you blacked out during Midtown. You said you didn’t wanna hurt those people.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how did nineteen people end up dead? Not supes, people,” you prompted and waited long enough to let the silence stretch. “You can’t control it, can you?”

“I can,” he growled with a stern look. "Back off. Not gonna warn you twice."

“But you can’t every time, right?”

You were always like this – soft voice, soft hands, soft eyes – but never weak. Never stupid. It made you harder to lie to. Harder to brush off.

He didn’t respond. He knew where this conversation was headed, and he wasn’t fucking doing it.

He wasn’t gonna talk about Russia. Ever. Not with you.

That part of him – the dark, twitching, screaming core of what they did to him – it wasn’t something he knew how to name, let alone share. And you… you were the last person he wanted to share it with.

Because if you saw the truth – the shaking hands, the blackouts, the Russian lullabies that burrow into his skull and flip the fucking switch – you’d flinch. Or worse, you’d pity him.

And he couldn’t fucking take that.

If you knew about the restraints, the isolation, the endlessly cruel tests, you wouldn’t look at him the same. Not like someone who was strong, but someone who was broken.

One wrong melody away from burning down a neighborhood.

And you? You’d try to fix him. You always had. Even before the shield, before the name, back when he was still just a young, dumb kid, you looked at him like he could be more. But now he was something else – warped and weaponized by Vought, cracked open and rebuilt in a Russian lab, and every inch of him screamed 'Don’t touch this.'

But if you saw it – if you saw him – you’d reach for him. You’d say something soft. You’d try to make it better.

And he couldn’t fucking afford that right now. Not when he didn’t know what was even going on yet.

“Look, if you wanna talk about it–” you started, but he cut you off quickly.

“I don’t.”

“I–… I saw what happened to you, okay? Parts of it,” you said carefully. His eyes snapped to you. He heard your heartbeat accelerate. You then averted your gaze to your fumbling fingers in your lap. “Not in my head, by the way. I just wanted you to know I wouldn’t do that,” you clarified, swallowing. “But we-, uh, we found tapes when we got you outta there.”

Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Don’t.”

“I’m not here to poke at your scars. I just wanna understand. That’s all,” you said.

“You want to understand,” he repeated and scoffed a mocking chuckle, rubbing his eyes. “Right. You want me to lay my head into your lap and cry about it? Light a candle, do a feelings circle, and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”

You shot him a look. Not amused. “You don’t have to joke your way out of everything.”

“Alright, you want the play-by-play, sweetheart?” he baited you, eyes narrowing. “You want me to walk you through how I turned a house full of assholes into bone confetti? Or do you just want a hug and a sob story about how I’m soooo broken inside?” Then he leaned in, arm resting on the back of the couch behind you, smirk dancing on his lips. Cold. Venomous. Cruel. “You ever stop to think maybe I wanted to kill ‘em? Maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe I fucking liked it. Hm?”

That made you stop short for a second, but the fire in your eyes never went anywhere. The flames only rose higher.

“Then why did you save me?”

Shit.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, sipping his whiskey.

“No, you did,” you insisted and were getting a little more heated. “Don’t you dare fucking gaslight me. You told me to run. You looked fucking terrified, and it wasn’t because of the twins.”

“Shut up,” he huffed dismissively.

“It was the song, wasn’t it? There was a Russian song that came on the radio. It triggered you, didn’t it?”

“Stop,” he warned, but you were a full wildfire now – all heat and no escape.

“Look, I know what it’s like when you’re not in control. I get why you’re so fucking angry. Trust me. But you’re gonna hurt more people if you don’t face your shit,” you argued fiercely. Brave. Foolish.

“You wanna help me? That it, sweetheart?” He scoffed coldly into his tumbler. “I don’t need your fucking pity, and I sure as hell don’t need you to fuckin’ fix me.”

“I never–”

“No, but you’re thinking it. I can see it,” he cut it, taunting. “Poor Soldier Boy, all alone. Must’ve been so hard, right? Frozen in a box, tortured, abandoned, boo-fucking-hoo.”

“That is hard,” you countered – still fearless, still soft, still all you. “And I know you’re clearly not asking for my opinion, but you should know I don’t think you’re broken or weak because of it. I think it made you stronger.”

And that was the worst of it – you meant it. You fucking cared. You looked at him like he was still something worth saving. Like he hadn’t just taken out half a goddamn mansion. Like his hands weren’t still stained with blood. Like you hadn’t seen the monster and decided not to run.

“Damn right it did,” he snapped and fixed you with a glare. “You think I want to be soft and bleeding and weak like you? You think because you’ve got some tragic backstory of your own, we’re the fucking same? You and me? Not the same species, sweetheart. You’re not special. You’re not different. You’re just a little girl playing hero in a world full of wolves. You’re soft. You still believe people can come back from the edge. But I jumped off that cliff a long fucking time ago. So don’t look at me like I’m something you can save.”

You inhaled sharply, but still didn’t back down. “I know you’re not the cold asshole you’re pretending to be.”

“You wanna know what Russia did to me? What they did? Little scientists like you, hm?” Ben goaded. “They tore me apart. Nerve by nerve. Memory by memory. I begged them to stop. I screamed. I cried. I pissed myself. That what you wanna hear?”

“No,” you said, getting up from the couch. “I’m just trying to help you.”

He hated the look on your face. Hated himself for putting it there.

Ben rose as well, towering over you. Cold. “I didn’t fuckin’ ask for it. Wanna know why? ‘Cause, most of all, those forty years in that shithole gave me fuckin’ clarity. Made me realize I don’t need people. I don’t need kindness. I don’t need you. I wanna burn every last thing that tried to take me down to the fucking ground. You think I regret what happened today? I relished it.”

“Liar,” you bit. “I know you didn’t.”

And God, he hated you for it. Hated you for giving him fucking hope.

“That’s because you’re still stupid enough to think there’s fuckin’ good in people,” Ben retorted. “You think you know me? You don’t know shit. Let me make it real fuckin’ clear – whatever you’re looking for? It’s not there.”

He wouldn’t let you get into his fucking head again.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said and took a fucking step closer.

Jesus fuck, why did you always have to do this?

“You think because I let you sit next to me, you’re safe? Maybe you’re even dumb enough to think I like you,” Ben growled, stepping into your space – and you still didn’t even bat a fucking eyelash. “But trust me, if I go off again, you’ll be the first to fry. And I won’t lose any fuckin’ sleep over it, sweetheart.”

There it was – silence. Finally. But in the end, you still didn’t move.

Instead, you scoffed a chuckle and looked him deeply into his eyes – cruel in your mercy. Puckish in your execution. “I think I know now.”

“Know what?” he huffed, impatient.

“Why they came for you. Your team.” You smiled, soft and slow and pitying. “You don’t want kindness? Too bad, you’re getting mine: you might be an ass, but I still think you deserved better.”

Fuck you for saying that.

Then you were done. Shoved past him and left for your room. The door slammed so hard it shook the glass in the windows.

And then it rattled him.

That look you gave him – like you weren’t sure he was a monster or not, like you didn’t know if you could trust him – he’d seen it before.

It all fell into fucking place then and there.

An hour later, Ben knocked on your door.

His heart pounded, he ran a hand over his face, and he thought twice about turning around and storming back down the hall to his room. But he needed fucking answers now.

After a moment, he heard your voice from the other side, guarded. “Yeah?”

“Can I come in?” Ben asked, trying to keep his tone light. He didn’t really have a plan beyond that – just needed to get in there and talk.

There was a long pause. Longer than he liked. But finally, you sighed, and he heard the soft sound of you getting up from the bed. The door clicked open a moment later.

No welcoming smile. No warmth. No trust.

“What d’you want?” you prompted with a blank expression and crossed your arms, head tilted. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

Ben hauled something from the pocket of his sweats and held it up for you – cross joint. “Truce?”

Your lips pursed, which meant that you at least weren’t unimpressed. “First one?”

“Yup.”

First successful one. Fourteenth try overall – harder than it fucking looked when you’d done it.

Your head bobbed thoughtfully for a moment before you stepped aside to let him in. He shut the door behind him with more care than he’d normally bother with.

Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes.”

“Didn’t think you’d actually ask,” you shot back wryly.

He clicked his tongue. “Fair enough.”

“So, what? You’re here to apologize?”

Ben bit the inside of his cheek. “Look, I don’t do fuckin’ apologies, okay? I know I can be a little… direct sometimes, but that’s your problem. Not mine.”

You snorted a chuckle. “Wow. Okay…” You cleared your throat like you were coughing the amusement out of your system.

He knew you hated that, but he had to walk a fine line between getting the information he needed and not ruining it with you by being too… friendly.

With a deep groan, Ben dropped down on an armchair in the corner by the large, floor-to-ceiling window front. Legend had given you the guest bedroom on the ground floor with the terrace that led to the garden – aka one giant entry point for all his enemies.

He’d have to talk to the old guy tomorrow about changing that. Get you bumped up to the first floor, maybe a windowless room.

He was kidding. A little.

“Listen, I’m not great at the whole... people thing,” Ben started with a dry laugh.

“No shit.”

“I just wanna talk, alright? I try not to be a dick again. How’s that?”

You considered it, then gave a nod. “Fine. What do you wanna talk about?”

Ben licked his lips, searching for the right words that didn’t give away too much. “Out there, you said you get it – what it’s like not to be in control. What did you mean by that? Is that why half your abilities ain’t working?”

The question seemed to surprise you.

“Uhm, yeah,” you replied after some hesitation. “Three years ago, I started getting panic attacks – not that I’m saying that’s what happens to you.”

“You better not,” he muttered from his chair.

“Anyways,” you continued, trying to tame your fire a little – he could tell and tried not to smirk. “It happened after I got stuck.”

“That Middle Ages thing?” Ben questioned, cocking his head slightly. A laugh then rumbled through his chest. “What the hell happened, sweetheart? You almost got burned on the stake for bein’ a witch?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened,” you replied, almost too casual.

“Oh.” He stumped for a moment, then finally lit the joint. “Well, shit. Why d’you go there in the first place? I mean, no offense, doll, kinda common knowledge they’re known as the Dark Ages.”

“I didn’t go there on purpose,” you said, laughing a little as he passed you the reefer. “I just-… Took the wrong exit and… couldn’t go back in there.”

Ben exhaled a sigh through his nose. This was gonna take longer than he expected, wasn’t it?

“In where?”

He mostly couldn’t believe he was having this conversation and it wasn’t about where to put his cock.

“Wormholes.”

Not better.

Ben’s brow creased a little more. Another sigh left his lips. “What’s that?”

You arched an eyebrow. “You want me to explain wormholes to you?”

Ben stared at you for a moment, took a drag from his joint, and then shrugged. “Sure.”

Your lips pursed, but your head nodded. “Uh, okay. Yeah.”

Ben then watched you pace the room, kick your shoes off in various corners before disappearing into the en-suite bathroom, only to emerge a minute later with your makeup bag, where you fished out a red lipstick. Tossed the bag onto the bed. Uncapped the lipstick, cap flying somewhere behind you and landing next to a shoe.

Ah, shit. He’d have dreams about this tonight, wouldn’t he?

“Wormholes are also called Einstein-Rosen bridges,” you explained and drew a long, smudged line across a window pane in deep red. “They are theoretical solutions to Einstein’s equations of general relativity. They describe a tunnel-like structure connecting two separate points in spacetime.”

“Like a tunnel?”

“Yes, exactly!” you said, and Ben tried not to smile at your enthusiasm. He enjoyed it in silence and sangfroid. “I’m sparing you the folded paper analogy, but basically, it means time’s not a straight, rigid line. It’s flexible. Relative. You can bend it.”

Ben didn’t know what it was about the scene that got him – maybe it was how natural you looked doing it, talking through half-formed thoughts while your hand moved fast and confident. Or maybe it was because he’d seen this before, a lifetime ago. Chalkboard. Shed. That same furrow between your brows, the way you gestured mid-sentence like your mind was three steps ahead of your mouth.

“That’s what you do, right? Bend time?” Ben asked, barely keeping up, but he understood enough.

“Did, yes.”

“You tried jump-startin’ it again? Your abilities?” Ben watched your mouth open and then close, head shaking.

“I’m not a car, you know?” You snorted a small laugh and crossed your arms over your chest with a curious smile. “What would you suggest I do?”

“I don’t know.” Ben shrugged his broad shoulders. “You tried jumping off a building yet?”

Your smile twitched a little on your lips. “Uh, no, can’t say that I have. Why exactly would that help?”

Ben gave another shrug. “I don’t know. Facing your fears?”

“I’m not afraid of heights,” you replied, chuckling. “I’m afraid I get stuck somewhere I don’t wanna be.”

Like 1942, Ben thought dryly.

“So, it doesn’t work at all right now?”

“No, it works. I just can’t control it. It’s like a mental block, you know?” you explained. “But back at the lab when you detonated, you triggered it, and I accidentally jumped. Landed back in New York with a five-minute time difference.”

“Huh. That’s how you disappeared,” he muttered under his breath. “What triggers it?”

“I don’t know. Could be anything. Mostly stress, fear, panic,” you replied.

Ben then realized that was how you’d vanished that night as well, wasn’t it? You were scared and emotional, and a minute later, you were gone.

You hadn’t left him. Hadn’t wanted to. Not on purpose.

His chest tightened, but he didn’t let it show. He’d waited eight decades for that answer.

“So, how this whole thing work?” Ben asked with a clear of his throat. “What happens when you go back and change somethin’?”

You chewed on your lower lip for a moment. “Well, there are several major theoretical models. Fixed loops – like Novikov’s principle – say you can’t change the past because you already did. So time, in a sense, is self-correcting.”

“What does that mean?”

Ben watched, half amused, half fascinated, as you scrawled a massive loop across the glass. It wobbled a little, more oval than circle, but your point came across.

“This is a fixed loop,” you said and jabbed the top of the circle with your lipstick. “Everything repeats. You can’t change the outcome because your future self already did whatever you’re going to do. Paradoxes get swallowed up by consistency. There’s no free will.” You drew a squiggly line through the loop. “Now, if you diverge from the loop here, you create a branch. Alternate reality. That’s the multiverse model. Every choice spawns a new timeline.”

“So how many timelines are there?”

“Infinite,” you said slowly. “Every little choice you make on a daily basis creates an alternate timeline where you made a different choice.”

Ben tilted his head, watching your reflection in the glass. “So, what... you break off one path, and now there’s two versions of me out there?”

You giggled lightly. “I mean, yes, basically. It’s Everett’s theory. If you switched your toothpaste, there’s another version of you out there that didn’t,” you said.

“So, which one’s the correct theory?” Ben asked, leaning back in his chair, joint halfway burnt.

“I think both theories are true,” you replied. “You could be in a loop and create branches at the same time. It’s all quantum probability.”

Ben stared, lips pursing.

You stared back. “What part didn’t you follow?”

He scratched his jaw. “The part where I need a damn PhD just to keep up.”

You smiled a little, nodding. “Alright, let’s simplify. Movies.”

Two hours later, you’d explained every working model on time there existed, went through both plots of Terminator and Back to the Future in great detail, and told him about the butterfly effect.

“In a fixed loop, the butterfly effect still exists, but it’s already been accounted for,” you said and stretched your arms over your head with a yawn. It was already long past midnight. “So even if you think you’re making a new choice or messing something up, that choice has already been ‘written’ into the loop’s history. You’re just fulfilling it.”

“So it’s like a script?”

You nodded and shrugged. “Kinda yeah.”

“What if something changes? What happens then?” Ben asked, the feeling in his gut coiling tighter.

If he understood it correctly, you and him were apparently caught in one of those loops. You’d explained it like a chain reaction – dominos propped up in a circle. If one was removed, the circle wouldn’t work anymore.

All he had to do now, was find the missing domino and nudge the first one with his fingertip.

“I mean, theoretically, you can break the loop and create a new quantum branch. But it’s risky,” you said, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “You don’t know what changes or how much. That’s why it’s better not to interfere.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Ben had to ensure everything stayed the same in order for you to go back to 1942 and fall in love with him. But his heart was already stinging – warning him.

He tried to think back, remember every little interaction he ever shared with you in the past. But what stuck was the beginning – how scared you were. Not just of the strange world around you but of him.

You weren’t spooked because someone had been after you. Not Vought, not the government, or some other asshole like Butcher.

He recalled how you’d crashed into him in the street, nearly knocking him over. How fast you recoiled when he’d reached out instinctively to steady you – like his touch burned. You looked like someone who’d been through hell and wasn’t going to let anyone drag you back – especially him.

The looks of fear, the no touching, the not trusting – it all had been for him, hadn’t it? You’d hated him when you landed in 1942. You’d probably seen what he’d done, knew what he’d still do. Some future version of him had done something. Had broken your trust. Hurt you. Betrayed you. Enough that you came back in time and looked at him like he was the worst kind of monster.

And he hated that he’d have to do it to you again. But he didn’t have a choice, did he?

Because if he let this go on – the bonding, your smiles, your looks like he could be more – he’d risk losing it all. What if you got stuck in 1942 already liking him? What would happen then?

“You okay?” you checked with a soft smile.

Ben nodded slowly. “Uh, yeah. Just thinking.”

But even when you despised him at first back then, even when you knew everything there was to know about him – every cruelty, every mistake, every life he took – you still fell in love with him.

And he could see it now, too – how you looked past everything that had happened in the last few days, every chaos and death he caused. And still, you were here, smiling and talking to him like he was just another human being and not a cold-hearted killer with tons of baggage.

The beginning of it was already there. He remembered it like it was carved into bone: the way your eyes softened. The way you let your guard down slowly, week by week. The way you started to look at him like he was worth something. Like he wasn’t just a weapon someone had pointed at the world and forgotten to leash.

You’d fallen in love with him despite everything. You were doing it again now, too.

And he hated that he couldn’t let it happen. He had to stop it, or it could ruin everything. It was too fucking soon.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, jaw grinding tight as the plan formed – quiet and bitter.

He had to make you hate him. He had to be the version of himself you were willing to run from. Even if it killed him.

But he couldn’t let you like this version of him. Couldn’t let you trust him too easily. If he was too soft, too honest, too goddamn human, you might not look at him the same way when you’d eventually land in 1942. You might not flinch. You might not run. And then–

The loop would fracture. It would all fall apart.

“You wanna stay up and watch Back to the Future with me?” you asked with a little grin.

Ben hesitated for a moment, watched the smile dance on your lips like it was the rising sun. His heart ached.

“Yeah,” he agreed with a faint smile. “Why not?”

And sure, after everything he’d learned tonight, he should’ve said no. Should’ve said something mean and cruel and lay the brickwork for the downfall. But he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

He decided to let himself have one last night – one night of closeness, of enjoying your smiles, of hearing your laughs. He was allowed to have one nice thing, even if it didn’t last.

And tomorrow?

He’d go back to the cocky, smug bastard he used to be. He’d tease you. Grate on your nerves. Maybe even push too far, just enough for you to roll your eyes and walk away. He’d play the part, he’d set the trap, and he’d make sure the loop held.

Even if it broke him more than Russia ever did.

For the next three days, Ben had avoided you as best as possible while he formed his plan. But it was harder than expected because every time he turned around, you were there. Coffee mug in hand, nose in a book, leaning over Legend’s pool table with a stretch that gave him thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

And it was starting to piss him off. Because the more he tried to create distance, the more he wanted to be near you.

He doubled down over the following week.

At first, he started small – sexist comments here and there, belittling you, or telling you to fetch shit for him. He made you his personal assistant, which Butcher highly supported. It annoyed you, sure, but it didn’t exactly make you hate him. Of course you couldn’t make it easy on him.

So, he went a little further next. He started screwing Legend’s maids like clockwork, hoping that would do it and maybe even make you a little jealous. Needless to say, all that did was make you disgusted – your words, not his. You’d told him as much when he called for you to bring him a new bottle of lube.

But none of it made you hate him. And that terrified him more than anything.

On the morning of day eight, Butcher and Hughie were still neck-deep in trying to trace Mindstorm, and Ben was growing more impatient by the hour. As he padded toward the kitchen, he paused in the hallway when he heard your voice – sharp and pissed.

“You don’t get to act like you’re in charge. You have no plan. You’re just drugging him up and sending him like a rabid dragon toward your revenge fantasy,” you snapped. “He’s not a person to you. He’s a tool.”

Ben leaned his shoulder against the wall just out of sight, listening.

“But he’s not a person to you either, sunshine,” Butcher bit back. “He’s dangerous. You said so yourself. Called him a liability if I remember correctly. So help us find Mindstorm, and the sooner you can go back to your life and leave all this bloody shite behind you, Doc.”

“You want me to help you find Mindstorm?” The laugh you let out was dry and short, laced with disbelief. “After everything with Soldier Boy at Herogasm? Did your frontal lobe fall out in the car? I told you – I’m not gonna help with this little murder spree. You guys are on your own for this.”

“I think you forgot you’re not in a position to play hard to get, sunshine,” Butcher said lowly. “You wanna stay under the radar, I suggest you help the people that are currently keeping Vought off your back.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you shot back. “Don’t pretend you’ve been doing me a favor. If you wanna turn me in to Vought, be my guest. It’ll take them two weeks just to figure out what name I’m using this time. Not to mention, I’ll tell them you’ve been running around with a war criminal.”

Ben felt his lips twitch. God, you had guts. Butcher went quiet at that – he had no cards left to play and knew it.

“Jesus,” Butcher muttered. “Bloody useless, the both of you.”

Ben waited until footsteps retreated. Then he strolled into the kitchen like he’d just gotten out of bed and hadn’t heard every word.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said, grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the cap, letting it fall to the tile.

You didn’t react. Hughie grimaced.

“What, no geriatric gangbang scheduled for this morning?” you deadpanned.

Ben grinned, lazy and smug. “You jealous? ‘Cause I’m sure I can pencil you in for noon.”

“Great,” you replied with a wry smile. “I can draw you a diagram of what an STD looks like.”

Ben clicked his tongue, lips curling. “Feisty, but you know you love me.”

“I really don’t.”

Stupidly, that stung. But he let it roll off his shoulders.

Over the next few days, he tried and tried again, but nothing was working. Every time he expected you to snap – to scream, to cry, to tell him you fucking hated him – you didn’t. You just looked at him like he was something under your shoe. Sometimes you were too annoyed to care. Sometimes too tired to react. Sometimes you hit him with the most surgical, disinterested commentary that bruised his ego in ways nothing else could.

But you never hated him. You endured him – which was arguably worse.

Ben couldn’t tell you what he knew. Couldn’t give away that he was watching his every step like a man walking a minefield. But you’d said it yourself – no disruptions, no butterfly effect.

But every night, when he lay awake in that stiff bed, his mind kept drifting back to the soft shape of your smile when you were excited about something, to the way your lips brushed his jaw in the dark, murmuring things you hadn’t meant to say. And he wondered – if this version of you never went back, never finished the loop… Would you ever love him at all?

So he stayed cold. Distant. Loud. He banged maids and played dumb. He tried everything short of outright cruelty.

Till he realized there was no way around it. He needed to push harder.

Mindstorm had been a fucking disaster – fully yours and Hughie’s fault.

As soon as Butcher had been taken out by that psycho freak with a migraine, the kids had formed an alliance against him – undermined him every step of the way.

When he got meaner and crueler to you, Hughie would step in like your knight in shining polyester. It was fucking annoying. And no matter what he said or did, you still never backed down.

All in all, fucking frustrating – not as frustrating as the news he received, however.

That same night, Ben found you in a place he’d never wanted to find you – Legend’s music room, seated right at the piano as your fingers tickled the ivory keys.

It did unspeakably barbaric things to his heart.

He paused in the doorway for a second, just watching. Enjoying. Reeling.

Luckily, he was already nursing his third whiskey when he stepped inside. You didn’t glance up at him, not really, just arched a brow.

“Jesus fuck, what now?” you huffed, halfway onto another eye roll. Your patience with him had become thiner than ice over the last week.

“You got a minute?”

“Depends,” you said grimly. “Am I about to get roped into another errand that involves you traumatizing the staff?”

Ben’s mouth twitched. He should’ve expected that. The maid incidents hadn’t exactly landed the way he’d wanted it to. You’d just gotten more judgy – like you were slowly starting to catalog him the way a scientist would a failing experiment.

“No lube runs this time. I promise,” he said, strolling in. “This is serious. I need your help with something.”

And boy, was it fuckin’ somethin’. Not exactly the conversation he ever planned on having with you. Where would he even start?

Hey, sweetheart, you know how you already think I’m a mess of bad decisions and unchecked aggression? Well, guess what – Vought used my sperm to make the guy I’m supposed to kill. Neat, huh?

The worst part, though?

You were the only person he’d ever imagined that with. The only one who’d made the idea feel like more than some stupid pipe dream – a house, a dog, maybe a kid with your eyes.

Not this – not some fucking lab-bred monster raised in a cage to replace him.

Your face softened then, anger dissipating. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Uh, no, not really. That freak told me something today, and I need you to check if it’s true.” Ben swallowed, stepping closer.

He crouched down beside you, arms resting on the bench’s edge – close enough to feel your body heat, but not close enough to ask for anything more.

“Okay, what is it about?”

“In the fall of 1980, Vogelbaum called me into the lab.” He hesitated for a second, licking his lips. “Wanted a… sample.”

Your brow quirked. “Like–”

He held up a hand. “Yup, sperm.”

“Ew.” You grimaced. “Did they at least buy you dinner first?”

God, he fucking loved you and hated how he couldn’t tell you.

Ben gave a short, humorless laugh. “Nah, just handed me a cup and a dirty magazine. I made do.”

“You’re so brave.”

“Thanks.” He rubbed his face. “They told me it was just for genetics. Research, you know? I felt flattered. Didn’t think twice about it. Hell, they wired me twenty grand. I left fuckin’ whistling.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying not to laugh. “Sure, yeah. If Nazi geneticists ask for more of your DNA, you always say yes for money and pride.”

Ben took a deep breath for the next part. “Mindstorm said they used it. That they made something with it. Someone.”

Your face shifted then, sobering up fast. Quiet alarm. “You think he meant–”

“Homelander.”

You bit your lips hard.

“I wanna know if it’s true,” he added. “I wanna know what the hell they did.”

You stared at him a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay, uhm… I can look for you.”

You closed your eyes then and only a second later, you gasped – sharp and low. Ben heard your heart beating faster.

Your eyes flew open with a “Jesus fuck.”

“That bad?” Ben checked against his better judgment. He’d pay a trillion bucks not to know the answer.

You blinked hard, catching your breath. “It was like watching the Antichrist claw his way out of hell.”

Ben’s stomach twisted, head bobbing in defeat. “That bad. Got it.”

“But it’s true. I’m sorry,” you said finally. “They used your DNA. The embryo was carried by a homeless girl – barely twenty. Vought gave her two grand and a contract she didn’t understand. She died during birth. He-, uh, he killed her. Killed a few others too. Floated out of her with the cord still attached.”

Ben frowned. “Did you really have to share that part?”

You twitched your shoulders innocently. “Hey, if I had to suffer through that, so do you.”

Ben didn’t laugh, only let out a shaky breath and found your eyes. “What do–, uh… What do I do now?”

“Uhm…” Your lips parted for a moment, thinking. “Well, you know they didn’t just make him to replace you, right? They made him to never need anyone. Most of all, you.”

Ben didn’t respond to that. He just sat there for a moment longer in your presence. How stupid was it that a part of him still ached for something he’d never had? A different life. A different version of you. One that remembered what he remembered.

Now, in his real life, he was just a man with blood on his hands and a legacy made of ash. A father without knowing it. A failure even in that.

Ben looked up at you then. “You ever think about kids?”

You gave him a look like he’d asked if you wanted syphilis. “Fuck no,” you snorted.

He raised an eyebrow, licking his lips. “That firm a stance, huh?”

“Look, I like kids. They’re undeniably cute,” you said, and he’d almost smiled. But it didn’t last – his chest felt hollow. “But I’ve seen what Vought babies look like. And you practically created the lovechild of King Claudius and Palpatine with a Big Brother kink. This whole thing was like watching a PSA for not having babies. So, pretty sure that’s a solid no by now.”

“Right,” he said quietly and slowly rose back to his feet.

And then, he felt it – grief.

He’d lost a lot in his life. Fans. Friends. Family. A future. But this – losing you like that – this was a different kind. Slow poison that killed him from the inside out.

“You gonna tell Butcher?” Ben asked then. He knew you technically had to – unless he killed the asshole for blackmailing you.

You stayed quiet for a beat and studied him before answering. “No,” you said, surprising him. “I mean, eventually, yeah. But knowing Butcher, he won’t care. He’s still gonna want him dead, and he’s still gonna want you to do it. And I think you deserve a night to make your own decision, so…”

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Well, uhm, I’m gonna go to bed. Kinda beat after today. You know, after the schizophrenic mind freak and, uhm, all the verbal abuse – courtesy of you, of course,” you joked dryly and stood, sauntering to the door, all too happy to get away from him again. But when you still turned around, there was sympathy in your eyes. “Don’t worry, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

Ben couldn’t bring himself to respond, only slumped down on the bench with a sigh and a whiskey in hand.

The part that hurt most was how badly he wanted to believe you. That maybe we was still something he could count on. That maybe, even after everything, you’d still help him find a way out of the wreckage of his life.

Ben had one job that week.

Not to kill Homelander. Not to show Butcher what a real soldier looked like. Not even to stay alive.

No, the job was simpler, crueler, harder: Make you hate him – or it would all go to shit.

You weren’t allowed to love him yet. Not until the loop could hold. Not until history clicked into place and the ugly cycle wore itself out the way it was meant to. So for a week, Ben did what he’d never done before.

He broke his own heart, over and over. With volition. With purpose.

He kept fucking Legend’s maids. Loud, messily, with the doors open and no apology in his eyes. Gave you the worst of himself till he even got bored of it. He threw your past back in your face, mocked the way you still believed in him – if you did at all. He called you a tagalong, a liability, a glorified errand girl.

Ben did what he was good at – what Soldier Boy was good at.

He shut down. Barked orders. Called you useless so many times, hell, even you were starting to believe you were broken. He used that. Leaned into it. Said you’d get someone killed. Maybe yourself. He didn’t flinch when you stared at him like you didn’t recognize the man in front of you. That was the point.

He went colder. Meaner. He let the old monster fully out, the one who constantly picked fights and kicked in doors and laughed while people begged.

But you weren’t useless. You were the only thing in this twisted fucking world that made him want to be more than a weapon again.

And you? And you fucking endured it all – like you were playing a longer game than him.

Maybe you were. Ben had overheard your plans when you chatted with your girlfriends recently – after Homelander, you were done. You were planning to apply for teaching jobs at colleges, striking a deal with Edgar, moving on.

But Ben couldn’t let you move on. Couldn’t let you out of his sight again. Couldn’t just let you walk away into freedom.

But you still never flinched. Never screamed. Even after Mindstorm, when he tried to drown the memory of who he used to be in booze and rage. Even when he insulted you just to escape the gravity of how much he still wanted to be the man you loved in 1942.

You always just watched him like you were memorizing every awful thing he said, every dismissive look, every command barked like you were furniture – filing it away.

You never broke.

But he did – and he hated you for it.

The worst part, though? You still didn’t fucking betray him, even when the chance was presented to you on a silver platter – a golden ticket to get rid of him for good – and you didn’t take it.

No, fucking worse – you warned him. Helped him. Saved his ass.

When Butcher and Maeve joined him at Vought Tower, Ben made sure you weren’t invited. Told Butcher you were useless. Told you that you owed him for it. Probably added some sexist remark that he hadn’t used sincerely since the Nixon era.

But of course, you fucking showed up anyways – with Hughie, Annie, MM, Frenchie, and Kimiko.

Chaos ensued in every direction. But before they got to him, you stopped it all.

“What the fuck are you doing here? I gave you a fuckin’ out,” he barked at you, concealing his concern as best as possible while the world was frozen around the two of you.

The silence was almost serene – the most peaceful he ever felt on a battlefield.

“I know you did,” you said, not even pretending you hadn’t seen right through him. “That’s why I’m here.”

You told him then about the other assholes' plan – that as soon as Homelander was in the ground, they’d come for him next. Ben almost exploded and killed them all right then and there – but you convinced him not to.

“Don’t kill them, please,” you begged him with that doe-eyed, reaching-into-a-man’s-soul look. “Just let them go.”

“You just told me they wanted to lock me back up in that fucking box!”

“And they can’t, okay? I sabotaged Frenchie’s little Novichok cocktail. It’s not gonna do anything. I promise,” you assured him. “Just act surprised or tell them you’ve built up an immunity against the stuff or some shit. And then walk away.”

Ben only scoffed at the mere suggestion. “You fuckin’ want me to just let it go?”

“You killed MM’s family, okay? Can’t blame the guy for taking his fucking shot,” you countered, looking intently into his eyes.

“What if they fuckin’ try it again, hm?” he asked, quieter now, but his chest was still heaving and firing up beneath his skin.

You exhaled a long breath before answering. “They won’t. I’ll make sure of it. But you gotta work a little with me here, okay? Just be less… belligerent. And controversial.”

Ben considered it for a moment. Considered you. “How can I fucking trust you, huh? You could just be sayin’ all that shit, so I fight less when it happens. I mean, outta all of them, you have probably the most reason to get rid of me, right?”

And that fucking hurt the most.

“Probably, yeah,” you admitted like it didn’t deepen the crater in his chest, but a smile tugged at your lips. “But I told you a few weeks ago, I thought you deserved better. Still holds true.”

Ben’s brow furrowed, his heart stinging. “Why?”

“Entropy,” you said simply and gave a shrug of your shoulders. “Did you really think it’d all end with Homelander? I’ve heard Butcher refer to himself as a ‘supe exterminator’ on multiple occasions now. Homelander’s just the biggest threat at the moment, but after he’s gone…”

“They’ll come for me,” Ben finished.

Fuck, you were smart. No wonder Stan Edgar had been scared enough of you to want you dead.

“And me, probably,” you added.

“I thought those guys are your friends,” Ben noted.

“They are until they aren’t,” you replied. “Payback was your team until it wasn’t.”

“Got it.” Ben clicked his tongue. “So, what? You wanna strike a deal now? You watch my back, I watch yours?”

Another shrug. “Maybe.”

And God, fuck, he wanted that. More than anything.

“No,” he managed to say. And you still didn’t react – like you’d expected that answer. “Sorry, but you’re on your own, sweetheart.”

You gave him a nod. “Figured. Men make stupid decisions all the time.”

A smile of amusement briefly flashed across his lips. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He meant it.

And then, in the next blink of an eye, you were gone. Vanished right in front of him. Took Ryan with you, even though Ben wanted to scorch every last bit of rotten Brooks DNA that had weaseled itself through time and sprouted like weeds.

The fight with Homelander was brutal. Biblical in that kill-your-own-children way. But no one was left untouched. Ben was losing, then winning, then losing again. Homelander’s strength was impossible. But you changed the game.

You fucking cheated. Came back just to rig it.

Homelander screamed, fought, bled. Maeve leapt into the fray. Butcher took a blast and kept going. Ben punched steel wrapped in daddy issues. You froze Homelander long enough for him to charge.

Together, you all changed the tide.

But the price was high. The detonation burned through every supe in range – Butcher, Maeve, Annie, Kimiko, and you. It took a drop of blood falling from your nose onto marbled tile that made Ben surge forward and tackle the caped supe. And with Homelander in his grip and Maeve beside him, he dove out the fucking window, drawing the blast away.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because when he came to, scorched and dazed on the street below and Homelander twitching in a crater, MM was carrying you out of the rubble – body limp, nose gushing red, head lolling, eyes shut.

You didn’t wake up.

Not on the way to the CIA facility. Not during Butcher’s rant about being robbed of revenge. Not when Frenchie and Kimiko paced the waiting room floor. Not when Annie cried, or Hughie sat in numb silence, or MM tried to keep everyone calm.

Ben followed them, and no one stopped him. Not even when he stood in the hallway outside your hospital room, hands shaking and heart thundering like it hadn’t in eighty years.

He tried to look apathetic. Bored and not like someone with a crushing pain in his ribcage. He sat on the bench outside your room, staring at the wall like it owed him a fucking explanation. Clenched his fists and dug his heels into the linoleum to keep him from going in and reaching out.

He’d spent a week trying to get you to fucking hate him. He’d said the worst shit he could come up with. Treated you like garbage. Fucked every distraction within arm’s reach.

And you still came back for him. Still saved him. Now you might never wake up to see how it would end.

Inside the room, you weren’t moving. Machines beeped steadily. A coma, they’d said. Not permanent – maybe. Not fatal – yet. But your body had taken the hit of freezing time across an entire floor full of supes while his own powers weakened you. And apparently, something in your brilliant brain had finally gone too far. Lit up and blown out.

He knew it was his fault – somewhere under the anger and the static and the sharp edge of grief curling behind his ribs. If you hadn’t stopped him – if you hadn’t warned him – he’d have killed them all. Annie, Butcher, hell, maybe even Ryan. He wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have thought.

You’d made sure he didn’t become exactly what they thought he already was.

Ben leaned forward and rested his clasped hands between his knees. He didn’t pray. He didn’t beg. But he came close.

And then, he could smell the fucking bastard before he heard his footsteps stroll down the hallway toward him.

Stan Edgar. Older. Just as smug. Still smelled like overpriced cologne and executive privilege. The last time Ben had seen that face, was in 1984, and Payback had just handed him over like a dog someone got tired of feeding.

Ben didn’t even look up when the expensive loafers halted in front of him.

“I was wonderin’ how long it’d take you to slither in,” he said coldly and met Edgar’s eyes. “You have some fuckin’ nerve showing up here. Can’t decide yet if it’s ballsy or stupid.”

Stan Edgar’s voice was the same as it had been in the ‘80s – cool, measured, and full of contempt he didn’t bother hiding. “I almost didn’t. But then, you’re not the one I came to see.”

Ben rose to his feet. Slow. Deliberate. Towering.

“You’re not fucking touching her,” Ben growled. “Give me one good fuckin’ reason I shouldn’t put your teeth through the back of your goddamn skull.”

Stan didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Was that a fucking thing smart people had in common?

“Because you need me,” he replied with a calm smile.

Ben scoffed a laugh – humorless and sharp. “That’s a new one.”

Stan’s gaze flickered to the closed door beside them. Your room. A hint of interest passed over his face – not warm, not cruel, just precise.

“You’ve done an admirable job pretending you don’t care about her,” Stan said. “Almost convincing.”

Ben’s fists clenched, his teeth gritting. “Walk away.”

“But you do care,” Stan continued, eyes narrowing. “You always did. Even back then when you first told me about her. We never did find out what exactly she changed. Only she will probably ever know the truth. But I do know she’s your axis, Soldier Boy. Your tether. She’s what you’re fighting to stay alive for, even if you’re too angry and broken to admit it.”

Ben’s jaw twitched.

Stan let the silence draw out. Let the words sink in. And then, in a tone that was too casual to be anything but deliberate, he mused, “She hasn’t gone back yet, has she?”

Ben looked up sharply.

Stan gave a small, knowing smile. “I thought so. This version of her – the one lying comatose on the other side of that door — she’s still in the present. Which means the loop hasn’t closed. Which means you still need her. Alive. Close. And willing to go.”

“Go to hell,” Ben hissed and stepped closer. “You set me up. You handed my team the knife and told ‘em where to cut. You’re the reason they sold me out, the reason I was buried under forty years of ice and piss and Commie tests. I don’t make deals with fucking snakes.”

Stan stepped back, adjusting his cuffs. “She doesn’t know, I assume. Not about you. Not about what you were to her. That’s important. You break that too early, it falls apart.”

Ben scowled – hard and quiet. His blood boiled underneath his skin. “That a threat?”

“It’s a truth,” Stan said, smiling. “One you’ve gone to great lengths to protect.”

“Careful, Edgar,” he muttered, jaw grinding. “Because if I start swinging, you won’t come back from that one.”

“You won’t kill me,” Stand replied calmly. “Because I know what she’s planning. I know she’s applied to universities in Boston, New York, Los Angeles, even Paris. She’s waiting until this ends to disappear. Teaching gigs, research grants. A clean, respectable life. Smart girl. Admirable, really.” He tilted his head slightly. “You can’t follow her there. And you know it.”

Ben’s fists clenched at his sides. “You’re here to blackmail me.”

“I’m here to make sure you don’t burn your only lifeline,” Stan replied. “The war with Homelander is almost over. The dust is going to settle, and some of us are smart enough to plan ahead. Someone needs to replace him. Smooth things over with the public.”

Ben scoffed a dark chuckle. “I’m not gonna be your fuckin’ Vought puppet again. You’re playing with fire, Stan.”

“No,” Stan said, meeting his gaze coolly. “You are. By dragging her into this. By trying to keep her close without telling her who you really are. You think she won’t leave? That she won’t hate you when she finds out? Not to mention, if you mishandle this, the loop never starts.”

Ben didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. They both knew what was at stake.

“You want her alive and in your vicinity. I want insurance. I think we can come up with something mutually beneficial,” Stan said. “I keep your secret and help keep her here. In exchange, you don’t kill me and save the company. And when the dust settles, we both walk away.”

The old rage in Ben’s chest itched like a half-healed scar. Everything in him wanted to flatten this bastard with his goddamn boot. Snap his jaw, twist his wrist, spill the truth of 1984 in blood and bone. But if Stan opened his smug little mouth at the wrong time, you’d run.

“Got any bright ideas?”

That same old smug smile curled on Stan’s lips. He knew he won. “I do,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

And just like that, he was gone – leaving Ben alone again with the silence and the guilt and the weight of the impossible.

Ben thought it would get easier after you woke up. It didn’t.

Three days of silence in that hospital room, and the moment your eyes finally opened, he felt something in him uncoil so violently it almost hurt. He didn’t show it, of course. Kept the mask on. But deep down? He had nearly fucking broken. It was the damn relief that did it – the blinding, gut-punching realization that you were still here. Still breathing. Still his to destroy.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it?

Destruction.

After the showdown with Homelander, you’d lost your other ability, too. That stupid, terrifying power of yours – pausing time like it was nothing – was gone. Burned out, maybe. Broken. Either way, it was one less variable to worry about.

Because without it, you changed.

Ten months later, you were still here, still pretending you weren’t afraid of him, but your edges had dulled. No more cocky interruptions, no more smug little barbs when he barked orders. You still seethed – he could see it in the set of your jaw, in the stiff way you handed him his schedule or fetched his dry cleaning – but now, finally, you hated him. Not just with defiance. With disappointment. With bitterness.

Quiet, sharp, cold – just like he needed.

The deal you made with Edgar had made all of this possible. Vought had wanted you dead for years. Ever since you appeared on their doorstep with chronokinesis (and one clumsy meeting in ’83), they’d flagged you as a catastrophic liability. You’d been in hiding, hunted by the company until Edgar put a lid on it.

A truce, really.

You got your life back, and in return, Soldier Boy became the fucking leash – again.

Public relations rehab. America’s first supe rebranded as the woke patriot. Pride parades, women’s marches, climate rallies – Ben did it all. Sure, he had wanted to throw up half the time and punch someone the other half, but he showed up. Grinned like an idiot. Waved at the cameras. Did what he had to do to stay on the team – because that meant keeping you close.

That was the condition he gave Butcher. And you.

If you left, so did he. And if he left? Edgar would gut the deal. You’d be back on the hit list in seconds. He didn’t have to say it twice. You stayed. You endured.

You even tried to look forward to something, curb your disappointment. You got an offer to teach at NYU that made you smile brighter than the sun, not knowing he’d already crushed it behind the scenes.

But that wasn’t enough. He needed proximity. Pressure. Something deeper and more convenient.

So he made you his PA.

His old ones never lasted. Never could handle him and for sure as hell hated him. And you? You had no choice. No power. No way out. So you agreed.

For the past ten months, he turned your life into something small. Something gray. Verbal jabs turned into long, punishing days. Coffee, coke, and condom runs at 3AM. Paperwork dumped in your lap without warning. Public ridicule disguised as jokes. Every time you smiled at someone else, he punished it with ten more errands. Every time you looked like you might find a second of peace, he shattered it.

He never laid a hand on you, but he didn’t have to. He broke your spirit in slow, deliberate pieces.

And it fucking worked.

You hated him. Truly. Deeply. Visibly. That sparkle in your eyes he loved so much was gone, replaced by exhaustion and contempt.

But still not enough.

You hadn’t gone back yet. Hadn’t slipped. Hadn’t triggered the loop. And he was running out of time. Your birthday was in a week – the day he was banking on. The day you’d finally break. He’d rehearsed every possibility. Every variable. Every sharp word and final blow.

And then, right when things were at their most frayed and he didn’t know what else to do to push you over that cliff, Vought PR sent him to a fucking middle school – which turned out to be his saving grace.

Edgar thought it would be good for Soldier Boy’s image – the kids would love it, marketing said. He had to suit up. Shake hands. Sign notebooks. Let a bunch of snot-nosed brats ask him questions about courage and justice like he hadn’t spent the last year slowly mutilating the best person he ever knew.

Annie stood beside him as Starlight, all practiced smiles and warm answers. The kids screamed when she flipped the light switch in the gym and lit the damn rafters up with gold. Soldier Boy, meanwhile, flexed once and signed a forehead.

But then, he saw you.

You were off to the side, chatting with someone he hadn’t noticed before. Young guy, decent build, probably early thirties, wearing a NASA sweatshirt like he earned it. Tall. Clean-cut. Big smile. Middle school science teacher, from the look of him.

The two of you were huddled near the supply room door, leaning against lockers like the rest of the world didn’t exist. You were holding a paper cup of coffee as if it was the Holy Grail and gesturing mid-rant with your free hand. The guy was nodding along, wide-eyed and grinning like a fucking rescue mutt who just found a forever home.

The way you laughed, the way you leaned in without even noticing – something in Ben fucking snapped. And before he could stop himself, he perked his ears to catch the conversation.

“–taught at a tiny liberal arts college outside Montréal. Great students. Terrible funding. I built a cloud chamber out of a fish tank once just to prove we could,” you told the guy enthusiastically.

“No way.” The guy grinned brightly.

“Yup. Had to smuggle dry ice across the border in a cooler from Vermont. Worth it.”

“Wow, that’s dedication,” he chuckled.

“Please,” you grinned. “You haven’t seen dedication until you’ve tried to explain wave-particle duality using glow sticks and a laser pointer from Canadian Tire.”

Ben felt something unpleasant twist behind his ribs. You were glowing. Beaming.

“And you said you’re running something today?” you asked, curious now.

Ben stepped in closer, pretending to inspect the trophy case. His teeth ground together so hard he swore his molars would crack. If you dared so much as to touch the guy’s arm now, he’d blow up the whole goddamn school.

“Oh, yeah,” the guy said and lit up. “It’s the old NASA demo with vacuum and marshmallows. I’ve got a bell jar, vacuum pump, camera rig… We film the expansion in slo-mo and talk about gas laws. I also bring in Peeps for maximum horror.”

You laughed, full-bodied and joyful. “Stop! I love that experiment!”

“Come sit in,” he said, clearly encouraged. “You’d be great with them. Honestly, if you’re ever interested in guest lecturing, I know my eighth graders would lose their minds.”

Ben had heard enough.

“She’s got work,” he cut in behind you, voice casual and deadly. “She’s got a schedule. Doesn’t have time to blow up candy with middle schoolers.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn. “And you’ve got an audience to pander to, remember?”

Ben moved into the space beside you, shoulders squared, gaze sharp. “There’s a meeting in twenty minutes. You’re coming.”

“You and Annie have a meeting. I’ll catch up.”

“You sure about that?”

You raised your brows and stepped closer, your eyes flickering around the gym full of kids. You lowered your voice as you spoke, “What’re you gonna do? Throw me over your shoulder in front of a class of children and ten reporters? You can’t pull your usual bullshit with the world watching.”

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t threaten you here, not with dozens of kids around and Annie two feet away. Couldn’t risk the cameras catching even the edge of a snarl.

He clenched his jaw.

“Guess I’ll go help inspire the next generation. You and Annie have fun with the mayor.” You smiled sweetly – fake as hell. Then you turned back to the teacher, tone instantly brighter. “Lead the way, professor. I want front-row seats for the Peep implosion.”

The guy smiled and opened the door for you. You went willingly – laughing again, relaxed, glowing, as if you hadn’t spent ten months taking his orders and swallowing his poison.

And Ben stood there, fuming, watching the door swing closed behind you like a goddamn slap in the face. His stomach twisted into knots he hadn’t felt since ’42 – the kind of jealousy that bordered on nausea. That pussy got a smile out of you. Got real laughter. Got your attention.

He hadn’t seen you that fucking happy in months. And you hadn’t looked at Ben like that in eighty-one goddamn years.

Now, none of it was for him.

That night, Ben waited.

He stood across the street for hours. A half-lit cigarette dangled between his fingers, long since dead. He didn’t light another.

Your little dungeon-level walk-up apartment was tucked under one of those overpriced brownstones with wrought iron railings and chipped stairs leading down from the sidewalk. Half a planter wilted on the stoop. A bike was chained to the gate like it had given up.

It was close to midnight. You still weren’t fucking home.

His jaw worked till he got a migraine. You’d left the school with that fuck. That smug, soft-spoken, teacher-voice fuck who probably graded tests with smiley faces and called his mother every Sunday. Probably had a cat. Or worse – a golden retriever.

Then, there you were – laughing.

You were walking up with that pussy now, your bag slung over your shoulder, hair pulled into a loose knot, your shoulders bare in the warm June air. You had your keys in hand before you even reached the steps. Ben followed your movements, watched as you gestured animatedly, then laughed again at something the science teacher said.

He hated the way you looked at the guy. Open. Interested. The bastard’s hand was way too fucking close to your back as you unlocked the door, and you smiled — all bright and easy. That sharp little smile that meant your brain was working overtime.

You let the teacher inside, and that was it.

Ben was across the street before you’d barely closed the door. By the time you answered his knock, loud enough to wake the damn neighborhood, you were already pissed.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Coffee,” Ben said, his lips curling into a slow, lazy smirk. “I want fucking coffee. From that place on 12th.”

“Seriously?” you scoffed, stepping half into the doorway.

“Now.”

“I’m off the clock.”

“You’re never off the fuckin’ clock.” Ben tilted his head a fraction. “You gonna make me ask twice?”

That’s when the guy inside appeared behind you, standing awkwardly with one of your mugs in hand, already halfway into his little “I should give you two a minute” face.

Ben’s eyes were locked on you. Not moving. There was no yelling. No words. Just a look. A cold, sharp threat that made your stomach flip – not for yourself, but for the man behind you.

You knew it instantly.

If you don’t go right now, I’ll snap his fucking neck.

Your throat worked before you turned back to the teacher, forcing a laugh that was half a breath too tight. “Give me ten minutes?”

The guy smiled, easy and trusting. “Sure, I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t break anything while I’m gone,” you muttered to Ben as you brushed past him.

Ben didn’t bother answering.

When the door slammed shut, the teacher guy was still standing by your couch, probably confused. Probably nervous.

Good.

Ben didn’t waste time. He walked a slow, heavy loop around the room. Took in the bookshelves, the cluttered little desk, the framed photo on the wall of you with Annie and Kimiko. His lip curled at the sight.

The teacher offered him a tight, awkward smile. “Did you need something, or…?”

Ben turned to face him. He didn’t speak at first, just stared. But when he finally did, it was low – gravel scraped off pavement.

“If you don’t walk out that fucking door in the next three seconds, I’ll break your neck so fast your brain won’t have time to know you’re dead.”

The teacher’s face went white.

“Don’t ever think you can fucking come back, either,” Ben added. “Lose her number.”

That was it. The door clicked shut a few seconds later.

And ten minutes later, when you finally came back, it all unraveled then.

You looked around, confused, before realizing the teacher was gone.

“What the hell did you do?” you snapped, storming toward Ben without waiting for an answer. “He was a decent guy, for once. And you scared him off like some rabid fucking–”

“I gave him three seconds,” Ben cut in, voice low and bored like he’s just filed his taxes. “He got out in two. Smart guy. You think I’m gonna let you go fuck some science fair reject?”

You crossed your arms, the dim light throwing shadows up your bare collarbones. “I think you’re bored. Again. And I think you should leave.”

Ben stepped forward. Just one little step. Measured.

You didn’t move – not yet.

“That’s cute,” he said, sneering. “Real fuckin’ cute. You think you get a say?”

His eyes dragged over you like a lazy threat.

“God, you can’t stand that I might have a goddamn moment to myself, can you? You don’t get to decide who I talk to. You don’t get to decide anything about my life.”

“I do when your life is fuckin’ mine. I own you. Get this through your stubborn fucking head.”

He said it like it was truth. Like the sky was blue, gravity was real, and you belonged to him.

You stepped closer, trembling with fury. “You treat me like a slave, you stalk me, you ruin any fucking chances I have at being happy–”

Ben chuckled – the kind of sound that set nerves on edge. “Happy?” He took a slow, deliberate step toward you. “You think flirtin’ with some soft-handed twink who’s never been in a fight is happiness?”

You stepped back instinctively.

Ben’s smile twisted. He saw it. Smelled it – fear.

“Here’s the thing, sweetheart,” he murmured, closing the gap like a lion circling the kill. “You wanna get laid so bad, maybe you should’ve just asked. I’m right fucking here.”

You scoffed, but he still came closer.

“C’mon, doll, you’re already playing the part. Dressing like that. Batting your lashes. Might as well bend over and get what you’ve been fuckin’ begging for.”

You backed up another half step, but the wall was coming up fast behind you – that little strip of space between the bookshelf and the door.

And Ben fucking followed.

His hand grazed your hip. Not a grab. Just fingers brushing the fabric. Deliberate. Familiar – the same fucking move his father had used. Fourth of July, 1942.

You flinched, just slightly, but that was all he needed. His stomach turned, but he didn’t stop.

Because this was the goddamn plan. This would push you far enough, wouldn’t it? It would probably make you hate him so much you’d go back in time just for the sole purpose of finally killing him.

Ben had never hated himself more than in this moment.

“That it, hm?” He caged you in with one arm against the wall, the other trailing down the curve of your waist like a slow threat, fingers dragging over fabric, flesh, and bone. “You thought some middle school dweeb was gonna fill you up? You wanted fuckin’ affection that bad?”

His fingers dug into your waist, just enough to stake a claim – just enough to threaten. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t move beyond the line. But he hovered on the fucking edge of it. Close enough to burn.

Your pulse began to race, panic biting at the edges – he could hear it. But your voice was steady and your shoulders straight. You didn’t cower.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you bit.

“You should be.”

His fingers tightened just barely again – enough to warn, not enough to bruise. Yet.

But as you looked up at him, stared into his eyes as if you could stare into his soul, something shifted in your gaze. Cold. Empty.

“I see it now,” you whispered. You didn’t sound afraid anymore, but he knew you still were. “That’s what this was always about. You want to break me.”

Ben froze, throat closing, but he didn’t take his hand off you.

“This is what it takes, huh? You want my dignity next? You wanna feel like a man? Rape me?” You spit the word in his face. “Go ahead, Ben. It’s still not gonna fucking break me.”

First time you ever used his actual name.

Ben flinched. Breath hitched. Heart hammering like he’d been the one cornered. He looked at you, really looked, and saw the hate there.

Clean. Pure. Uncompromising.

He’d finally fucking done it – and it felt like swallowing glass.

Finally, he took a step back like your sheer heat was burning him. “Careful, sweetheart,” he muttered. “Next time I won’t be so goddamn nice.”

And then he left. Fled your apartment, practically.

Because it was all he could do to keep himself from dropping to his knees and fucking screaming. The pressure that had been building in his chest all year – all eleven fucking months of playing the villain, twisting the knife deeper every day – it all burned too hot and sudden.

Ben kept telling himself then that it was just one more week. Seven fucking days. He could stomach anything for that long.

But each time you passed him in the hallway, eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders drawn in like you were bracing for impact, something inside him cracked further. You flinched when he cleared his throat. Stiffened when his shadow crossed yours. And when you looked at him, on the rare occasion you did, it was like you were finally seeing the monster.

It broke his fucking heart.

He had told himself this was the only way. That when it was over, when you were back – really back – he could explain everything.

But now, watching you move around him like a ghost of the girl he’d once known, he wasn’t so sure anymore. He didn’t know how to fix this. How to fix you. How to fix himself.

And the sick truth of it was, he wasn’t even sure he deserved the fucking chance.

▶️ Chapter 15: I May Be a Thief, but I Am Not a Cheat

Going back to the present next week! Yay 🥳

What did you think of this one? Did you expect Ben to go this far? Did you enjoy their little moments of bonding before Ben turned up the volume? Hope those last few chapters filled in some gaps. Writing his pov is always a bit wild 😂💚🦅

Coming Up:

Before his brain could supply more brilliant ideas, he caught you staggering another step. One more step backward and your hand darted to the brick wall beside you. You blinked, your knees shook, breaths grew labored. Your nose twitched, and your hand flew up to your face.

The blood came fast – just a drip, then another, your fingertips painted red.

His stomach dropped, his smirk dropped faster. Your knees gave just enough to make him lunge forward, and Ben was at your side in a second, arms reaching for you.

“Whoa, shit–… Hey, easy… I got you–”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Your voice hit like a whip. Not loud. Not harsh. Just final.

It stopped him cold. The words sank deep. Cut clean. Same tone you’d used back in 1942.

Same shit you said to him when he first offered you his hand and you looked at it like it was a trap. You didn’t want comfort then. You didn’t want it now either.

Ben slowly lowered his hands and backed off – and it hurt like fucking hell.

You leaned heavily against the wall of the corner store and slowly slid down to the cool concrete with a wince. Back slumped, one knee up, blood still streaking down the side of your face. Your eyes were sharp. Distant. Locked up like you couldn’t afford to let him close.

He watched you for a beat, jaw clenching. You were breaking. Physically. But you still wouldn’t let him in.

Of course not.

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